#girl alex galex

[heliads]

you always knew how to push my buttons

Alex Albon, long-suffering woman in motorsport, would really like to focus on her first year of racing for Williams. George Russell makes that difficult.

(or, girl alex galex)

masterlist

In Christian Horner’s defense, it wasn’t the worst idea. You have a second driver that’s doing badly, you need to pull them out but don’t want to look cruel, so you put in someone who’ll draw attention to who you’re currently sitting in your car instead of who you used to seat. 

A girl is the perfect bargaining chip. The media gets so distracted by historic moments and trailblazers that they forget about the French kid Red Bull abandoned only a little bit ago, and when you tire of the girl, too, you can ship her back to reserve driverhood and still get the necessary pats on the back because, you know, you tried. 

Alex Albon doesn’t want to be another token feminism card to play, though, and she certainly doesn’t want to stay in the shadows any more. This is something that Red Bull has learned upon hiring her. It might, perhaps, be something that they regret, because they’ve finally realized that Alex has absolutely no interest in being a little Media Darling Barbie for them, but they were still content to let her rot away in the aftermath of their fast-paced work environment.

Alex has her second chance now, though. She’s done her time in the prison of reserve driver status, and now she’s on the grid again. Williams is, admittedly, somewhat of a far fall from Red Bull, but every Icarus has their plummet to the sea, and she plans on reaching the glimmer of the sun again soon. She’ll be on a podium again. Then she can laugh at the rest of them as much as she pleases.

Until then, Alex is supposed to keep her head down but her chin up, ignoring all of the hundreds of people asking how terrible it must feel to only have less than two full years of being a second driver under her belt before getting booted. Her PR manager has trained her on how to handle the questions without getting abrasive. Williams is glad to have Alex on, of course, but they would really like it if she could play along with the interviewer circus for just a few months more before starting to crack.

Alex is not good at keeping her temper at bay. She is proving it now. It’s only a Thursday, barely a few races into the calendar, and already all of her media training is blinking out of her head like fading batteries.

One interviewer, seemingly sensing this, addresses his next question to her. “Alex, you’ve had a year to recharge as a reserve driver, and now you’re back with Williams. Are you disappointed to get your second chance only to be stuck with a backmarker team?”

Alex has often thought that it’s not drivers who should get media training but the actual media themselves, because how the fuck are you actually allowed to ask that in a professional setting. She grits her teeth into her best impression of a smile and tries to answer normally instead of, like, lunging out of the chair to gouge the guy’s eyes out or something. “I am happy to be back on the grid. Williams has given me a great opportunity, and it’s one that I’ll take as far as I can.”

The reporter frowns, scratching at his head a little before pressing further. “So you’re glad to be with this team, then? You wouldn’t have wanted any of the other teams to reach out with a contract?”

Alex stares at the guy. “I’m at Williams, and I like being here. Quit asking me about other people. Ask better questions.”

The interviewer purses his lips, giving Alex such vivid flashbacks of bitter and jaded old school teachers that she almost wants to ask the guy about his past career choices before turning to F1. However, she has a feeling that the only one who gets to be dissected about their resume is her. Delightful.

“That’s not really that nice, is it?” The man asks, voice so full of condescension that Alex has to squeeze her fingernails into her palms to avoid groaning out loud. “You know, when you first came to the grid, I thought you would be more friendly.”

“Yeah, well.” Alex says shortly. “There were nice girl drivers, but they couldn’t get through all of this. You’re stuck with me now.” Then smiles, like that’ll make all of this better. Oh, her PR manager is so killing her once this ends. Can the team doctors mend broken bones before Friday free practice begins?

The interviewer looks sour, but to her left, Alex actually hears someone laughing. She cocks her head to the side, curious to see who’s looking past her temper to discover a joke, and finds–

George. Of course it would be George.

George Russell is quite possibly one of the only people on the grid at the moment, or perhaps the entire world for that matter, who not only tolerates Alex’s snark and nonsense but likes it, too. Has since they were, like, tweens and teens. They’d observed each other in 2008, caught up between different karting circuits, but waited until 2011 to properly become friends. No self respecting twelve year old would ever interact with a boy who was merely ten, not while she was still winning, but fifteen and thirteen was better. They’re best now. 

They were both small back then; George more so, almost a whole head shorter than Alex at that point, but he’s caught up remarkably fast, and not just in height. They were both stuck in the same fantasy, kids growing up at each other’s houses and dreaming of climbing the F3-F2-F1 ladder, and now they’re both here, swapping off places on the Williams team roster like a baton in a relay race. Time changes us all. They would never be the exception, even if it was kind of sort of wonderful back then, and Alex kind of sort of misses the way it was.

Not in the least bit because it meant less media duties for her back then. The interview ends in a pitiably long time, just long enough for Alex to wonder if reserve driverhood wasn’t better than this solely because she at least didn’t have to attend driver’s media days. She’s released soon enough, though, permitted to spill out into the dizzying sun of the paddock once more.

She pauses by the door to let George catch up to her; Alex likes walking quickly away, but she does owe George for breaking the ice back there. Once another driver had laughed, the interviewer could join in, nervously coughing and chuckling before quickly moving on to a better, more suitable candidate for terrible questions.

“D’you think I should put in a petition to the stewards asking for media days to be longer?” George asks conversationally, “I was kind of getting the feeling that you wanted to spend more time getting interrogated.”

Alex twists her face into a bitter glare. “I’d rather you just run me over with your car on Sunday and get the whole trouble over with. It’s like they want me to just start weeping over the wreck of my career already and give them a good show.”

George snorts. “They want drama, just ignore them. They’ll find a new victim soon enough.”

Easy for him to say, Mr. Saturday with the crisp Tommy Hilfiger lining on his new Mercedes team kit, he’s not the one getting picked to pieces. George had practically salivated over the shirt when he got his first shipment of merch, making Alex unbox it with him like they were vloggers or something. 

He’d lingered over each cap and polo so long that Alex had threatened to slice the lot of it to ribbons with her box cutter unless he picked up the pace. Even still, George’s face had idled over the black and white fabrics long after everything was unpackaged, like he still couldn’t believe it was all real. 

Alex stages a desolate sigh. “Yeah, yeah. They’ll all forget about me soon enough. It’ll be good.”

“Not all of them,” George corrects. “There’s still me, remember?”

His blue eyes are wide and accusatory. Alex finds it within herself to chuckle. “How could I not? We’ll skip media day and go hang out. Just us two.”

“Just us,” George repeats almost reverently, a prayer, a promise. 

And it– it’s a joke, yeah, there’s no way in hell that either of them would be so dismissive of their seat that they’d willfully invoke the wrath of PR managers and team principles by skiving off entire days of the race week circus, but it’s still fun to imagine. George would be the one to do it with, anyway. George gets Alex. Always has.

Especially in connection with Alex’s hatred of the media. Alex has other hobbies than bashing interviewers, obviously, she does have a life that revolves around more than just despising bad questions and uncomfortable skits, but media duties are just such a prevalent part of being a driver that she can’t hide from them that often. That means someone has to hear her complaints, and more often than not, that person is George.

He’s quite used to it, though, having more than enough years to accept and subsequently tune out Alex’s rambling monologues on how useless it is to ask the same questions and hear the same forced answers every week without fail. More often than not, George is roped into various plots to get Alex out of the piercing eye of the camera, or at least make times like those more tolerable, like he did today.

A memory rises unbidden to the forefront of Alex’s mind. It was a few years back, when Alex was still with Red Bull and George was testing the limits of Williams. They’d been conducting post-race interviews, or Alex had, at least; George had appeared out of the mess of drivers and PR accomplices to kind of hover in the background of Alex’s frame, looming in a typical George-like manner.

Alex had really wanted to forget the whole race the second it ended– as if she couldn’t see Christian Horner shaking his head over the displays, as if all today accomplished wasn’t just a chance to give the public another set of Alex’s average speeds to be endlessly compared with Max’s– but the interviewer was dragging his heels, forcing one word answers into paragraphs of speculation.

At one point, the guy had pointed out a bloody scrape showing through Alex’s undershirt. She’d accidentally caught the skin against the edge of her car when she was getting out, but doubtless it would be used as just another chance to prove Alex wasn’t fit for the car or the team didn’t care about her or whatever. Alex wanted to leave, but the interviewer wouldn’t leave well enough alone, which meant it was time for more drastic measures.

She had rolled her eyes, then made some asinine one-liner about how that wasn’t the first time blood had shown up against a race suit. Jokes about periods always get the same awkward shuffling feet and vague mumbling about getting someone else to talk to. It’s a fairly dependable constant.

Everyone was uncomfortable, which was exactly what Alex wanted, because when they’re uncomfortable they don’t want her there anymore and she can leave. The interviewer already looked like he wished he could stab himself through the eyes with the metal straw Lewis was sipping through earlier that day, but George— George was still grinning. Fondly. And not at all put off. 

Freak. Alex was kind of fascinated by him. Still is. If anything, the fascination has multiplied.

And that makes it sound like— but it’s not—

Alex has known George almost her entire life. As long as it mattered, really. Recently, though, she’s started thinking. About George. In ways that she had not before. 

Because, at the end of the day, there is something to George Russell that Alex might have missed the first time around. Something she only noticed when he was getting out of the car, peeling off the outer layer of his race suit so she had no choice but to stare at the fireproofs skin tight against him. Or when he posted a hundred different shirtless selfies, practically daring her to look. It is not hard to look. Not at George. 

George, who’s had her back since they were kids. George, who randomly interrupts her interviews to call her a warrior. Who goes on podcasts to go on long tangents about how Alex deserves better than she gets and calls her proper quick despite the fact that she’s past the days of winning everything. He’s in a Mercedes now, she’s in the dusty contrail of his speeding jet, and George still has the time of day to give to her. Maybe he’s the type of guy to deserve her looking. 

It makes Alex seek him out more, even more than she did before. It makes her do risky, stupid things, like pull George into her driver’s room after another Thursday debrief so they can hypothetically make fun of all that was said that day but mainly just so she can sit right by him and look.

George is apparently immune to the looking. Alex is observing him like she’s one of the thousands of spectators out there, goggle-eyed and hopeless, but George seems not to notice it at all. Perhaps she should invest in a homemade sign or something. Maybe even a cardboard cutout of his face.

“There were quite a number of rumors about you today,” George is in the midst of noting, “mainly that you’re going to be switching teams already. If you are, can you tell me now so I can place bets?”

Alex laughs. “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet, at least. Tell your fellow gamblers to cool it.”

George makes an elaborate display of shrugging. “You can’t be too sure of yourself. Ferrari’s always on the lookout for a new driver lineup, apparently, and McLaren’ll never pass up the chance for fresh blood.”

“I don’t want to give Zak Brown any of my blood,” Alex asserts, “But Ferrari would certainly be something. I’m sure the bad strategy is made up by other things like salaries and teammates. Charles is a pretty boy, isn’t he? That would help with the rest of it.”

George makes a sort of squawking noise in the back of his throat. Alex can’t honestly tell if he’s embarrassed for Charles’ sake or what, but there’s a hot pink shock of blush sitting high on his cheekbones now, starting to mottle his neck. “Did you just call Charles pretty?”

Alex’s nod is exaggeratedly slow, just to be obstinate. “Yes, I did. Boys can be pretty. Don’t forget what century you’re in, Georgie. We’re forward thinkers now.” She narrows her eyes a little, sensing weakness, then— “You’re pretty too, y’know that? Eyelashes and all.”

This, then, is the source of tension. George genuinely squirms in his seat, hands clenched on the armrests of his chair like he fully expects to melt into the floor if he isn’t white-knuckling the thing. “That’s— that’s not— I wasn’t trying to angle for a compliment.”

“You didn’t have to,” Alex says, divinely pleased with herself, “I gave it out anyway. Consider me in a charitable mood.”

George rolls his eyes. “Since when have you been charitable?”

Alex scoffs. “Since forever. I volunteer, y’know. I have been spotted giving caps to children.”

George settles back into his seat, a comfortable smile on his face. “I know. I take it back. You’ve always been good.” 

It is, all things considered, a very simple thing to say. You have always been good. Good is subjective. The idea of Alex that exists in George’s head, the one that is good, she’s subjective too, not quite real but close enough. Alex wonders what that girl must be like, good enough to ease the annoyance of a friend’s teasing, enough to– to make up for the fact that it’s her, that it’s Alex, or maybe that was why George was here in the first place, because the Alex that won him over was the real Alex all along.

And it’s stupid because– Have you ever been alone in a room with a boy? The whole space is empty but he sits right next to you. And he’s looking at you like the sun, like the stars, like even as you blind him, he’s never seen anything better and he’ll keep on staring, just to see what else you can do. You’ve gone your whole life swearing up and down that just because you’re the only female driver on the grid, that doesn’t mean you’ll fall in love with the first male driver to stop and look at you twice, but.

George is looking at Alex, eyes half-lidded, mouth open slightly, mid-gasp without a sound, and Alex isn’t falling in love because she wouldn’t do that. If she did, though, she thinks it would not be the worst thing ever. She can hear her heartbeat echoing in her ears, loud as the drums race organizers bring out in the bands for their anthem before lights out and away we go. Just as bad, too, because the sound is tripping over itself, speeding up and slowing down and absolutely erratic.

Alex can feel her entire chest constricting, ribs bruising as they bend against each other. George tilts his head to the side, concern flickering over his expression. “Are you alright?”

No. “Yes,” Alex says. No. 

George seems to believe this about as much as Alex does, and he reaches up to touch Alex’s forehead, two fingers exactly perpendicular against the warm flush of Alex’s skin. It’s so grandmotherly it’s almost ridiculous, George pursing his lips like he’s going to prescribe hot soup or a good night’s sleep or something else motherly and terrible, but instead he just shrugs and says that he doesn’t feel a fever. Alex doesn’t know if she’s more hurt by the dismissal or when George takes his hand away.

“You’re probably fine,” George tells her. 

He’s leaned away again, but he keeps a firm hold on the same two fingers that had touched her skin like he’s nursing a cut, like having any contact with Alex should be imprinted into him forever. It makes Alex want to touch him again, forever, and never let go. They could be joined together at the hip physically instead of just metaphorically. It probably wouldn’t mess with racing that badly.

She lets out a weak chuckle. “Is that your expert opinion, Dr. Russell?”

George flushes, embarrassed, and looks away. “You probably won’t lose any limbs or anything.”

Alex cackles. “I should hope not. You’d have a terrible medical practice if I came in for a fever and you did, like, an amputation or something.”

George snorts. “It’s only the natural response to a fever, of course.”

He eyes Alex again as he says it, eyes rolling down her body as he mumbles the words natural response. Alex leans forward slightly, and George mirrors her by impulse. “Is that all that doctors do for their patients?” She asks under her breath. Not her best attempt at dirty talk, but she doesn’t really have the power to think of anything else more impressive.

It works, anyway. George shakes once, all over, a sort of head to toe shiver that forces the breath from his lungs. Alex can actually hear it as George’s words hitch in his throat, but there’s a sharp rap on the door before either of them can find out how he’ll respond.

George flies away from Alex, practically leaping off of the sofa as he attempts to quickly create distance between them. It’s a good thing that their intruder just stays on the other side of the door, announcing themselves to be Alex’s PR manager needing her to come out for another round of interviews before leaving, because George is panting like he’s run a footrace, all in the effort to make it seem like nothing had happened here at all.

Hadn’t it? Even as George announces that he’d better go since Alex is busy now, and even as Alex unhappily stands up at last to go face the dozen TikToks they’ll force her to make before she can escape again, she glances back one last time at the room before she leaves. It’s as if she’s expecting to see something there, some sign of the heavy tension that had been there just moments ago.

Nothing. Just creased pillows and an empty sofa. Alex indulges herself in a brief fantasy that there had been a better reason for that other than a brief conversation, but it can’t last long. She’s got media duties to scoff at, and she’s learned long ago that it’s better not to think excessively about George while there’s a camera in her face. For some reason, it causes her to lose all sense of what she’s saying.

The idea that something else could have happened, though, lingers in Alex’s head far longer than it should. It sticks around through free practice, appears in her thoughts after qualifying, even pops out of her head briefly during the race itself. 

It’s turn four, Alex brakes as late as she dares, and as she pushes her foot decisively back onto the accelerator, her brain has the audacity to ask if maybe George would have touched her if they had stayed in that room even a little longer. 

He had wanted to, maybe. His fingers had been clenching and unclenching the whole time, flickering in invisible piano-chord patterns ever closer to that gap where his leg ended and hers began. Senna, turning over in his grave, if you no longer go for a gap that exists, you’re no longer a racing driver. 

This is what dumbstruck boys get you, then. At this point, Alex is feeling practically delusional. Half a second later, she remembers that she’s still, like, in a car, which is a more pressing matter to attend to than musings on what could’ve happened if more stars aligned, but. She does ask over the radio where George ended up when the race has finished, and she uses that information to decide to ask George to show up to her hotel room after night begins to fall.

This is no uncommon occurrence. The two of them often meet up at someone’s house or another’s room. It’s a more efficient vehicle for random conversations than extended phone calls. George appears at her threshold within ten minutes, panting slightly, and it could just be Alex’s overactive imagination, but she swears he looks nervous, like he wants something. They both do. Alex just has to be sure that it’s the same thing and not something grievously, totally different.

“So,” she says boldly. “Uh. Good race.”

George looks at her askance. “Yeah, thanks.”

God, it’s like they’re work acquaintances. Alex wants to die. How is it that she wants more, but the second she tries to say that, she becomes even less?

Second time’s the charm. She clears her throat. “I wanted to ask you something. About when we were in my driver’s room. Someone came in before– but I wanted to know if you, if we, were going to do anything if that hadn’t happened, and. Yeah.”

She is terrible. George still looks taken aback. “Oh, on Thursday? I don’t know, someone came in,” he repeats.

Alex is going to scream. “They did. If they didn’t, though.”

George swallows. “Right. I– I think I would have wanted something.”

As if that isn’t the vaguest thing that George could have possibly said. “Something?” Alex asks. "Like what, a new front wing?”

George sighs, exasperated. “No, Alex, like you.”

It hangs in the air for a while. Alex thinks that if she tried hard enough, she could actually see the words printed into the very oxygen she’s breathing. Like you. Alex, like you.

In retrospect, silence is not a good way to address such a thing. George, who has always been tense, who will always overthink things to the point of mental anguish, takes this as a sign that he misread the situation, and damage control is launched accordingly.

“Forget it,” George says abruptly, “This isn’t– Just forget it, alright? I’ll see you next week.”

He’s out of the door before Alex knows what’s going on. Alex stares open mouthed at the exit, a thousand thoughts churning through his head. As if Alex could just forget it. The idea is such an impossibility that it’s almost laughable.

Because– because Alex remembers what it was like, being young, being kids. Together. Alone in her house or his. A dozen inside jokes no one else gets. A hundred side eyes and bitten tongues and uncontrollable laughs. Alex ran away from it all when she was kicked off of Red Bull, when she was certain that it would never again be what it was– George her muse, Alex his idol, both of them the best and neither of them out of it. Running, though, running robbed her of it all. Alex wants it all more than she ever has before.

And maybe they’ll never have a podium together, and maybe Alex will never be at the top step of their pyramid anymore, but at this moment they’re two ships passing in the night, George relinquishing the Williams seat so he can hand it off to Alex, and maybe– maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s enough. If she tries hard enough, she can make it enough. Maybe he’d want it to be enough too.

Maybe he already did. Alex’s stomach twists as she thinks back to everything George has said to her over the recent months. He’s always been so genuine, says each word like he means it more than anything, but he’s put something extra into them as of late, something special. His hands move more when he speaks, maybe that’s it. Alex has taken the time to observe every digit, every ungnawed cuticle, every knuckle and bit of bone straining against the skin. 

She’s watching for something, waiting for it to happen, and then in a clap of mental thunder Alex realizes that what she is waiting for has already occurred. George has already given her the go-ahead. Has many times over. Alex wasn’t aware of it because she was too scared to look, too afraid to ruin something good, but. Alex is looking now, and a far worse thing would be to have this before her and let it go.

Alex thinks about George wringing his hands and apologizing too much, lunging into her room before she barely even called him, second guessing and blindly firing and doing everything in his power to keep her. It’s stupidly charming, and overwhelmingly off putting at the same time, but it’s George, and it’s what Alex wants. Alex wants George. Alex wants George more than she has wanted anything. At times like this, she thinks she might give up anything else, that top step of the podium, the sweet taste of champagne scorching down her throat, if it meant she might be able to taste him, too.

Alex throws herself out of the room. George hasn’t made it that far, even despite his long, reedy legs, dragging each footstep like his shoes have been weighed down with iron. By contrast, Alex is jetting down the hall, sprinting out of her door so fast she’s not entirely sure that both her feet are ever touching the ground. She catches up to George in about half a heartbeat, thinks, fastest, thinks, pole position, and kisses him. 

George goes as still as a statue. Alex is still moving when she hits him and does this abrupt careening around thing where her acceleration is still carrying her past him down the hall even as their lips connect. George has to catch her around the middle so she doesn’t fall over, his hands clumsily connecting at her waist, but at least that means he’s still thinking, because Alex’s brain shut off the second his mouth was on hers.

George has always been the thinker, though. George, sitting up late in the corner of the Albon family basement, blue eyes wide as he tucks his feet under himself and continues to extoll the virtues of minimized tire degradation, George, finally eye level with her and not looking up, matter-of-factly informing Alex that of course they’ll both be in Formula One together, are you kidding. 

George today, brain whirring into overdrive, whose first thought isn’t to ask Alex what in the hell she’s doing but to urge the two of them to get back into her room before someone sees. Alex has no problem in accepting. Where he goes, she does too. They kind of work out like that.

And, when Alex wakes up lazy and late the next morning, when the first thing she spots is George’s shirt on the ground right next to hers, she remembers how well they work out, too. She stretches and yawns widely, flopping onto her back to discover that a) George is already awake, probably for hours (weirdo), and b) is now intimately connected with the most trustworthy news sources his phone can offer instead of with her (double weirdo). 

Alex arches a brow over at him from where she still lies, tangled in linen sheets of a thread count that are probably higher than both their salaries. “Nothing like a fresh economic roundup to get you pumped to start your morning, huh, Georgie?”

George tends to pair a dramatic sigh with his eye rolls, Alex observes fondly. “There’s nothing wrong with staying informed, Alex. I’m not looking at the business section, though. I’m reading about us. Tabloids.”

For a moment, Alex’s heart freezes in her chest. She hadn’t counted on getting found out this quickly, and god, how could they, unless Red Bull really did want to capitalize on her downfall and, like, paid for a secret investigator to follow her around and take photos when she finally caved and pursued her best friend. Which, weird, but kind of foreseeable, too. They’d probably done it to Pierre at least once. 

She scavenges about for her phone on the nightstand beside her and turns it on, typing geogre rhssel abd alrx albon tkgrther??? into the Safari search bar. She’s damn near unintelligible in her haste, but the search engine knows what she’s getting at and delivers anyway. Praise be. 

Alex is expecting grainy surveillance photos of them making out in the hallway or something like that, but instead, she’s just greeted with more talk pieces on their long history together since they were karting kids, a few rumors here and there about what might be but nothing more than mere speculation.

“It’s okay,” she reassures George at last, “They don’t know.”

George frowns, still not entirely convinced. “It’s weird timing on a lot of these. At least three or four fan gossip pages put out stuff all last night. Why’d they all do it at the same time if they didn’t see?”

Alex shrugs. “Maybe they got bored, I don’t know. Odds are they saw us talking at the paddock earlier and decided to play off of interest so they posted.”

George counters, “Or, they might have posted, because we were, you know, we were kind of, uh, obvious, and–”

“We’re fine,” Alex says, rolling her eyes, “They don’t have anything new, just repeating the same stuff about how we might be fucking. No proof. Everyone’s dragging them for getting into pointless rumors.”

“Good,” George says, nodding his head emphatically like he’s committing every word to memory. “I don’t want anyone finding out that I– that we–” He can’t finish the sentence, unable to say more than a few words towards the audacious subject without tripping over the syllables.

Alex can guess at his meaning anyway, though, and it makes her laugh.

“What, you don’t want our bosses bringing up your potential plans to deflower me or something at the next team meeting, do you?” Alex says, cackling. 

George’s cheeks turn an alarming shade of Ferrari red. “No. Not that.”

Still. Alex can’t tease him for blushing, because her cheeks have gone hot at the thought of it. If George were to– if they– It was a little late for that, of course, but if he really was the first–

“Your reputation remains intact,” Alex says, reassuring George of the truth but kind of herself, too. They’re both fine. No one knows. Wouldn’t it be something if they did, though. What they could do if they didn’t have to worry about getting caught.

Sometimes, Alex thinks that she does actually want to get caught. It would make sense. Every time she gets up the morning after, because it does happen again, despite both of them never formally saying it was a one time thing but kind of fearing it would be, anyway, every time she finds that they actually forgot to lock the door or they make out in one of the driver’s rooms such that you can still hear people going back and forth outside it, she remembers. George does too. 

In fact, she thinks he likes it even better than she does. George Russell, newest boy to Mercedes, soon to a race win (everyone can feel it coming, even if it hasn’t yet), our glorious prodigy coming into everything, and the one who managed to get Alex’s heart, too, while he was at it. Heart and hands, body and soul. All of it. George has all of it.

It gets easier as time goes on, if that were even possible at all. How much can you improve upon a good thing when it already seems perfect? It’s like fine tuning a rear wing or shaving off seconds from a suspension. Alex never thought she’d describe love with something as insipid as car parts, but she has a sneaking suspicion that George might find it rather romantic. It’s relevant, at least, so that should count for something.

George would appreciate the practicality, at least. George would appreciate her. Does. Always does. Alex wakes up one morning, hair a mess, not sure which of their rooms she’s in nor if she had the presence of mind to carry her high heels back from the bar she’d been wasted at last night, and George still looks at her like she’s a work of art. He’s endearingly fond of her, which makes it even easier to be fond of him. 

Alex thinks that she could be persuaded to stay here forever, lingering in this in between space of his-and-hers, the room belonging to both of them until she figures out which one of them has their name scrawled on the key card, but unfortunately there are still meetings to go to, interviews to conduct, engineers and team principles to appease. 

Alex drags herself out of bed, grabbing the closest clean clothes before scraping at her hair with a brush and considering the whole affair handled as best it can be. Behind her, George’s figure appears out of the early morning shower mist on the bathroom mirror, the edges of his reflected skin and hair feathered over with steam. 

“What do you think?” Alex asks, gesturing vaguely to herself with a languid hand, “Vogue cover ready?”

George snorts. “Oh, always. Do you have to head out already?”

“If I didn’t have to be somewhere soon, I would have slept in until noon,” Alex notes. 

George hums in agreement. “So professional of you.”

Alex rolls her eyes. “You know me. Word on the street is that I’m highly coveted by all the teams for my winning mindset. That’s why they want me at the factory all the time, so no one can entice me away with a different contract offer.”

George laughs even despite the bad joke, then reaches to pluck at the fabric of Alex’s attire with a knowing, almost possessive, air of triumph. 

“That’s my old shirt,” George observes, “You might want to change before you go out or someone’ll notice.”

Alex checks herself in the mirror, then shakes her head. George hasn’t gotten rid of all his old team kits, as it turns out; although this Williams tee isn’t Alex’s, it’ll do well enough. “It’s the same logo, how would they know it’s yours? It’s not got your name on it or anything.”

George’s eyes widen behind Alex in the mirror, veritable oceans swimming in the hazy glow of the hotel bathroom lighting. “What if they photograph you?”

Alex shrugs. “We’re the only ones who’ll know,” she tells George.

“Just us,” George agrees, but his hands coil in the extra fabric at the hem of her shirt, a silent reminder that it’s his, his shirt, his hotel room, and maybe– maybe Alex too, his.

The thought sends a hot shock coursing through Alex, pooling in her lower back near where George’s fingers still press against the fabric. She almost expects George to yank his hand back from an electric pulse when his knuckles accidentally brush her skin, but instead, he leans into the touch, and doesn’t let go until the stray buzzing from Alex’s phone grows insistent and it becomes clear that they can hide out here no longer.

Alex leaves first; George isn’t needed for half an hour after Alex, and they’re not stupid enough to leave a hotel together the morning after a drunken celebration. Not yet, at least. Idling listlessly in the elevator as it slowly ferries her down from the relative heaven of George’s hotel room, Alex thinks that it would be something to lose the last of her wisdom soon enough, to let the paparazzi catch her walking out of their shared hotel room, heels in her hands, dress from last night rucked up around her knees so she can walk.

Maybe she should tell George about it. She can imagine his reaction already, but the temptation of vocalizing it brings with it a sort of delicious rush that isn’t easily ignored. A ding echoes somewhere from the circuitry behind the wall of the elevator, and she steps out from the sliding doors, nodding at the receptionist before crossing the threshold.

The brightness of the morning blinds Alex when she walks outside. Somewhere out there, a car waits to carry her away, but for now, Alex lets the shocking sunlight bleach her clean of any expectations of driving or team principles or anything, anything at all. 

She makes it halfway across the asphalt before giving in to the Orpheus-like temptation to turn back. Shading her eyes with her hand, Alex’s eyes chase the floors level by level until she finds one room in particular, one man who’s already gone to the trouble of throwing up the drapes on his window so he can peer out at the scene below. At her. She is in his shirt; was just in his room, in his bed; in his gaze now too, held and treasured.

Alex looks up at him and grins. “Good morning, Georgie.”

He can’t hear her. It doesn’t matter. They’ll have plenty of time for talking– and not– in the days and months and years to come. Just as before; so after, too. Alex would not want it any other way.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

[feketeribizli]

she cut her hair 😔

[valyrfia]

thinking about the time george and alex went on holiday together and Both got a throat infection and even (i think sky?) commentators were making jokes about their “sleeping arrangements”

Ah Sky Sports trying to do journalism during Spa 2019 FP1 to find out whether Galex had indeed fucked in Portugal that summer. An iconic piece of F1 lore.

[7teresia7]

George Russell and Alex Albon

These two have so much in common, especially when they both got the same throat infection after sleeping in the same bed in a training camp in Portugal!

[saamaton]

having galex thoughts suddenly

[mindibindi]

Wake up babe, a new/old otp tag just dropped:

- from the original "Ashes to Ashes" treatment

[joeytime]

noooooooooo Williams how could you?

[scuderiacanucks]

having a uniquely embarrassing experience

[i-am-church-the-cat]

This is what’s wrong with this fandom

[piastrixpole]

CRUSH! - Franco Colapinto

pairing: franco colapinto x reader

genre: smau

faceclaim: alessi rose

yourusername just posted!

liked by lilymhe, alex albon and others

late night calls, unsent voice notes and everything i could never say brings you my new EP! presave ‘hung-up’ out september 19th <3

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user1: omg new yn music!! war is over

user2: screaming

user3: MOTHER💜 WE’RE SO BACK

lilymhe: that’s my wife🤭

-> yourusername: love you so much sweet girl <3 leave Alex for me

lilymhe: bet

-> alexalbon: Sorry, she's booked, busy, and in a committed relationship... with me. 😎

-> yourusername: we’ll see about that 👀

-> user4: albono third wheeling again

-> user 5: not alex and yn fighting over lily again i can't

user6: The chokehold this EP is about to have on me… I already feel it 😩

user7: HUNG-UP IS ABOUT TO BE ON REPEAT!!!

yourusername posted a story!

williamsracing just posted!

liked by francolapinto, alexalbon, yourusername & 85,690 more

another hard fought battle from our boys this weekend bring on singapore

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user1: vamos franco

user2: galex crumbs thank you williams admin

user3: first pic team torque when??

user4: my goats

ynpriv: slide 3

-> lilypriv: girl you're not slick

twitter!

yourusername just posted a story!

francolapinto just posted a story!

ynpriv just posted!

liked by lilympriv, zlilypriv, albonitas and 13 others

i just wanna bite him ashbsjejwefh

view all comments

lilympriv: omg girl pls 💀😂

zlilypriv: the way I KNOW exactly who you’re talking about 👀

albonitas: hahaha don’t expose yourself like this, bestie!

lilympriv: @albonitas too late, she already did 😭

ynpriv: someone had to say it 😌no shame

twitter

f1gossip just posted!

liked by user7, user29, pierregasly & 1,928 others

new wag alert? english singer songwriter yn ln rumoured to be dating our newest addition to the grid franco colapinto. sources spotted yn spending more time in the paddock and not just with close friends alex and lily👀insiders say the pair have been getting close over the past few weeks since franco attender her concert. could this be a new power couple?

view all comments

user29: Not Yn bagging an F1 driver, I'm here for this 🔥

user57: who?

user13: omg she's so pretty

user21: Pierre liked this post?? He knows something for sure 😂

user31: i hope this is real i wanna see yn hanging out with the other wags

yourusername just posted!

liked by lilymhe, francolapinto, user39 and 40,249 others

bet you weren't expecting new music so soon from me but what can i say, i've been inspired. so consider this a present from me to you - 'bed chem' is now yours

view all comments

user72: miss yn you aren't slick i see you👀

-> user29: literallyyy that first slide is franco for sure

user37: BED CHEM?? oh he has her down bad

user14: Not you casually dropping another banger like it’s no big deal 😩

lilymhe: can he fight?

->yourusername: you're still my number one😘

alexalbon: i'm going to throw up

->yourusername: sorry albono

user56: franco in the likes please they're not even trying to hide anymore

lilyzneimar: obsessed with you and this song

-> yourusername: kisses💋

francolapinto just posted!

now playing: bed chem - yn ln

liked by yourusername, lilymhe, charlesleclerc, pierregasly & 213,940 more

mine

view all comments

user41: yn hard launch!! we used to pray for times like these

user25: i'm obsessed with them

pierregasly: vamossss👀

yourusername: who's the cute boy🤭

->francolapinto: idk i think he has a crush on you though

-> yourusername: omg me too

alexalbon: you two make me sick

->francolapinto: stay mad x

->yourusername: what he said✨

user91: this song making me see a whole other side of franco

lilymhe: give me back my wife

-> francolapinto: she's mine now

-> yourusername: omg keep fighting over me🥰

[marieshyperf1xations]

You might want to check on your boyfriend then George, he’s said something about sausages and chips on pizza the other day

Interviewer George is back

[vroomvroommuppett]

galex x grad student reader? maybe she’s studying arts or hospitality to work in the events side of the paddock one day and alex is always the one trying to convince reader and george to stop working so hard and chill with him

my asks are still open for requests! please send me some!

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

ynrussellalbon

liked by georgerussell63, alex_albon, and others

ynrussellalbon studying while watching my boys kill it 🩵

tagged alex_albon, georgerussell63

georgerussell63 Don't study too hard, baby.

alex_albon We miss you too. Soon though we'll be able to see you.

lewishamilton Please come soon. I don't know how much longer I can hear George whine about missing his wife.

logansargeant Same with Alex. Please come soon mom. ynrussellalbon soon loves georgerussell63 I'm not that bad alex_albon Same lewishamilton "Lewis, I know I just got off the phone with her, but I miss her" logansargeant "Logs, I'm going through Yn withdrawls"

fan1 mother is back

mercedesamgf1 Come work with us when you graduate!

wiliamsracing no us! scuderiaferrari us! redbullracing no us please! visacashapprb what about us? mclaren we have one of your children stakef1 us please! haasf1 we need the help! alpineracing we have your french friends astonmartinaramcof1 we have your uncle nando f1 or you know us ynrussellalbon good to know i have options

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𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

georgerussell63 and alex_albon

liked by ynrussellalbon, mercedesamgf1, and others

georgerussell63 The daily selfies we send our wife to remind her to take a break.

tagged: alex_albon, ynrussellalbon

ynrussellalbon my boys.

landonorris You look like you're dying.

ynrussellalbon you take that back about my husbands, norris landonorris Yes ma'am 🫡

oscarpiastri Not pictured is Logan and I ahead waiting for them.

logansargeant "Hold on! We have to take a picture for Yn to make sure she takes a break." ynrussellalbon and this is why you're my favorites

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𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

ynrussellalbon posted a story

[caption: finally visiting my boys at a race]

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

ynrussellalbon

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and others

ynrussellalbon graduated, got my dream job working for two teams, and visiting my boys finally. no more long distance 🩷

tagged: alex_albon, georgerussell63, oscarpiastri, logansargeant, williamsracing, mercedesamgf1

alex_albon It was way too long.

georgerussell63 You're ours now.

mercedesamgf1 welcome mother!

williamsracing we love you ynrussellalbon i love you too admins

georgerussell63 But in all seriousness, we're so proud of you baby.

alex_albon So so proud ynrussellalbon thank you my loves. i couldn't have done it without you two, reign energy drinks, your daily selfies for me to take a break, and helping me study. it was worth it in the end. and i get to work with both of my husbands.

logansargeant You really just had to post those?

ynrussellalbon you're my kid. what kind of mom would i be if i didn't embarrass you. besides you're stuck with me now oscarpiastri Love you too, mom.

lewishamilton Congrats, Yn! So happy to have you working with us!

ynrussellalbon Thanks, Lew.

landonorris Awwwww baby Logan and Oscar.

fan1 yay! mother will be back for good!

francesca.cgomez we need a girls night

flavy.barla YES PLEASE alexandrasaintlmeux Every week we're at a race together we should. iamrebeccad I'm down! kellypiquet Ooh yes! lilyzneimer YES! pierregasly What about your boyfriends? alex_albon Husbands* flavy.barla we haven't seen our wife in a bit. let us have this ynrussellalbon have a guys night

kellypiquet So happy to have you back! P has missed her aunt Yn.

ynrussellalbon P MY BABY. i have gifts for her. kellypiquet I told her your'e back and have gifts and she wants you to come as soon as you can. ynrussellalbon anything for my favorite girl

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𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

i hope this is what you were wanting!

[ctimenefic]

(whispers) swank + strap + galex xoxo @testarossa

from the very silly nyt prompts

okay so because I wrote, jesus, 4k of strap-on fic for the other fill, I've taken a slightly sideways look at this one. Hope that's okay @testarossa!

also, this is v obviously inspired by and owes a debt to @lagerloutfic's hot rookie slagsss series, which is a marvel you should read immediately

It’s George who sends the photo in the old group chat; her and Lando, done up to the nines, in a hotel corridor somewhere in Kuala Lumpur. Lando’s clearly tilting at the space Lewis has left for high fashion at FIA events, with- well, Alex will kindly call it limited success. And George-

George is in a suit. 

Alex tries not to be basic about George all dolled up. 

Yes, anytime George wears tights Alex can’t resist putting a ladder in them with her fingertips, or her teeth. Yes, some of George’s skirts have met terrible ends. Yes, ranking George’s outfits by tit accessibility on her Instagram stories was probably taking the ‘joke’ of George’s known cleavage addiction a bit far. 

But this? George with her hair slicked back and her tits taped artfully up behind her starched skinny shirt and tapered trousers making her legs look mad long and- fuck yes, she’s even foregone the heels, avoided some terrible Doctor Who converse disaster. Those are neat black Oxfords, gleaming. 

It’s not even strictly butch. But the look is tailor-made – literally – to get Alex foaming at the mouth. In short, she wants to fuck the shit out of her. 

She’s still wearing makeup, of course. A slash of dusky pink-brown that Alex is almost certain she’s picked to match her nipples, the fucking minx. Maybe she’d been thinking of the same night Alex is, when the last trace of her red lipstick had run down to her chin by the time they were done. That stuff had staying power; in the shower, Alex’d had to scrub it off her thighs. 

Swanky and swanker, Alex eventually texts back, damningly long after the ticks will have turned blue on George’s end. 

Sure enough, George replies on their private chat in seconds. You sure you want to accuse someone else of wanking right now?

And then, Alex’s downfall: George calls.

“Hello George. Are you having a nice night?”

Alex would say she does a 10/10 job at keeping the lust out of her voice. She has, after all, had fucking years of practice before Georgie had looked over at her, big eyes all wet and wide, and asked if- maybe- Alex would consider- and every rule she’d ever had about straight girls had gone out the window. 

George, on the other hand, doesn’t even attempt to keep her pout quiet. “Aren’t you going to say I look good?”

“Depends,” Alex hedges. “Is Lando still there?” She’s not actually jealous, it’s Lando, but sometimes leaning into the implication makes George pinken. Alex isn’t above exploiting a little internalised heteronormativity, for the bit. 

“No. Took that before we left, I’m at the gala now. In the bathroom.”

Alex feels herself perk up, the alertness washing through her. “Bored, baby?”

“Terribly,” George sighs. “Wish you were here.”

If wishes were horses, the Williams might have enough bloody horsepower for Alex to have a shot at the gala. Still. “So I could rumple that suit of yours, gorgeous?”

George audibly brightens. “So you do like it. I wasn’t sure if…” She trails off, and Alex wonders if it’s meant to say a bit more, the suit, than she thought. 

“Objectively, you are fit as fuck, George. Unobjectively, if you didn’t already have a plane ticket I’d be getting in the car right now to pick you up.”

George giggles. “I’ll wear it on the flight then. You can fuck me soon as I’ve arrived.”

Alex doesn’t try to stifle her groan; she’s not the one hiding in a bathroom. George undone in the passenger seat of her car, seatbelt on but tits out. Or no, better; up on the kitchen counter, jacket still on but trousers round her ankles, and Alex standing between her legs, with her-

“Fuck, Georgie, please, let me use my strap, let me-”

“Yes,” George hisses, and Alex is almost too turned on to realise how fucking lucky she’s got. It’s the first time she’s dared bring up her strap on. She’s kept it buried at the back of her drawers, worried it might be, well, just a bit too fucking gay for George. But George sounds almost frantic about it, like she’s rubbing her thighs together in a fucking bathroom stall, with half the world of motorsport a few meters away. Probably because she is. “Yes, please, Alex, I want it, I want it so much.”

“Okay, baby, I-”

“How many are you going to give me?”

Alex’s mind stalls for a second, trying to parse it. She has a brief vision of George stuffed; toys in her arse, her mouth, as Alex fucked her cunt but-

Well, it seems a bit much for George to have come up with. And it doesn’t really fit. How many are you going to give me? There’s a pretty firm upper limit.

And then Alex remembers George’s fondness for period dramas, old books about tall ships and a misty-eyed view of the Empire that Alex tried not to prod too often, for fear they’d actually have to talk about it. The way George had sniffled during Master and Commander, her voice wet when she’d explained “it’s about the duty, Alex.”

Let me use my strap

How many are you going to give me?

George’s round arse, striped. Pink and pale. The clink of a belt buckle. 

Alex swallows. “As many as you want, baby.”

[dannyricsmirrorball]

f1 challengers smau! ੈ✩‧₊˚ 🎾🏎️

george russell x reader x alex albon

OR

charles leclerc x reader x pierre gasly

sorry for being MIA i’m just busy w school but eee i was rewatching challengers and this idea came to me,, i was planning on a galex x reader one but im not sure if everyone would prefer piarles x reader (lmk pls! but i think im leaning towards george and alex)

basically the reader is tashi and was recognised as one of the biggest young talents coming through motorsports (like young max verstappen vibes), she was really fast and climbing through the ranks in karting and f2 and befriended george and alex (eventually dating one of them) and made it to formula 1 the same year as the 2019 rookies but then sustained an injury from a crash with one of the boys,, that depends on who is who. i’m not sure if i want alex to be patrick and george be art, or the opposite (also lmk ur opinions pls!).

im thinking alex as patrick just so i can do the whole them not seeing each other for so long through him being dropped by red bull and just extend the period of time it took for him to reach williams and then him coming back is them all reuniting and leading to present day. anyways basically same premise as the movie obv,, reader and (probably) george are in a long term relationship (rather than married) and (probably) alex comes back onto the scene in the williams seat which gags everyone and then yk kinda same premise as movie.

also if george is the art character then reader would be toto’s daughter (wolff!reader) to really emphasise that like power couple thing art and tashi had going on in the media, like mercedes golden boy and girl!

also can you just imagine the galex angst! childhood best friends to strangers </3.

i wish i was patient enough or had enough time to actually write this series and not just make a social media au, but if any writers are invested enough and would write this then feel free to just take this idea bc i’d love to read it and you’d probably do it more justice then i will hahah! 🎾💌🏎️🦢

[onadarklingplain]

galex + mechanophilia? 👀👀👀

set in 2022 the year everyone was "shocked by what Mercedes produced," one man's mechanophilia is another man's @carlarva It’s tradition by now — on the last day of testing, Alex will come round George’s hotel room with a beer.

This year, the first thing Alex does is laugh, loud and barking, like he’s been holding it in all day.

“Mate, you’ve got to tell me what’s up with your car. It’s like, deformed.” He’s not even trying to hide it — he sounds delighted, a wry grin across his face as he uses the side of George’s hotel table to crack open his beer. “What did you do? You did something weird, didn’t you? Did Lewis—“

“Alex,” George says, sounding less composed than he'd like. He's been getting it all day. “Can you not. I didn’t. You know we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“Yeah, but everyone does,” Alex says, rolling his eyes. “Including you, last year and the year before and the year before that. So don’t go getting all high and mighty with me now. Come on, dish and I’ll tell you all about how the old girl at Grove was pining for you when Nicky and I went in.”

“She misses me?” George can’t stop himself from asking, something pleased and mortified in equal measure curling in his stomach.

Alex gives him a pointed look, tilting his head, and when Alex hands him a beer, George takes it, the bottle cold against his fingers, condensation running down the side. He doesn’t know when it got so hot in the room.

“I didn’t do anything weird,” George says firmly, once it’s clear from Alex’s expression that he isn’t going to let it go. “I just did it the normal way. I don’t know—“

“The normal way?” Alex says, latching onto George’s thoughtless sentence like he’s an apex predator and George’s dignity is a wounded gazelle. “Say more.”

Later, George wouldn’t be able to explain how it happened so fast, the night turning on a penny from something casual and relaxed to something charged and tense, except that Alex had a knack for pulling things out of him that he didn’t mean to say, a knack for getting him to do things he didn’t mean to do. It was the truth, undeniable: even after so many years, George had never succeeded in building up a defence again against the feeling, pure and bright, of Alex’s unfettered attention.

It’s how he ends up in the bathroom with Alex hardly any time later, wearing just his pants. Alex had put the shower on so the room was hot, full of steam, the air hard to see through, and he was saying, “Okay so start from the top. You’re greeting the mother carva for the first time. You can pretend I’m Lewis if you want, just tell me what to do.”

When George catches sight of himself in the mirror, he’s flushed all the way down his chest. From the heat, probably. He doesn’t know how Alex is still fully dressed.

“It’s not that complicated,” George says for the tenth time. “I just, you know, gave the sample.” He keeps his hands clutched at his sides. Alex looks serious, like he means it, but George is sure — any second now, he’s going to drop the act and start taking the piss again.

“Okay well maybe I want to critique your technique, come on Russell,” Alex says. “Maybe it’s what we’re missing at Williams this year, a way to get fucked up sidepods for our very own. I could take a few pointers for the summer upgrades.”

George has to swallow at the idea of Alex, what, jerking off like he does? About Alex doing it on purpose, thinking about George while he’s with the mother carva, thinking about George while he’s got his hand around himself. He’s imagining it before he can stop himself, a calamitous series of images pilling up in his brain, and he can feel himself getting hard before he can even think about getting a handle on himself.

The bathroom isn’t really like a mother carva. Alex has replicated the humidity, but it’s missing all of the parts that make it really special: the heavy smell of petrol in the air, the slickness of all the surfaces, like engine oil, the mechanical lifeblood of the thing contrasted with the soft, welcoming give of its walls, its probing limbs enveloping him whole, encompassing. The way the whole being comes together, the pulsating life of it undeniable within the intricate design of its body. The way it feels to give himself over to its whims, to let himself be used for its creation.

“Okay well,” George starts slowly. “I’m usually not. We should both um. Get starkers.”

Alex is nodding and pulling off his socks before George can even finish the sentence.

“Right, okay,” George says, feeling lightheaded at the easy way Alex was complying. “And like. With Nicky sometimes we would. But Lewis, he said. Well, he and the Mercedes girl go way back of course, so I didn’t like to intrude.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting naked too? Or is that part of your process, do you do like, a strip tease, because I could—” Alex interrupts, like he hadn’t really been listening to George’s ramble. When he looks up at George, it’s from under his fringe, bent down to pull his jeans off over his ankles.

“No,” George cuts in, a blinding rush of panic rushing up his spine until his brain feels like pure static. Alex, and — the long, bared line of his leg already feels like too much. He needs this to move faster, or he’s going to embarrass himself. George feels like he’s sweating from every part of his body. It’s so humid, he almost can’t breathe. When he unclenches his fists and starts to push down his pants, his hands slip over skin, everywhere slick and wet.

When he’s kicked his pants into a corner of the room, his cock bobs awkwardly in front of him. His hand spasms, an engrained instinct to cover himself, but when he looks, Alex is hard too, and he’s staring at George, appraising.

“So the mother carva gets you going, then?” he says, smirking. “Explains why the old girl at Grove was so needy. Did you just close your eyes and think about the W11, or what?”

A drop of sweat runs down George’s face, dripping off his lip, and he swipes his tongue along his teeth once, and again. Alex is naked too now, dropping his shirt to the floor; he’s looking at George expectantly, waiting for instruction, but faced with the reality of Alex’s body, all of the parts of him brought together. George can hardly think.

Alex has — well, since the last time George saw him topless, Alex has frankly bulked out. Seeing the swell of muscle across his chest, the line of his torso narrowing down to his waist, the hard line of his hips, the light trail of hair running down to his groin, his cock, a little hard already — George can’t look away.  His mouth is hanging open, but he can’t do anything to close it. He can’t seem to control any of his muscles at all, his body suddenly acting of its own accord. He can barely even remember why they’re both standing in his hotel en suite with the shower running, the spray of water against the tile a relentless drone.

“Alex,” George says, his voice coming out as a breathless, uncontrolled pant. He skates a hand down his side, fingertips brushing along his hip down to his upper thigh, a careful distance away from his dick. He needs to come up with something to say. In truth, Lewis had hardly looked at him twice during the donation, caught up in his routine. George had been left to whack one out in double time, lest he get in the way.

He can’t say that to Alex, though. He can’t say anything that would make Alex leave. He needs to lie.

He brings his hand up again, the glide easy over his sweat-soaked skin, and when he reaches his chest and his thumb catches on one of his nipples, he shivers without meaning to, an irrepressible urge shaking through his body.

“Oh,” Alex says. “It’s like that then.”

For a second, George doesn’t know what he means, his mind still horribly blank of anything other than the truth. Then Alex grins and steps closer, one hand slowly stroking his cock.

“That’s a bit freaky George, I have to tell you. Do you see — do you keep track every year, of how little it takes? Of how little you have to touch yourself before you can come? Can you get there without touching your dick at all? Must be good for the control, is it? For the precision of the car.”

Alex’s face is still serious, gaze intent on where he’s following the trailing line of George’s fingers against his skin, and George is saying yes before he can think, tongue thick in his mouth. Alex’s hair is sweat-damp too, clumped against his forehead, and his breath is coming heavier now, sharp gasps that fall in time with the way he’s working himself.

“I’ve already fucked up your method,” Alex says, teeth catching on his lower lip, and just the way the muscles in Alex’s shoulder are jumping is enough for George to lose all sense of proportion. “But you should show me anyway, what you do, for next time. I want to see.”  

“Maybe we could,” George says, brain made bold by horniness. “The bed. If we, the bed. I mean I’m grateful for the very shit approximation of a mother carva you’ve made here, but.”

Alex huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t stop the steady motion of his hand over his dick. Looking at it, George feels like he’s going to go crazy if he doesn’t touch himself too, but it’s not what Alex said. It’s not what Alex wants. Alex said: control.

“Yeah, okay,” Alex says eventually, still panting. “Okay, yes. Get on the bed. But I mean it, I want to see. This is for the data, remember, don't fuck it up.”

George nods wildly, tripping over his feet immediately as he stumbles back to wrench open the door.

as always, the old girl at Grove comes from @prettydangrotten's real and true and beautiful galex carva ficlet and latched into my brain so effectively that it's all i can ever think about

[complementaryhalves]

what about...... landoscar new girl au.......... set in london for obvious reasons... oscar breaking up with his long-term girlfriend (not in the same way as the show ofc) and being forced to find a shared flat cause rent prices are insane... lando, alex and george having a free room in their flat... a spareroom.co.uk search and flatmate interview later, oscar moves in with them, and chaos ensues. alex and george are so obviously winston and schmidt. cat included. logan is oscar's model friend (may have a flirt with alex but i'm fine with either galex or sargebon being endgame). carlos is the ex lando can't seem to get over at the start (not as toxic as caroline). daniel is coach. please someone tell me you see the vision