#mark pspspspspsps hope u like

[milflewis]

Gewis + lewis helps George sleep after a terrible race weekend

idk what this is but i’ve been toying with the idea of a soul bond/emotion based telepathy/force bond thing between teammates and this was Fun

Lewis doesn’t do anything as obvious as move in his seat or wince openly, but the corners of his eyes tighten slightly as the meeting drags on.

George apologises internally, cursing when all that does is make the lines around Lewis’s mouth deepen. He tries to focus on what James is saying, on the positives that they can take from the race earlier today.

Obsessing over what went wrong — what he does wrong and what this costs them — always gives him tension headaches, starting behind his eyes and spreading down his neck.

George can feel it already. He’s gotten better at noticing them after becoming teammates with Lewis, catching when they get bad enough that they start to affect the bond between them, hurting Lewis too, and then feeding back into George.

He puts his hands in his lap, uncurling them from their fists, and breathes in. Alex hugged him earlier today, quick and warm, and stayed there, arm heavy on George’s shoulders. Lily had only smiled, walking beside them, chatting away about this new book she is reading. George had made Charles laugh in the presser, nose scrunching up. He had qualified sixth and even though the incident at the start of the race was his fault, he’d still managed to fight his way back to fifth. Lewis had not been affected.

It could’ve been worse, he thinks. You could’ve been worse.

He exhales. Lewis’s shoulders relax ever so slightly, the thrumming pain behind George’s eyes easing up a little.

—

His phone buzzes. George closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. Please don’t let it be —

Lewis: man are you ok

Fuck. George squints against the bright screen, turning it down as low as it’ll go.

Of course it’s Lewis.

George: Yeah. Sorry about this, mate. I know you probably want to get to sleep.

Lewis: it’s fine dw about it

Lewis: you’ve had a long day

It’d be easier if Lewis wasn’t as nice about it. It’d be easier if he was fucking honest for once.

The Lewis presence in the back of his head quietens for a moment before stilling, going calm and clear as the sea on a windless day. The bond that teammates have to forge between them ever since Prost and Senna doesn’t translate actual thoughts but George doesn’t know how that last one felt like and isn’t sure he wants to.

Lewis: would you like sum help

Lewis: to sleep

George blinks.

His head is still silent. He can feel Lewis holding his breath. Or maybe that’s just him.

George: Sure.

His dad always did say don’t look a gift horse in its mouth.

Lewis: cool

Lewis: be at ur room in ten

George sends back a thumbs up. Not a ripple.

—

Sometimes George wants to ask Valtteri if Lewis was this in control with him, if he only ever got bits and pieces of the real Lewis right after a race or when he’s sleepy and laughing early in the morning at headquarters.

Even during the off season and in between races when Lewis surrounds himself with people that love him, he is muffled and dampened in George’s head, like he’s under water.

He wonders if this is a post-Rosberg thing.

Valtteri gets this steely eyed look whenever anyone asks him what being teammates with Lewis was like back in the beginning, whether it’s reporters or fans or other drivers, and refuses to properly answer.

George is also slightly worried that it isn’t a Rosberg thing or a Lewis thing, but a Lewis-because-of-George thing.

He imagines asking Valtteri if he thinks that Lewis wants him in his head, and would rather drive for Redbull.

—

“So,” George starts, stepping back so Lewis can squeeze past him. “How exactly are you going to help me sleep?”

The words come out with a bite to them. George is very tired. He also doesn’t have the mental fortitude right now to be able to deal with Lewis Hamilton in rumpled sweats that hang low on his hips and an oversized hoodie with any kind of decorum. He has sweater paws for fuck’s sake. George kind of wants to die.

Lewis only half smiles, unfazed, and why would he be? He’s been teammates with people like Rosberg and Fernando, driven with Sebastian and Michael and Webber. How would George ever be a threat when compared to them?

Lewis reaches up behind him and tugs his jumper up over his neck. His braids are a little mussed when he resurfaces, stomach and chest bare to the world. Lewis only looks at him, settling his weight further into the ground, hips tilting forward.

George has had dreams that start like this.

“I thought you said getting involved with a teammate was a bad idea.” His own voice sounds distant to him, something in his chest aching faintly with the memory. He had never been so embarrassed.

Lewis raises an eyebrow. He looks confused unsure what to do with whatever George is broadcasting to him. “It is. This isn’t getting involved. This is helping you sleep, which will help me sleep.”

He shrugs. There are pillow creases faintly lining one cheek and his eyes are hooded. “Think of it as team bonding if you want.”

“Right.” George swallows, and then does it again, mouth dry. “And have you done this before? With teammates?”

Lewis doesn’t lose his relaxed stance and the sea in George’s head doesn’t shiver, but it deepens slightly. George feels like he’s looking down into it, ready to jump, but doesn’t know how shallow it is or where the rocks are.

Then, “Jenson doesn’t like sleeping in beds that aren’t his. Finds it difficult. And I need my sleep.”

And suddenly, the sea is back to just being a sea.

George nods. “Makes sense.”

“I guess.”

Charles would tell him this is a bad idea. So would Alex. Pierre would be unbelievably furious that this happened to George and not him. Yuki would only laugh and tell George he thinks too much and should feel things more.

“I’m wrecked, mate, and so fucking sick of counting sheep.”

Lewis laughs quietly, the soft sound smoothening out his face. You shouldn’t be allowed to be better looking now than you were years ago, taped up on my bedroom wall, George thinks, and exhales.

“Might be better if you sit on the bed, man,” Lewis says and George nods again. There is a buzzing starting up in his ears and his toes curl into the carpet.

“Yeah, yeah, cool.” The bed sinks a little under him when he sits down. He’s already half hard in his pyjama shorts, has been since he caught onto the idea of how exactly Lewis would be helping him sleep, and sitting down just pulls the material tighter, making it obvious.

Lewis doesn’t say anything, just climbs into his lap, knees on either side of him, a heavy weight that presses George into the sheets. It’s oddly grounding, helping George think clearer, and then Lewis grinds down and George’s whole brain whites out for a second.

“You want to stop, you say so.” Lewis’s hand is on his jaw, big and warm, fingers splayed across his cheek, his thumb in the corner of George’s mouth.

George nods, hips twitching up, trying to find any kind of friction. But Lewis shifts to the side, pinning George’s legs. His eyes are wide and serious.

“You’ll say stop,” he repeats. “And I’ll stop. No drama. Nothing. I’ll stop, yeah?”

“Yeah.” George’s voice comes out raspy. “Yeah, I’ll say stop and you’ll stop.”

Lewis nods, tapping his fingers along George’s cheekbone. “Good boy,” he says and holy fucking shit. Lewis laughs, shaking his head, and sitting back on George’s knees.

George would complain but then Lewis is licking a hand — Christ — and shoving it down his pants and wrapping it around George’s dick and that is so much better.

George lifts his hips and Lewis uses his other hand to pull down George’s shorts until his dick is free. He closes his eyes at the sight of it in Lewis’s hand, shuddering.

He’s exhausted and still amped up from the race earlier, frustrated with himself and the stupid fucking mistake that nearly cost him the weekend. He knows he won’t last long. He knows Lewis knows this.

“It’s alright,” Lewis murmurs, dragging his hand up, tightening his fist as he gets to the top. “Let me hear you.” He runs a light nail over the foreskin there and George curses. the spark of pain heating up his stomach. He tries to squirm away but Lewis holds him steady, fingers digging into his hip. His head knocks against George’s, sweaty and damp.

He soothes over the sting with a gentle thumb, smearing around the pre come gathered there. George groans, letting his head fall forward until it’s resting against Lewis’s shoulder, nose smushed into his chest. When Lewis laughs, it rumbles through George as it lights up that little space in his head. The sea is rippling, water sloshing up against the shore. It feels warm on George’s toes.

“There you go,” Lewis says and starts to slowly jerk George off, pressing down with his palm every now and then, callouses catching and pulling.

George’s head fills with static and his stomach is buzzing with bees and he’s never loved sex, never dying for an orgasm. He hates the unpredictability of it all, hates how out of control he feels, hates how much he needs it.

Lewis smells of sweat and soap and perfume and still, vaguely, under it all, like fuel and oil and the car. George blinks back tears. Let me feel you, he thinks, and dips his hands into the water.

He tries to fuck up into Lewis’s hood but he only huffs and settles his weight heavier onto him.

“Haven’t you ever heard of relaxing, man?” Lewis asks, inexplicably fond, and George goes to protest because of course, he knows how to relax, but then Lewis speeds up his rhythm and well, that’s what George was looking for in the first place so —

When George comes, it hits him like a freight train, mind blanking out and knees weakening, despite him sitting down. He comes to, dazed and loose limbed. He feels freshly fucked out, all liquid, except for the fact that all he’s had is a handjob. A handjob given to him by Lewis fucking Hamilton. Oh god.

“Jesus,” Lewis is saying, peering at him. “Are you, like, incapable of not thinking or something?”

He wipes his hand on George’s shorts, grimacing. He still sounds fond, faintly amused.

“Shut up,” George says, flopping back onto the bed, flushing.

Lewis laughs, patting his knee before climbing off him, unfairly graceful. It’s only when he steps away, bending to pick up his jumper and pulling it back on, that something clicks in George’s brain, rebooting. He sits up, propping himself on his elbows.

“Do you not,” he starts before stopping. “Do you not want help with that?” He gestures lamely at Lewis’s dick, which is tenting the front of his sweatpants. He’s only half hard, George can tell, used to the shape it makes in Lewis’s fireproofs when he’s won.

There are faint wet marks on the front, darkening the grey material. George wonders if that’s from him or Lewis. The thought makes his head spin.

Lewis waves a hand, ringless and bare, loose at the wrist. That hand was on my dick, George thinks, a touch hysterically.

“Don’t worry about it, man. This was for you. Anyway,” he says, tapping a knuckle against his forehead. “It felt good, you know?”

George doesn’t really know, only getting flashes and snippets of what Lewis felt, but he nods.

“Sweet dreams,” Lewis grins, tipping him a wink before slipping out of the door. He hadn’t even taken his shoes off.

George lies back down, throwing an arm over his eyes. He kicks his shorts off the rest of the way, using them to wipe himself down before throwing them into the bathroom, the door wide open. He grabs one end of the duvet and wraps it around himself like a cocoon.

He imagines that it smells like Lewis and falls asleep before the twelfth sheep.