Bugcedes Fest 2026 — Day 7
prompt: hopelessness/thigh riding | angst/smut | wc: 1,064
based on a suggestion by @bugcedes-fest-2026
When George had asked Fred if he wanted to go out for a drink after the race on Sunday, Fred knew just how bad the Brit must be feeling. Not that it wasn't obvious, but George never drank between race weekends, and he wasn't much of a drinker in the off-season either.
So him asking to go out for drinks on a Sunday evening was really a silent cry for help. Fred reluctantly agreed, if only because someone should be there to take care of George and keep him from doing something stupid.
As they entered the dimly lit bar, George immediately went to the counter, ordering a Long Island and a beer for Fred, who had insisted on something less strong. George didn't care, all he needed right now was something to take off the edge, to drown out his thoughts for a few hours.
George directed Fred to a high top in the far corner, almost hidden from most of the bar, telling him to wait there. Fred obediently went over to the table George had gestured to, pulling out the bar stool and sitting down on it. From where he sat he could barely see George, hidden behind a square wooden pillar.
While he waited, Fred pulled out his phone, mindlessly scrolling through his feed. When he saw Toto's comments about the lack of speed being partially George's fault, Fred regretted not having ordered something stronger. He'd known the Brit for so long, and if there's one thing he could say about him for sure it's that he was incredibly adaptive and had grown a lot as a person as well as a driver.
"What bullshit," Fred mumbled under his breath, distracting himself with cute puppy videos instead.
He didn't notice how much time had passed until George showed up with two drinks in hand.
"That's not a Long Island," Fred said, looking at the glass George held in his right hand.
"Well spotted," George grinned, setting Fred's beer down in front of him. "Let's just say the Long Island didn't last very long."
They fell into easy conversation, talking about anything but work. Fred nursed his beer while George downed his Whiskey in one go, the lonely ice cube slowly melting in his glass.
"D'you want another one?" George asked, clumsily hopping down from his bar stool, ready to go for another drink already.
"I'm good," Fred waved him off, staring at the three quarters that were still left of his beer. "Don't you think you should, uh, slow down a bit? Not that I'm trying to tell you what to do, but you've already had two drinks and you don't usually drink," he pointed out, worried about George getting alcohol poisoning if he was going to continue at this rate.
"Fred, let me tell you something," George said, placing his hand on the Dane's shoulder to steady himself. "I am a grown man and I've had a shit weekend, I deserve this."
And with that, George was off to the bar again.
The night continued like that, with George downing his drinks in one go, Fred trying to get him to slow down and George telling him off.
After his fifth drink, George struggled to pull out the bar stool from where it was lodged underneath the table, stumbling forward.
Luckily, his reflexes were still intact, his hand instinctively reaching for Fred's thigh to steady himself.
"Phew! That was close," George grinned, squeezing Fred's thigh. "Where've you been hiding allat?"
Fred blushed at the compliment, trying to brush it off. "It's nothing, just happens from working out. But you should know that, I'm sure your thighs are even more muscular than mine."
George laughed, his hand still resting on Fred's thigh. "Yes, but your's so strong 'n soft. I like it."
Fred couldn't help but notice how George stared at it, experimentally squeezing it with different grips as if to figure out which way Fred's thigh appealed the most to him.
"I think we should go home. You can barely stand on your own" Fred said, flustered by George's sudden touchiness, when the Brit suddenly stopped him from sliding off the bar stool.
"No, you're right," George said, finally letting go of Fred's thigh, slightly swaying on the spot as if to prove the Dane right. "But I can still sit, just need you to hold me," he insisted, immediately trying to climb into Fred's lap.
Everything about it was awkward and ungraceful, and despite not agreeing with his plans, Fred helped George before he'd fall down on the floor. In the end, George sat on Fred's thigh, lodged between the Dane's upper body and the wall. Just to be sure, Fred had wrapped his arms around George's waist, making their position seem a lot more intimate than it was.
"You're such a good friend, Fred," George slurred, letting his head fall onto the Dane's shoulder. "I dunno what I'd without you, I love you."
Fred blushed at the unexpected confession, deciding not to comment on it when George suddenly started going off on an unexpected rant.
"You're such a good friend, you're always there for me, 'n you never complain. And you have some of the best thighs, they're even better than Max's but he's an arsehole an' I don't wanna think about him right now."
"I didn't bring him up!" Fred defended himself, laughing at George's drunken antics.
George pouted, insulted that Fred had ignored his compliment. "You've really got a lovely set of thighs 'ere, mate."
To demonstrate the truth behind his words, George tried to grip Fred's thigh, but the angle was awkward, so all he ended up doing was to slightly rut forward, accidentally grinding his crotch against Fred's leg. "Whoopsie," George tried to laugh it off, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.
His alcohol-addled brain didn't seem to care too much, fuelled by the delicious friction of their contact. Thinking that surely Fred wouldn't notice, George tried it again.
Except that, Fred noticed.
"George, not here!" he whispered, reprimanding him. Fred was worried enough as is about the bar stool breaking under both of their weight, he didn't need to add George trying to acrobatically get himself off on his thigh into the mix. "Let's go home, then you can do whatever you want with my thighs."