Alex doesn’t hate the guys who shagged George in the junior formulae years out of jealousy. It was her body; she was free to do what she wanted with it.
He hates that they never respected that.
He hates that none of them were good enough to touch her. Shit drivers, shit men. Puffed up boys who used the travel and her loneliness and the fact she was at least two years younger to get one over on her off the track simply because they couldn’t beat her on it.
There’s so many reasons to hate them, really. And jealousy isn’t a factor.
Because, most of all, he hates that he was one of them.
Take a number
Galex, complete, rated E.
GR 63 gets Rule 63'd! Unending thanks to so so many people who have helped this become real: @latecomersprivilege, @onadarklingplain, @prettydangrotten, @selfsong, @sseung00 – it's been a dream talking through all the minute details with you all. You have been so generous with your time. Merry Christmas!
not every mutual fits neatly into an archetypal medievalism but there are some mutuals that im like yeah addressing you as “my liege” would come strangely naturally
“You can’t be into George,” Lando says, “he’s George.”
She snorts two perfect bubbles of snot and executes a half roll to grab a kleenex even as the tears start coming again. “That’s basically what he said after, yeah. Except the other way.”
--
Alex and George hook up after their disastrous Sakhir 2020 race.
no idea if you’re still taking fic requests (and absolutely no worries if not!! thank you for your banger writing as is) but if you perhaps are.
I keep reading your lando pussy curse free use thing and drooling it’s everything and I’d love to see that universe explored a bit more? it’d be nice to see what george does in those workout leggings or how oscar gets passed around… or one of the drivers who didn’t get brought up in the og fic even!
anyway keep up the great work your writing is enchanting
in the same verse as this piece <3
It's a matter of convenience, when George wakes up with the curse, to slide into the tightest workout leggings he owns. Without his dick to fill them, underwear just feel strange, so obviously he has to forgo those. It just makes sense. Some people find the loosest things in their closet to hide in. George prefers having everything locked in tight. Sue him.
If it were up to him—and he would never admit it out loud—he would skip over everyone else and head straight to Williams every time he's like this. It's fine, sure, messing about with whoever he happens upon on the way. Fine to have to waddle through the paddock, with an arsecrack full of leggings, and slip into Alex's driver room to wrap it all up. But really. If it were up to George, he'd go to Alex, and he'd let Alex fuck him all morning until they both fall asleep and George wakes up normal again.
Unfortunately, it rarely is up to George. Or fortunately, depending on how you look at it.
Lewis catches him out on his stealthy attempt to navigate the paddock. Lewis says, "I think I have a pair of those," gesturing vaguely at George's leggings, and George lets himself be guided into a Ferrari hospitality toilet. Lewis is always good about it. They've only really fucked about it once; mostly, Lewis likes rubbing his big hand against George's fresh pussy through a layer of fabric. Likes grinding the heel of his palm against him until his thighs are shaking, until he can hear the wet of himself soaking through the lycra. Lewis always makes him come, which is nice. Not everyone is so kind.
Relatedly; it's Max who catches him next. It's George's fault, really, for spotting Lando and dodging mindlessly out of the way; George, personally, gets a bit shy about seeing anyone else who's been cursed recently. He's always a little embarrassed, especially, about the way Alex uses Lando's cunt like a messenger pigeon every time. This is beside the point. The point is that George slips down what he thinks is a deserted alley of the paddock, runs directly into Max Verstappen, and ends up bent over right there with his leggings yanked down around his thighs.
Max doesn't speak to him when they do this. Which is fine by George, but it is annoying that there's no perfunctory oh, shall I wear a condom? Would you rather I don't nut inside of you and make a damn mess of the place? Annoying, but unsurprising. Once Max is done, even, he doesn't speak. Just pulls out, yanks up his ugly khakis, and grunts what could be something in the same solar system as a thank-you.
Whatever.
It's a bit easier after that. Williams isn't all that far, and even though George is squelching with every step he manages to avoid everyone else on his way. He dodges Isack—George is sure he's lovely, but he's not looking to find out today—and Franco—who Lando had talked up with great enthusiasm but again, not today—and then finds himself sneaking through Williams' hospitality without any further incident. Even Carlos doesn't catch him this time.
"I thought someone with wet socks was coming to try to assassinate me," Alex says, the second George shuts the door behind him.
"Do shut up," George says, and lets Alex manhandle him onto his back on the couch.
Alex spends a while doing what Lewis does; rubbing George through his pants, working him up until the wet squelching between his thighs is truly embarrassing. He doesn't get his dick out for a long while, which is always a bit annoying, because George does want it. But it's fine, Alex climbing up between George's legs, hitching his hips down in a parody of fucking. It's gratifying how hard Alex gets. The rigid line of him grinding into George's pussy, pushing the lycra up and in until George might as well be flossing with it.
Eventually, after George has startled himself by coming before Alex even has him bared, Alex sits back. His pupils are blown and his hair is hanging over his forehead, heavy with sweat. He's panting, needy, cupping George's cunt like a stressball.
George says, "Well—" at the same time that Alex says, "Oh, fuck it."
Alex gets both hands between George's legs, crooks his fingers into the seam of the leggings, and pulls.
George makes a noise, furiously turned on. These are some of his favourite pants, he doesn't say. Come to think of it, they're also some of Alex's favourites.
Now, George's pussy is bared to the cold of the room, so wet he shivers the second he's exposed. He means to squirm away but Alex is shoving two fingers inside of him, fucking into him in a weird way that George doesn't understand; his fingers are curled, knuckles dragging against George's insides, but not in a way that is designed to make George feel good.
"Are you—"
Alex pulls his hand away, flicks his wrist. What's left of Max's come splatters the floor.
"I'm not even going to ask," Alex says. It's for the better, probably.
In the next second, Alex's joggers are shoved down, and his cock is out, and George is never so desperately wanting as when he's like this. When he has a cunt for fucking, and Alex's cock is thick and hot and bobbing between them. It feels so right that George should be ashamed of it.
The shame, if there ever was any, escapes him the second Alex fits against him and plunges inside.
George is still so wet that it sounds sloppy when Alex fucks him. Sloppy at first and then sloppier, after Alex comes for the first time. Sloppier still when Alex pulls out, slumping over George's body and pushing his fingers back inside, the pad of his thumb rubbing over and over and over George's clit until all George can do is claw at the back of Alex's head. He's not like this often enough to know if Alex is actually good at this, or if it's just because it's him doing it.
Alex, eventually, gets it up again. He pulls the hole in the crotch of George's leggings even wider, the tight rip of fabric tearing, George's whole body tingling with need or want or something worse. This time Alex fucks him slow, bent right over him so they can kiss, which is something they only do when either of them are like this.
When Alex comes again, it's George who locks his ankles around Alex's hips. It's George who clings to him, holds him close so he won't pull out. He just wants to feel it. The pulse and throb of it, Alex's cock softening slow, slipping out on its own, dribbling a trail of come after it that trickles down between George's arsecheeks and soaks into what's left of the leggings. Alex doesn't seem to mind. He's sleepy, sated. Rubbing his face against George's neck and making some joke that George doesn't catch because he's too busy grinding his clit up against Alex's pelvic until he can make himself come again. He mourns the loss of fullness when he squeezes Alex out with the force of it, but he can't mind so much.
It's another reason that George always bee-lines to Williams when this happens; Alex lets him stay there, clumsily sitting up to pull the shreds of George's leggings off of him, fetching him a pair of gym shorts that George absolutely isn't going to put on until he changes back and cleans up. He makes another joke that George ignores in favour of rolling over to take a nap, waiting for Alex to spoon up behind him before he closes his eyes.
hi does anyone know anything about horses I'm trying to write something with horses (mistake) again (mistake mistake) and I do not understand the beasts
This is an incredibly deep and troubling piece on a litigation battle at the heart of Williams. I can't even reduce it to a few key points, it really speaks to every possible issue in the sport, from the multiple kinds of discrimination at play to the role of dark money.
This is the kind of reporting I want on F1 and I can only imagine how hard it has been to put together and get past a team of (British!) media lawyers
Special report: Allegations of sexism, racism and expenses fiddling are flying across US courts, drawing in leading figures in motor racing
1.5k of george/toto, re: the great canada thigh pat and george's little show of emotion
George reads his draft back, taps a finger against the side of the screen. He needs to post it before the plane takes off, knows he needs to leave it behind him in Canada instead of dragging it forward into the new week. The plane is already starting to taxi up the runway.
He breathes in, counts to ten, breathes out, closes his eyes. The post is fine — the comms team already approved it. He just needs to hit publish. He just needs to get over himself. It had been his idea anyway, even if his motivation had been aimed at avoiding a grid drop in Monaco rather than actually wanting to drag himself publicly over the coals. The injustice of it is still curling sourly in his stomach, and he thinks without meaning to of the last embarrassing apology he wrote in Toto’s PJ, years ago now. I should’ve handled the situation better. Emotions run high in the heat of the moment. I expect more from myself. I will come out of this a better person.
George didn’t know if Toto was thinking of Imola too when he insisted George fly back with him instead of taking the commercial flight he had originally been booked on. He feels a lot older now than he did then, his post-race joints aching in a way he couldn’t have imagined in his early twenties, but when he looks back at the desperation he felt fighting for that one point, the time doesn’t feel as significant as he’d like it to.
Before he can think about it any longer, he makes himself publish the post and then turns off his phone, watching the screen until it goes dark.
“Done?” Toto asks, and when George looks up, he discovers that Toto had been watching him the whole time he had been sat stewing.
George nods once, terse, and tries not to let his face give anything away. He hadn’t cried when Toto had come to console him in the paddock, and he hadn’t cried in the media pen. He wasn’t going to now either.
“Good,” Toto says, and he leans forward in his seat until his elbows are resting on his knees, closing the space between them.
The plane feels quiet. On the way to Montreal, it had been full — Kimi and Carmen and Toto’s kids and half the team, everyone still bubbling over with the high of having the best car. George had been too, sure that Canada would be good to him like it had been before, sure that he was about to put all the baseless speculation about his talent to bed. Now, it’s almost empty, save Susie and Carmen sitting together at the front of the plane. George catches a second of their conversation and realises that they’re talking about Carmen’s home reno plans for their new place in Spain, a slice of normality that feels so divorced from his current train of thought that it’s like a physical intruder in the small cabin.
“How can I help put this behind you?” Toto says, still calm. Over Toto’s shoulder, Carmen is showing Susie the architectural drawings on her iPad, pulling up colour swatches, and George has a sudden, intrusive memory of standing at the side of the track watching the rest of the grid fly down the straight. He had counted them as they had passed, calculating the positions lost, the points he had fought for desperately vanishing in mere seconds.
“You could find me a battery that doesn’t die,” George says, before he can think better of it. “Kimi’s seems to work just fine so far — maybe we could try that one.”
“George,” Toto says, admonishing like he had been over the radio.
“Sorry,” George says, a reflex, but he doesn’t know why he’s still apologising for himself. It shouldn’t be up to him to apologise all the time. He can feel the frustration rising in his chest, unstoppable. His eyes flick to Susie and Carmen again, irritation inching further up his neck. He had been so good for so long, locking away the part of him that wanted to snarl.
They’re still taxing, but Toto gets up anyway. There’s a second where George thinks Toto is just so sick of him that he’s going to go sit with Susie and Carmen, but instead of moving towards the front of the plane, he moves towards the back, reaching for the door to the bedroom. George doesn’t move until Toto says come, and then he goes, like a trained dog, unbuckling his seat belt and stumbling when the plane makes an unexpected turn on the tarmac.
“Sorry,” George says again when the door is closed behind them, but now that they’re in private, George is forced to consider why Toto asked him to come. If it was to admonish him in private for taking things too far, for acting childishly, or if it was. Or if it was because — He feels the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and sits without meaning to.
Toto is looming over him now, arms crossed over his chest, but when he speaks again, his voice is gentle. “I asked, how can I help put this behind you? A real answer, please.”
George swallows and his eyes flick down before he can stop himself, resting on the buckle of Toto’s belt. He thought he had outgrown this. He had thought he had learned better. He makes himself breathe in, counts to ten again, and then looks back at Toto’s face.
“I know,” Toto says, and when the corner of his mouth twitches up into a small smile, George feels something inside of him unknot. When he had looked out from the podium in China, seeking reassurance, and Toto hadn’t been there, he had thought — he had thought—
Suddenly, Toto’s fingers are threading through his hair, his hand cupping the back of George’s head, slipping down until it’s resting at his nape. He swallows, feeling Toto’s fingers at the sides of his throat. God, he — he wants it. He wants something, and he can get it. It’s there in front of him now, he can have it. His mouth is watering, and when Toto brings his other hand up to cup George’s cheek, it falls open, and Toto’s thumb slips inside, pressing down on George’s incisor.
He’s panting now, all the unspent adrenaline in his body suddenly fixed at one target. His hands curl uselessly on the bedspread for a minute, but why, when he can have it? Why wait, when Toto has all but said? He reaches up and finds Toto’s thigh, the fabric of his trousers soft over solid muscle.
For how long they’ve gone in between, the routines are easy to fall back into, his fingers inching towards Toto’s zipper by memory. It’s a jolt, then, when he doesn’t get far, a jolt when he finds himself suddenly thrown back against the bed, his head hitting the mattress.
“What are you —“ George starts to ask, looking down to see Toto getting on his knees. He’s so tall that it looks almost ridiculous, all of his too-long limbs trying to fold up smaller than they ought to go.
Toto doesn’t answer. He just gathers George’s wrists easily in one hand and keeps them locked against George’s chest, effectively pinning him to the bed. He must be able to feel the trapped-bird flutter of George’s heart, and George feels himself flush. He’s still hard, the line of his dick against his trousers unmistakable with the way Toto has him splayed, but a cold wash of reality has come back to him. Carmen and Susie are just outside. The plane is going to take off any minute. If someone were to come looking for them —
He squirms, tries to fight a sob as it leaves his throat, but Toto doesn’t seem to notice. He’s efficient with George’s flies, and a second later, he’s taking the head of George’s cock into his mouth, and then there’s nothing George can do but lie there and take it.
Reluctantly, George has to admit that Toto is better at giving head than he would’ve expected. He takes George easily, his tongue working steadily as he works up and down the length of him, and George thinks of all the times it had been the other way around, all the time he had spent at the foot of Toto’s bed, silk sheets pooled around his feet. Thinks about how Toto had never offered.
George is still making noises he doesn’t want to be making, and it’s mortifying when he feels tears start to leak down the sides of his face, running down his skin until they get lost between his hair and the bedding. He twists his wrists, but Toto’s grip is still strong. He’s too tired all of a sudden to stop his thighs from twitching, the weight of the weekend suddenly settling around him.
He cries out again when he comes, a noise that comes from somewhere dark inside him, somewhere suddenly unleashed, and he’s still panting when Toto pulls back, letting George’s softening cock fall back against his thigh.
George closes his eyes and listens as Toto moves around the small room, hears him spit, hears the water run. It seems impossible that he’s going to wake up in Monaco, the cycle of the race weekend starting again.
He breathes in, counts to ten, breathes out, and feels the surface beneath him lurch as the plane finally starts down the runway. The landing gear whirs as it tucks the wheels up into the body of the plane, the tarmac already growing distant. There’s a silence then, the weightless feeling things only get when they’re looking up, and he grits his teeth through it, starting to gather up the edges of himself.
with my thanks to @officialmood for helping me brainstorm the important question: does toto wolff suck dick. we decided yes.
I just read winnowed and holy shit um i just wanted to leave you a love letter right here because
1) thank you so much for gracing our undeserving eyes, your writing is truly a masterpiece. Everything from the powers, the underlying motifs and themes of it all, the way they all love each other so tenderly, UGH it brings me to tears.
2) I just think authors with writing like yours must be fairy godmothers or something, because you can feel the love for the characters, the relationships, just in every word of the writing yk??? I think you have such a beautiful grasp on every one of your characters, and if one day you decide to idk publish a book or something, god you’d go down on history (well, you already go down in galex history so)
3) and to be quite honest, this is one of the best written fics (if not the best) I’ve read on ao3 so far, and just you write galex so so beautifully.
TLDR: you are a saint, i wish prosperity to you always, truly hope every dream you’ve ever had will come true as you’ve already fulfilled little ol’ me’s dreams.
lots of kudos and kisses to you!!
p.s. i dont even know if this is okay to ask… but howd u feel if i wrote a fic inspired by this one… for another ship…. with credits to the sun and back to u….
Thank you so much for sending this at precisely the right moment to lift me from the pit of despair that is the canadian grand prix. You've been so lovely. I'm very proud of winnowed, particularly in having more of an ensemble cast, so I'm super glad the characterisations worked for you.
And of course you can write fic based on it! I'd be honoured if you did! I'm a big believer in tranformative works being offered up to the universe for anyone to do what they want with it – related works chains on AO3 are beautiful to me.
And god knows I'm not getting the sequel out any time soon!
