Charles Leclerc is embraced by his team after scoring his first podium of the season at the Grand Prix of Saudi Arabia — April 20, 2025 (Photo by Scuderia Ferrari)
with gracious thanks to @latecomersprivilege for letting me bombard her with all 6,666 words of this without explanation or excuse
Williams aren’t supposed to sell the life model duplicates. George is pretty sure of that.
It might not be an actual rule; his eyes had got blurry somewhere around page 300 of the latest FIA update, but he’s fairly sure he’d have noticed ‘selling the testing clonebots’ if it’d come up. They’re proprietary. They know too much. They’re not allowed out of the factory at Mercedes, except for track days. They’ve programmed George’s line to keep their eyes shut when they’re boxed, an engineer told him. HR had measured; it lowered the mental health sick day callouts by 5%. Can’t ignore data like that.
So. Even if there isn’t a rule, it’s against the spirit of the whole thing. Top secret, hush hush, we definitely didn’t check the safety gear by throwing a couple of 3-D printed almost-humans at it. Yes, Max Verstappen does all his own press.
Then again, George isn’t supposed to be on the log-in, platinum-credit-card only section of Williams’ shop, sorting from most expensive to least in the hope they’ll have put another sweat-soaked set of fireproofs up for £75k and whatever is left of his dignity. The last set just tastes of his own spit now.
The fine print says it’s just a rental. 24 hours. That- that’s probably not much better, really, if he thinks about it.
He doesn’t think about it.
His fingers are sweaty when he types out his CVC, picks express delivery and…
It times out.
Fuck. Of course, it had to be a mistake, not a real listing, but-
He refreshes anyway. A couple of times. Maybe once with a really firm click, the sort Toto must be doing every time he sends another sodding email without a sodding contract and-
Payment accepted.
It’s probably not real. He probably just gave Williams a race-worth’s of money for nothing. That’s fine. Toto won’t know.
Express delivery, the little thank you note reads. Tracking available soon!
Underneath, in small print:
Atlassian Williams Racing appreciates your valued custom and discretion.
----
The knock on the door is perfectly friendly, no great harbinger of doom. A little odd that the concierge hasn’t rung, but George has talked to his neighbours before. Once. In terrible Franglais. Charles had given him big sad eyes at the next race, and George hadn’t been able to tell if word had gotten back or it was just, you know. Charles being Charles.
It’s Alex, which is explanation enough; Francoise on the desk knows to buzz him up regardless if George has warned her or not.
“George Russell! I was wondering!” he says, nonsensically. Par for the course with Albono, but- There’s something to the grin, something too bright, too wide. The kind of smile George usually has to work hard to earn, like Alex knows he craves it, knows George’s knees lock when he gets a glimpse of premolar. “Fake name on the address, very smart,” he adds, and George squints at him for one long, stupid moment before his stomach makes a dive for the floor.
“Oh my god, you’re a-”
Premolars again, gleaming white. “Got it in one, Georgie. Which, I mean, you should, given you made the order. Which rather begs the question: what did you want me to do?”
Lascivious. That’s the only word George can find for that expression. He cribbed it off the back of one of his mum’s bodice-rippers, when he was back for Christmas and sick of wanking himself raw to THAI TWINK HANDLES MASSIVE PYTHON.
“I hope you’re not looking for insider secrets. I know the car’s better than expected, but they did give us a wipe before they boxed us up. Factory settings and all.” Alex – not Alex – this Alex, nudges him backwards a step or two, slips into the flat. He stands close; George can see where little filaments of leftover printing material clump his eyelashes together.
“I-” He- he’d come up with a plausible excuse somewhere around 3am, just in case it was real, something about IP rights and bodily autonomy and putting the system to the test and responsible reporting and possibly even union representation and he can hear himself stammering it out now, almost convincing and-
Alex is stretching. Not Alex. The LMD. Stretching his arms above his head so the blue Williams shirt rides up his stomach and George’s eyes drop to where the skin is smooth and lightly haired. No trace of an appendectomy and the worst night of George’s life. So.
The LMD catches his gaze on the rebound. His grin goes wry even as his eyes get softer. “Bit stiff from the lorry. I need to stretch out before I get up to anything athletic.” George swallows. “Or anyone athletic.”
“I- I wouldn’t-”
“George. C’mon. You know why people rent a LMD. Or, you know. LMDs. Plural. I’m sure our original will be very grateful for the extra front wings.” George can’t stand the mention of real Alex, has to stare at his own feet, naked and long, toes curled against the hardwood. “Gotta say, it’s the first time I’ve shipped out with so many of us. You got the last few in stock, you pervert.”
He still hasn’t shut the front door. There are sounds in the hallway. One of his bloody neighbours is going to see, going to know, and probably tell fucking Charles again, and- wait. “Last… few?”
“The rest are coming up by the stairs. Sneaky sneaky-like, figured you didn’t want the nice girl on the desk knowing you’re an absolute freak right away.”
The real Alex knows Francoise’s name, keeps flirting with her, big and bold and obnoxious, while George waits for the lift after padel. That’s the thing about LMDs; you can’t print cheaply and keep all the detail. Things get lost. Apparently, in this case, Alex’s sense of taste; his pupils are wide and dark as he presses a thumb to George’s lips.
“You are, aren’t you? A freak. Can’t get enough of me.”
George opens his mouth to- to-
Oh, he can’t even pretend he was going to argue. He opens his mouth and sucks.
It’s sort of perfect, sort of awful, the way Alex’s face jumps through such familiar motions. Maybe a thousandth slower than it should, but so elastic, so real, the quirk of his mouth, the self-satisfied crows’ feet. He tastes clean, not enough sweat, no track grime, like he’s fresh from a long shower. It’s not- George isn’t disappointed. It just isn’t like he imagined. Cruelly domestic, to imagine an Alex that could want him outside of four adrenaline-soaked days, back in F2.
“Good boy.”
Noise in the hall again. The door creaks open and George shuts his eyes in desperate self-preservation, like it’ll make him invisible. Like no one will see the way he’s grinding against a flat hand, Alex not even bothering to cup him, make it comfortable.
“Oi, we said no starting without us,” comes another voice, the same voice, an echo. George can’t open his eyes, not with fingertips under the hem of his shorts, but another line of heat presses up to his side, then one more behind him. Another thumb joins the one in his mouth, pressing down where his tongue drools against his teeth.
“Gosh, that was quick,” one of them says. “What was it, thirty seconds’ head start?”
“Did you see the order? Of course he’s gagging for it-”
“Not him, us. Didn’t even tease-”
“Oh, like you’d be any better when he looks like that.”
Regnal numbers, George decides, desperately. Like his old wooden ruler from the British Museum, all the Henries and Edwards crammed in together. Only it's just Alexes, half a dozen of them, crammed into his tiny front hall. Practically crammed into him, as a knee knocks his legs further apart. Another hand slips up his shorts, bolder than the last, squeezes his balls for a split second to make him yelp.
“Planning a party, George?” Alex the Sixth asks, arriving in the doorway. “Room for one more?”
George gargles round the fingers in his mouth – four now, when had that happened? His lips are stretching wide. The Sixth smiles, small and wicked. Shuts the door behind him.
If George were normal, it’d probably be impossible to tell them apart. True, they’ve got different trousers on under the ubiquitous Williams team shirt, but it’s not the slacks that register; it’s the way Alex the Fourth doesn’t have the right pores on the left side of his nose; how the Second laughs a little too quickly and the Fifth too slow when George scrambles out of his shirt.
Alex the Third kisses him too kindly. Romantic, almost, the way he slows it all down, lets George wind trembling fingers in his hair, feel the smooth glide down the planes of his back. Pathetic, how George can’t stop himself clinging, kissing, even after he notices the missing mole that should be lurking under a curl just where Alex’s hair meets the nape of his neck.
It feels like lurching from the sauna to the plunge pool, how dizzyingly turned on he is, and how ashamed. The hot and cold chase each other round his body, so he shivers into every touch, mad with sensation. He couldn’t stop if he tried. If.
They get on, the Alexes, happy to collaborate. He can see they’re a team, the way they pass him about, spin him from mouth to mouth. One set of teasing fingertips picks up after another pretty seamlessly; when they realise that pinching his nipples makes him gasp there’s a bit of jostling, everybody wants a go, but for the most part there’s only the normal amount of bickering, the kind of self-recriminations George is used to, when real Alex rolls his eyes when he spots his own reflection, ducks his head like he’s avoiding an unseen gaze.
Alex the First has got his shirt off too by the time George is back in his arms. His skin’s a little colder, maybe, than real Alex would run, but that hardly matters when he gets George’s neck under his teeth, digs in until a tendon jumps and aches under the pressure. George has never been this hard. He has to bat away too many bloody hands to curl his fist round himself and squeeze, whining, against the need to come.
“Fuck,” Alex the First swears against the bruise he’s made. “Bend over the sofa, Georgie, there’s a good boy, you’ll get it-”
“Easy,” Alex the Sixth says. There’s an edge of warning to it. “We’ve got time. Bed first.”
“Not enough time,” comes the reply, and George is already reaching for the cream cushions, imagining how the stiff fibres will rub his stomach red raw, how it’ll linger, how the fabric will stain-
“No,” the Sixth snaps. Then, after a beat. “Don’t be selfish. We all deserve a show.”
The consensus, it seems, is reached. There’s a compromise, in that George finds himself losing shorts, boxers, and dignity as one of them – the Fourth, maybe? – suggests fucking him up against the full plate glass windows overlooking the harbour, and George’s knees briefly stop working. That gets another of them going – “can we have him crawl?” “no time, remember,” – and all in all, George is quite grateful when they take the initiative and manhandle him to the bed, on top of the duvet like a hedonist, flat on his back.
The noise they make when he pulls his knees up to his chest – he’ll keep that. He’ll remember that, after, and the shame will be worth it.
It’s harder to keep track of the numbers once they’ve all got their trousers off. George has other pressing matters to consider. He thinks it’s Alex the First who starts the search for the lube, and Alex the Third who finds it; Alex the Fourth who gets bored during the wait and spits on his hole; Alexes the Second and Fifth who join in when he shudders at the sensation, the slow slide of saliva down to the bedsheets.
He can’t be sure; but it’s definitely Alex the Sixth that lays a broad hand on his chest, sending darting glances down to where the spitters are dragging fingers through the mess they’ve made. “Easy there. Not all at once.”
George makes a noise he doesn’t recognise, high and shocked and humiliating. The Sixth’s wicked smile returns. “Not yet, at least.”
The Third is slicking himself up, generous with the lube, sliding through his own loose fist with a thick, wet sound. Alex the First looks unimpressed. “I was here first.”
“Exactly,” the Third replies. “The rest of us have catching up to do. Fuck’s sake, have you lot even opened him up yet?”
“Relax. It’s not a race.”
“Could be,” Alex the Fourth muses. It must be his fingertip idly circling George’s rim; the pressure varies with his words. “Do you think we could run it like Le Mans? Swap in and out, just keep fucking him one after the other after the other for the full time? I reckon I could get hard again while the five of you have a go each. Really fill him up. Would that finally be enough for you, darling?”
George can’t speak, can’t breathe. The bastard between his legs grins in triplicate. Sextuplicate, probably, if George could see them all. That lonely fingertip taps at his arsehole, mocking. “Too big a question? Okay darling, how about: do you want our fingers?”
The grunt George makes feels like his diaphragm making an escape bid up through his lungs; all the air whuffs out of him, and it seems like a miracle his ribs are still intact. But-
“Sorry, darling,” Alex the Fourth says, with a smile that’s anything but apologetic. “Quirk of programming. Need a verbal yes. Boring, isn’t it?”
George laughs, incredulous. It loosens his voice. “Bored to tears, mate. Yeah, go on then, if you want.”
“Cheeky bugger.” But the lube is getting passed along the line of them. Alexes the Second and Fifth dip their fingers into the backs of his knees, where he can feel he’s humiliatingly damp with sweat already. He lets his thighs relax a little and they take the strain easily, keeping him spread open.
The stretch of a single finger should be nothing after what George has been doing to himself all winter break, but the foreignness of it, the unexpected twist of a much-studied knuckle- He’s not proud of the noise he makes, but it’s okay when Alex the Sixth leans down to him and swallows it. He’s like Alex the Third, romantic about it. Nevermind that Alex the Fifth is nudging a fingertip up alongside the Fourth’s. “George, can you give me a-”
“Yes!”
“Lovely.”
There’s something terribly wrong and blasphemously good about two fingers inside him moving independently. George feels like he’s discovered some new form of perversion, or a very, very old one. The kind the Pope would’ve outlawed in the ninth century and then no one would ever have spoken about it again, for fear of being burnt at the stake. One Alex’s finger crooks, then the other, in slightly different directions, but George feels it as clearly as a wheel rim in the gravel, the careen of it up his spine.
Looking down between his own splayed thighs is like flirting with the edge of a roof. One Alex so determined he looks almost grim with it; another absolutely delighted to watch George try to keep his hips on the bed. The deep red-purple of Alex’s dick, cast in different lights across the room. The splay of their hands on him, in him. George’s eyes keep rolling in their sockets, each glance searing an afterburn onto his retinas.
Alex the Third catches him watching as he puts his hands on Alex the First’s waist to squeeze by. With a smirk, he slides a hand round to his counterpart’s cock, ignores the swearing that stops as soon as George groans. This, he’ll remember this too, Alex’s eyes fluttering shut, the way his head falls back against his own shoulder, the way his hips shunt into the loose grip of his own hand, his dark eyes shining wicked from behind.
“I don’t think that really does anything for me,” Alex the Sixth confides, mouth low to George’s ear. His breath is hot, mint-fresh. “But seeing what it does to you, fuck. Should I fuck myself and make you come just by watching?”
“No, please,” George begs, alarmingly close to tears. “Fuck me, please, fuck me.” He bears down against a third finger like that’ll hurry it along, like the grins between his legs aren’t feral.
“I think we can promise that,” the Sixth says, a little hoarse.
Alex the Third is bullying his way between George’s legs. The fingers slip away but George can feel how open he stays, whorish.
The Third taps the head of his dick at George’s hole like he’s knocking at the front door. He doesn’t ask for a condom. Wouldn’t need to, obviously, but George carefully discards the thought of offering anyway. He wants to be full. “Gotta ch-”
“Yes,” George answers, impatient. Stupid fucking protocols- and then he has to snicker at the pun, fucking protocols, it’s a good one, he’d use it on Alex later if it weren’t for, well. The obvious.
The slide of Alex’s dick inside him is everything he ever feared. Three fingers wasn’t really enough, for a moment he thinks that despite all this emptiness, the hollow of him, it won’t fit; and then everything is giving way, the yield of muscle and the sag of the taut rope of his lungs, his neck is lax in the cup of a large palm and Alex is inside him. And he’s crying.
“Sweetheart,” the Third is saying, walking his hands down so he’s over George. A bead of sweat runs down his nose, hits George’s sternum. “Sweetheart, you still with us?” There’s hands on his arms, one in his hair, stroking, soothing. He nods, hard.
“M’okay. Just. A lot.” When he forces his eyes open, he can tell his smile wobbles, wan. “I can stop, if it’s, y’know, gross.” He sniffs, but that sounds worse, the rasp of snot through his nostrils. “I’m outnumbered, don’t let me spoil the mood.”
“Shhh. You’re the only one that matters. You want to cry, sweetheart, you cry.” Alex the Third starts moving at that, long dragging thrusts that carve more space for him inside George’s body, send more tears cascading out. There are lips either side of his face, at the point where the tears run to his ears, kissing them up. Drinking them down.
He thought – he imagined – that if he ever got this, or some rough approximation, someone close enough to pretend, that all he’d feel would be the dick in his arse, maybe a glimmer of awareness of his own cock somewhere towards the close of proceedings. It just seemed so overwhelming, such a distinct act, that everything else would fade out in comparison.
The other Alexes don’t let that happen. A mouth on a nipple, a thumb on the inside of his thigh, fingers intertwined through his, a proprietary squeeze on his arse. Lips, soft, on the sides of his face.
And between it all, snatches of murmured conversations.
“Fuck, he takes it so well.”
“Here, right here, watch? See? Pretty as a picture.”
“I want to suck him.”
George’s gasped yes, pinned to nothing in particular but the warm froth of Alex’s regard, is followed by the Third leaning back onto his knees and sudden, shocking heat on the head of his dick. George yelps, shoulders lifting from the sheets. Someone takes the opportunity to slip in behind him and his head ends up pillowed on a sweaty thigh, mouth at the crease of a knee. He laps at it sloppily as one of the Alex’s does the same to his dick; shocking lack of technique all round, really, but the part of George that cares to judge pales into insignificance against the build at the base of his spine.
“I’m going to-” he pants, and six groans echo back at him.
The sight of Alex the Second’s grin streaked with his own come would be fatal if Alex the Third’s thrusts weren’t keeping his heart beating in time with the slap of his hips. Now it’s like he imagined, the feeling of each slide obliterating every other sensation. Even sight feels like it’s on a delay, precious seconds needed to process every image; it takes him far too long to spot the worry creeping onto the Third’s face and he barely makes a grab with his knees in time to stop him pulling out.
“Keep going.”
“It’s meant to be- not as good, after you’ve come.”
“Yeah,” George manages – chokes a little, as one of the other Alexes unhelpfully decides to start pinching his nipples – “this is how I look when I’m having an awful time.”
The look the Third gives him is almost soppy. If it were real, if it was Alex, George’d tease him for days about it. The next few tears feel a little colder on his skin. He dashes them away himself, reaches searching fingers up and gets his hand held, squeezed, long enough for the moment to pass.
“Are you even close?” one of the other Alexes complains. The First, it must be; he’s gripping the base of his dick tight enough George can see where the colour changes around his fingers. The Alex inside him grits his teeth.
“Extremely, if you’ll stop ruining the mood-”
“I’m coming on his face,” the First announces. No patience, that one, George decides. Too much Red Bull in him.
He doesn’t say that, of course. He just cranes his neck and opens his mouth.
“Oh you fucking dog, good boy,” the First replies. His knees nudge at George’s shoulders as he swings into position.
Maybe breaking line of sight – that horrid, romantic look – does something for the Third, because his movements get short, jerky. The slow creep of sensation at the base of George’s spine kicks up again with each rough thrust; his dick twitches. When the first Alex taps the head of his cock on George’s lips, he moans.
It doesn’t take long for either of them, the First or the Third. Twin groans and then there’s warmth inside and across George like nothing he’s ever known, and bitter salt on his tongue. He bites back a teasing comment on matched results, but he can’t help raising an eyebrow.
“Pfft, none of that cheek. D’you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Alex the First asks, chest heaving. He’s still rubbing idly at the head of his cock, letting the last few drops fall onto George’s chin.
George counts backwards. “About 9 hours?”
He laughs. “Give or take, I suppose. S’funny, what we keep between wipes. You should see your-”
“Shhh,” says the Alex behind George, the one whose thigh is now streaked with the come that ran off his face. A thumb swipes through the mess on the side of his nose, drags it down to his mouth to suck away. “No trade secrets.”
There’s sweat under the taste of come – Alex’s come – now, blissfully familiar. George could stay here for hours, Alex’s thumb in his mouth, weight on his ribs and firm hands on his thighs.
But- he ordered six. He owes something to all of them.
And it’d be a shame, really, not to make the most of it.
“Who’s next?” he asks. There’s a brief, mad scramble. He ends up flat on his back again as all of them – even the First, with his limp, pink dick back in his greedy fist – try to crowd between his legs. George knows he’s a bit of a peacock sometimes, but how is he not supposed to chase these moments, when the feeling of eyes on him crowds out the fear of judgment? How, when a thumbpad traces over where he’s hot and open and clenching down towards it makes six men groan?
And yet- there’s already cold stealing down his arms, goosepimpling his skin where before there’d been acres and acres of Alex all around him. So outnumbered he’d practically disappeared. Law of averages reducing him to almost nothing in the mix. He wants that back.
“Wait,” he asks, and everyone else in the room freezes. “Just- My mouth as well. At the same time. Like this,” he offers, turning on the bed and tipping his head back over the side, mouth wide. He’s- he’s seen it done, in videos, how it turns the line of a throat into another hole to be fucked.
One of the Alexes moves forward, but another stops him, a white-knuckled grip on his shoulder.
“I don’t think that’s physically possible outside porn, George,” the Sixth is saying, but his eyes are wide and round. They all are, staring at him. He wants to cringe, but then he spots the flush travelling up their necks, identical heat in their gazes.
He takes a risk and pouts. “At least try.”
“You’re not the expendable one here, Georgie,” Alex the Sixth says, something horribly soft and sad on his face. George shuts his eyes against the shame, warm as piss spreading across his sheets.
And then, a tap of two fingers on his hollowed cheek. From one of the others: “I need a-”
“Oh for God’s sake, yes,” George snaps, and he barely has time to get his teeth out of the way before there’s a cock between his lips, and the rough grip on his hips is back, and fingers winding through the maze of his abs, ghosting past where his own dick is rising again.
For long, long seconds, he can’t breathe. It’s glorious. His nose is tucked up into the soft skin of Alex’s balls, too tight to inhale, the scent subtly earthier than the taste on his tongue. He’s not choking, not yet, just starved of air, pressure in his throat and his chest and his arse, god, his arse, as another Alex slides in smooth and hard, like George has been reshaped perfectly for Alex’s cock.
He will be, after this. Shaped for Alex, secretly, under his clothes and his jokes. And Alex will never know.
It’s okay. He’ll be okay. He has to be.
The Alex at his head starts to move and oxygen floods back into his nostrils. His eyes water with it, only half-tears really. Thick sounds from his throat are floating up through his jawbones, rattling inside his head like cheers.
“Careful,” he hears someone warning and, obstinate to a fault, he drags a hand up to the back of a thigh, digs his fingers in to urge them deeper. Imagines a bruise at the top of his mouth, something he can press his tongue to furtively when some idiot in the media scrum asks him for the dozenth time if Antonelli’s a threat.
When he scratches lightly with barely-there nails, the Alex in his mouth swears and his hips shudder even closer. He starts coming like that, fully jammed in George’s throat, but pulls back enough that some of it spills over his tongue, like he knows George is hungry for it, filthy. Freak, the first one had called him, aeons ago, back in the hallway. Maybe if he asks very nicely, they’ll call him other things.
“Oh my god, Georgie, open your eyes, please, I need your face-”
His eyes are sticky with half-dried tears. He has to force them open to catch Alex the- Sixth, he thinks, Sixth, yeah, must be, with one hand on his dark red dick and the other on his phone, filming. George hadn’t realised they kitted them out with phones. Very lifelike.
“I’ll delete it after, I promise, but- Georgie, I have to.”
On instinct, George opens his mouth to show him – empty, all swallowed down, just a hint of the taste of him lingering on his teeth – and the Sixth swears, drops the phone and gets on his knees to cram their faces together. The angle doesn’t work, perpendicular, except for the way it always works, for George, when it’s Alex.
The Alex fucking him is really putting his back into it, none of the soft romance the last one had gone for. Without an equal opposing force at his head, each thrust keeps juddering George across the sheets, like he’s turned insubstantial. The Sixth chases his mouth, braces him with a strong arm, til he’s almost bent double on the edge of the bed. He’d fear falling, but there’s too many eyes on him, too many hands. He’s never felt safer outside a helmet.
It’s not until a hot palm traces the line of his dick that George realises he’s hard again. Not right on the edge, not quite, but thudding pleasure drumming out from his very bones. He’s never been in so much of his body at once, all his limbs alive and feeling.
“You want-?”
“Not yet,” he manages, and the palm stills, holds him, a perfect fit.
The Alex at his hips – the Fourth, he’s pretty sure, the one with all the good ideas, up against windows and running trains and fucking George til he can’t walk – is grunting with the effort now, brow furrowed. His gaze is centred somewhere around George’s nipple; George cranes his neck to make it into view and Alex curses him, adjusts his eyes elsewhere. It is, unfortunately, immensely gratifying.
“You’re not impressing anyone,” Alex the First jeers. “We’ve all got the same stamina.”
“Beg to fucking differ,” the Fourth starts, and George – what, is he supposed to let that go? – George clenches, throws his head back against the shoulder of the Alex behind him, and is rewarded with an improbable string of swear words groaned out, and the hot pulse of come inside him. He can hear it, slick, when Alex pulls out.
“Careful now, hips up, keep it inside. You have to let it take.”
George whimpers, and someone bites down on the side of his throat.
They’re looking, he realises, when the silence drags on. Five of them clustered at the other side of the bed, watching his arse leak, running teasing fingers over the bones of his feet, up the backs of his calves. Only the Sixth is still holding him, sucking a line of marks down the side of his neck, rudely high above the collar line.
George turns his nose into the skin of his shoulder, eyes closed, and lets himself drift in the heat of it, inside and out, arousal under his skin and hot gazes on it. Barely there and the centre of it all.
And then: narrow hips knocking between his thighs, his legs aching with the stretch back. “George, a verbal-”
“Yeah,” he mutters, and it takes him a minute to hear the chorus of protests from the gathered crowd. It feels like ages before he can crack an eye open and see Alex the First, dick hard again, elbowing his way past the others.
“I’ll show you bloody stamina,” the First is saying, all cocky grin and bright premolars. George is willing to forgive all previous judgments, all castigations, for an Alex willing to fuck him twice as he sets the head of his dick at George’s hole.
He can feel it – they both can – how open George is. The suck of him. The First nudges forwards, teasing, just the tip, and then his face goes abruptly slack.
“Fuck, he’s so wet. George, you’re so wet. You slut-”
It arcs through him like lightning, the crash of the word, the thought, the truth. His muscles seize with it, joy and shame and getting what he wanted and feared all run together in the rainbow of his bloodstream. Alex starts swearing, shit shit shit shit, and he’s coming, barely inside George, spilling out and down to the ruined sheets. George’s own orgasm paints his abs shiny, his cock spurting pathetically short dribbles.
He pants for a few long minutes as the other Alexes rightfully rip the shit out of the first one. He comes back into proceedings when they turn on him instead.
“Didn’t realise fast did it for you on and off the track, Georgie.”
“Can’t bear someone else coming first, is that it?”
“Not sure why I put my back into it if all it took was just the tip.”
“Could probably cum on a thumb if you called him a whore for it.”
It’s dizzying, the blur of their voices, their faces, like having a dozen dreams at once, layered and nonsensical like stained glass windows lined up under the sun. Someone starts dragging the come on his stomach up to his nipples. He whines, oversensitive and arching into it all the same.
He’s made such a mess of himself, Alex tells him, voice fond and dark as fresh honey. Such a mess, and still Alex needs to make him messier, and George has to nod as another hot splash of come hits his chest. Eager fingertips swirl it in with the rest, hold some to his mouth – the two of them, together, bittersweet on his tongue.
He can barely move his arms, lift his eyelids, but it’s still there, the buzzing at his spine. The need.
“Is that everyone?” he asks, faintly. The Alexes share a look.
“Not quite.”
It’s the Sixth, the one left over. He’s giving George a dubious look that’s frankly insulting after what George thinks is a pretty strong performance, all factors accounted for. “I don’t- I can wait,” he says, like he hasn’t got a thumb and forefinger pinched under the head of his dick. George gives that the eye roll it deserves.
“Don’t be thick, Alex. Lemme just-” He turns over – directly into a damp patch, naturally, sticky on the hairs of his stomach. But letting his legs drop and stretch out feels incredible. The verbal assent thing is bloody annoying. He’d love to leave them to it, drop off for a quick nap, wake up fuller and wetter and wider. Maybe Williams will take some anonymous feedback.
Alex slots in beside him, rolls him onto his side and ignores his faint grumbles. “You’ll never forgive me if I fuck pillow creases onto your face.” And then, no teasing, strangely raw: “Let me touch you, please.” Far too many bodies scramble onto the bed after him; the frame creaks. But it’s warm, ripe with sweat, grimy. It’s perfect.
Gentle fingers lift his knee, just a touch, and Alex slides in silently. No one says it, but George hears it anyway in the hushed intake of six breaths. How loose he is. How easy for them.
Slowly. That’s how this Alex fucks him, languorous movements that never amount to much more than an inch’s glide through the thick mess of come and lube trapped inside George. And yet his hands won’t stop wandering far and wide over George, up the filthy inside of his thighs, round the bowl of his armpit, the shallows of his hips. Everywhere he’s already been touched, lighting up again in recognition, reunion.
The others join in, all of them soft now, sweet about it, where George has shaken himself near exhaustion. They keep finding new places to kiss him – the tops of his feet, the back of his palms. His eyelids, closed against the playact of devotion.
“Jesus, Georgie, you want it so much,” Alex the Sixth is panting in his ear, his movements slow and deliberate over George’s prostate. It feels outsized in George’s body, too much pleasure to exist in so small a place, like he’s been fucked so well it has grown to match. He’ll need a fucking screening; have to explain to a white-coated doctor how greedy he got. Insatiable.
“You can give m- us one more, can’t you, baby?” Alex croons, so hot and sweat-slick and firm against George’s back it’s like he can feel himself losing his solidity, melting into a pool of Alex, Alex, Alex. His leaking cock looks obscene against the dark flush of another Alex’s hip, the beauty of his softened dick. When he tries to shake his head the Alex behind him hooks his chin over George’s shoulder so he can’t move. If it weren’t for the tiny shifts of his dick inside George, he’d swear they were glued together, inseparable. “You can, sweetheart. Make the most of it.”
His dick kicks despite the impossibility. Alex’s hips move in tight, vicious circles. George can feel come leaking out, turning his thighs sticky.
He thinks it’s a sob at first, the way the orgasm rises from the pit of his stomach, a comet of need and relief burning through him. But a sob wouldn’t quake his knees as well as his lungs, wouldn’t blank out the guilt and sorrow and humiliation of it all, the George Russell of it all, with such brilliant light.
George is fairly sure he blacks out. There might have been some embarrassing convulsing. When he’s back, there are gentle hands on, well, almost every part of him. Alex the Sixth is still inside him, but motionless, soft. The Alex in front of him – the Fourth, with the wrong constellation of pores – smiles, wry. “That one’s a wrong-un, getting off on you going limp. Keep an eye on him.”
The Sixth huffs. Tugs himself out and turns George round, clasps him with both arms against his chest like a jealous child grasping a toy. “Just ‘cause I won…”
The other Alexes jeer round yawns. George feels like he’s in one of those kitten videos Alex shows him on planes before albon_pets announces another seventy two cats; small, fluffy bodies piled on each other, heedless of heads and feet, undeniably content.
“Double or nothing next time,” one of the Alexes murmurs, snuffling up against George’s spine.
There won’t be a next time. He won’t survive it. He can see it, with clarity and without terror, without fear; it doesn’t beat back the happiness to know it, that this is everything he wants and nothing he can have. Once is enough.
----
The Alex LMDs sleep like the original, deep and heavy. George stirs when one of them accidentally elbows him in the gut. Naturally, his attacker sleeps on, oblivious.
George can’t bring himself to mind much, luxuriating in the new aches and tender places. There’s so much weight on him, holding him together. The hair on his thighs is stiff, crusted together. Cracking his legs apart is momentarily heartbreaking, until one of the Alexes shifts, tucks a warm knee between them.
Christ, he hopes he hasn’t slept too long. He’s only got 24 hours to find out how many parts of himself he can reshape around Alex.
His phone is where he left it the night before, abandoned on the bedside table. Checking the time brings a small measure of relief. He can’t’ve napped more than an hour. Still. Time is money, quite literally, and-
The Alex letting him rest across his chest snuffles, halfway to a snore, in his sleep.
Another hour’s rest can’t hurt.
He swipes away an irate text from Oscar about letting him and Lando down for padel. Honestly, those two should just be grateful they’ve avoided getting rinsed again. And no way in hell is he rescheduling for tomorrow. He can’t imagine what Alex would think, watching him waddle onto the court.
He ignores the negotiations update, the reminder about the boat Alonso told him to buy. Fuck knows he’s spent that fund. In fact-
There’s a series of notifications from his banking app, all for the same absurd amount of money.
Five transactions, all a minute apart.
Five.
Under his cheek, Alex’s collarbone is a rough knot of healed bone and old scar.
sebastian vettel in 2019 experiencing like 1/10th of what he put mark webber through and immediately gaining the full spectrum of human emotion and empathy like a toddler finally grasping object permanence is the funniest thing abt him. before that my man was so unbothered he straight up didnt realize when he was acting like a dick bc the concept of struggling was so alien to him. but suddenly charles leclerc out-qualifies him a handful of times and he’s waking up in the middle of the night asking people “did you know about homophobia???” “have you heard what’s happening to the bees????”
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