Oscar: C'mon George you can't just flip and act like this to me
Oscar: Not after everything we did at Silverstone
George: Oscar we fucked
George: Like we have done a dozen times before
George: What makes you think this time would be any different?
or the one where the internet reacts to the rumors of Oscar Piastri cheating on his girlfriend with supermodel George Russell. And George is a girl!
(Written entirely with social media posts and articles!)
here's mutual masturbating first time pwp max/alex (except there's a bit of plot, sue me)
you can read it on ao3 or under the cut :)
“I’ve never…” Max trails off, the end of his sentence hanging in the air like its particles could fill the oxygen of the entire room. He can feel the words he hasn’t said hanging down on him, pulling and pulling until all he can feel is the weight of his bones. They’re heavy.
“It’s fine,” Alex responds, like he doesn’t feel how the entire room has shifted too. “Are you sure you’re into men?”
“I’m not a fag if that’s what you’re implying,” Max says, too fast. His hands are sweating. The room is as heavy as his bones.
Alex scoffs under his breath, breaking eye contact from him for once. He looks around the hotel room around them, Max’s clothes everywhere, and he doesn’t make a remark about how suffocating it feels there. It’s all around him and he doesn’t notice.
“Jesus,” he says after a couple more beats, looking back at Max. “Nothing wrong with being a fag, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“Yes, you did,” Alex says pointedly. He doesn’t immediately follow it up with anything, but Max doesn’t know what to say either. The silence hangs around them along with the words Max won’t, can’t say. Then Alex stands up, patting his knees, “Alrighty then. I will be on my wa-”
“No,” Max says, too fast again. Desperate. “I mean, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I swear.”
“You’d think so, considering you invited me here to fuck you,” Alex scoffs again, no humor there. Max can feel his face immediately heat up, feverish all of a sudden. “Pretty faggy of you, if you’re asking me.”
“Alex, I-” Max starts, then can’t find more words that he hasn’t already lost to the air. There’s nothing he can really say. He kind of wants to punch Alex in the face.
Alex just watches him, unmoving and unimpressed. His hands are on his pockets, fingers making indents on his joggers closer to his crotch that Max keeps looking at without meaning to.
“You know, when I learned I’d be the teammate of the Great Max Verstappen I imagined you’d have more bollocks, mate,” Alex laughs, properly now, still watching him. It’s easy then, for Max to let his hands ball into fists – sweat squished between his digits, pushed under his fingernails the harder he squeezes his hands. “Chill, Max. It’s fine. I’m not trying to push an agenda on you or anything. So you’re curious, big fucking deal. I don’t actually care, mate.”
Max looks up from the carpet. He doesn’t remember when he started looking there in the first place. “You don’t?”
“Nah. I get it, you found out I’m bi, you’re intrigued, it happens. More frequently than you’d think, really,” Alex shrugs, taking a step closer. There’s still so much room between them. “I still don’t think we should fuck, though-”
“But you said-”
“I know what I said. That was before I learned that you had never been with a guy before. Or that you’d be so freaked about this, no offense.”
“You know saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t make it any less offensive, right?”
“Yeah, but you did call me a fag so-”
“I didn’t call you a fag. I said-”
“I remember what you said. I was there. It happened like 5 minutes ago,” Alex laughs again, not exactly humorless but not far from it. “I am one though. A fag. And you shouldn’t be saying it if you’re not, by the way.”
“I don’t know if I’m not-”
“Exactly. Which is why I won’t be fucking you today,” Alex says, and Max has already opened his mouth to complain, protest, beg, when Alex continues: “but, I will help you figure out if you might be into blokes. Sound good?”
“And by that you mean…” Max lets more of his words hang in the open space, making a novel out of the stilled air of his hotel room. More unfinished sentences and he’ll be leaving a dictionary behind in this suite.
“Just sit down, will you?” Alex points to the edge of the bed, crossing more of the room. Max watches as Alex dumps some of his clothes to the carpet, the used Red Bull merch finding the rest of Max’s unpacked clothes on the hotel floor. Then Alex positions the now-freed chair in front of where he’d pointed for Max to sit – and Max only does as he was told when he watches Alex do the same ahead of him.
For a couple beats they just stay like this; seated facing each other, quiet, words hanging around them like a sea of insufficient sentences, weighing them down until they’re on the floor along all of Max’s clothes.
“What now?” Max asks after another minute has passed and Alex has neither said nor done nothing else.
“Fuck, okay. I’m really doing this,” Alex half groans half mumbles, barely compressible and seemingly to himself, and then he’s grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head, tossing it to the bed beside where Max sits.
Max doesn’t think he’s ever seen Alex shirtless before now.
He’s tan all over, skinny everywhere he can afford to. His nipples are hard, cold maybe, and dark brown like his lips. He’s not so much defined as he is strong, muscles in full view everywhere Max can see.
He’s hot. Objectively. Not his type, maybe, but Max doesn’t know what that would be either. He hasn’t seen many naked men – or, he’s seen, but he’s never really stopped to think what he thought about them before, if anything at all.
Everything is very new.
“Your turn,” Alex says, voice even. Max looks up to gather a reaction from him and sees that Alex has been watching the way Max’s eyes roamed the entire time.
Max doesn’t really want to do it – take his shirt off, that is. He doesn’t like looking at himself naked in the mirror, and he hasn’t even seen as many manly chests as Alex has if he’s really bissexual like he says.
But Alex is watching him, expecting something.
Max wants to say that he doesn’t feel like it, say that he’s not that great to look at anyway – but can’t, because he’s lost all his words to the air.
So he just takes the fucking shirt off.
“Good, that’s good,” Alex nods, and Max doesn’t look at his face because he doesn’t want to find him looking back. He has the urge to hold his body closer and then doesn’t. He has too many urges all the time. “You’re hot, Max. I like your tits,” Max feels the want to punch him again, or maybe run and hide. He does neither. “Do you like how I look?”
That prompts Max to look again, maybe to look for an answer or maybe to run from the one he already has. He has to force his eyes to look back up to Alex’s face to say: “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
Alex laughs wholeheartedly now, like Max actually meant to make a joke. His torso spasms with the force of it and it highlights his muscles. It’s hot.
“You’re such a weird guy sometimes, mate,” Alex says, and Max would take offense to it if he hadn’t said it so lightly, like it was a compliment instead. “Continue bantering with me, I need to get hard-”
“Wow. Wait. What?” Max’s eyes go wide, voice cracking as he tries to speak. He feels his face grow hotter, feverish down to his neck and shoulders.
“Yeah, well, you’re clearly already there,” Alex nods in the direction of Max’s cock, and just as he looks down his own lap he notices that he’s leaked precum through his jeans. He doesn’t even recall getting hard.
“I’m not- I didn’t- Fuck. You’re such a perv anyway. I bet you’re just doing this to humiliate me, because I’m younger-”
“No one actually cares that you’re younger, mate. You’re Max Verstappen. I don’t think people even know I’m older than you,” Alex laughs again, entertained. “Now tell me Max, is your name the only thing that’s great or are you-”
“Oh my god,” Max says exasperated, feeling out of air. Alex is taking so much of the room he feels like he’s breathing down his own words, gasping them down his chest like they’ve never left in the first place. “Who says I’m even great anyway?”
“Everyone,” Alex dismisses like it’s obvious. Max looks up at him and Alex’s eyes are everywhere, trailing down Max’s chest and neck and the spot that only grows larger on his trousers. “Is your cock big? I want to see.”
Max wants to tell him to fuck off in all the languages he knows, to grab him and drag him to the balcony and drop him from the 12th floor they’re at. He wants to call Helmut Marko and tell him he won’t race again if Alex isn’t dropped from the team, even if he technically doesn't need to.
He wants to go under the bed and hide forever.
He doesn’t do any of it, maybe because Alex has started palming his own cock, squeezing the base through his joggers, willing the blood to pump through his veins until his size starts getting visible through his clothes.
It’s easy not to think of anything else, then.
“Alright, ‘m ready,” Alex says, like Max had asked him anything. He doesn’t announce or ask for permission before he’s dragging his joggers and pants to his mid thigh and exposing his cock, getting a hand around himself that has him relaxing against the office chair, sagging against the arms until the only thing holding him up is his hooded eyes aimed at Max. He doesn’t move his hand yet, waiting. “Do you need to be prompted every time? C’mon. I want to see too, mate.”
Max doesn’t tell him anything back because he can’t think. He can’t bother with opening his jeans, dragging them as far down as they will go while closed, just enough to spring his cock free.
He lets it hang there, untouched, leaking into the top of his thigh.
“Fuck, you’re wet as a pussy right now,” Alex says, exasperated for the first time, and then he’s moving his hand.
Max can only watch him, entranced – watch how Alex’s large hands fold around himself, pulling up from the base until his foreskin is covering his tip and then dragging it back down, slowly and lazily and not at all how Max would do it.
“Fuck, I-”
“He speaks,” Alex celebrates, mockingly. Hand lazily stroking his cock, up and down. “Didn’t take you for such a sub, you know?”
“I’m not-” Max starts, offended, and then backs down. “What even is a sub?”
“What you are,” Alex says humorously, like it's obvious. Precum starts leaking from his tip and Max can’t look away from it, can’t stop thinking of how much less there is compared to the pool of it already gathering at his own hip. Then Alex adds: “You’re a submissive little bitch, aren’t you Max?”
It snaps Max right off, anger taking hold of him fast enough that he’s about to stand up and beat Alex up, for real this time, if the moan that escapes his own hadn’t been faster – the sound sudden and completely unprompted, making Max blush even harder, if possible, and prompting Alex to bark yet another laugh.
“Take your fingers and gather some of that precum for me,” Alex nods to where Max’s precum pools, hand squeezing the base of his cock before it moves up his tip again, slow as ever. Max does so, even if he doesn’t really know why. His precum is leaking from his index and middle finger when he looks up at Alex again, meeting his eyes. They’re all pupil. “Now lick it.”
He’s never tasted precum before, but he thought it’d have more of a significant taste. It’s salty, if a little musky, but the taste doesn’t make much of a lasting impression as Max brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks on them, still looking at Alex.
Alex finally picks up some of his pace. Max still hasn’t touched himself.
“Are you really not going to have a wank?” Alex teases, almost belittling in the way he says it. “Afraid you’ll cum if you touch yourself?”
Max nods. He hates himself for it and wishes he hadn’t swallowed all his words back, had left some of them hanging in the air so he could find some and conjure them and tell Alex to fuck off and kill himself or something just as called for.
Instead he leaks more onto his lap, the taste of his precum sticking to his gums while he watches Alex rub one out in front of him.
“I don’t really care, you know. You should still do it,” Alex says, no, orders. So Max does.
It’s immediately all so much. He’s too wet, the slide is too slick. It feels too good, too much. He’s curious if cum will taste the same and he’s curious if Alex’s taste is the same and Alex is still so slow with it, and he could never be like that. Max is always fast, it’s no wonder he’s Great and all.
He’s not so much surprised that he cums as much as he is terrified by how loud he moans at it, vision blacking out as his sperm colors his fist, knowing in his gut that Alex hasn’t taken his eyes off him the entire time.
He doesn’t let his weight give out as much as he can’t stop it from doing so.
The ceiling is the first thing Max sees when his vision comes back, distorted as it is. He breathes in through his nose and out his mouth and doesn’t taste all the words he could swear were there before.
He sits up, as much as he can, because as far as he knows Alex hasn’t finished yet and he doesn’t want to miss that happening, even if he’s scared of how he’ll find Alex looking at him when he does.
Except when his vision does focus and he can mostly wrap his head around what’s happening again, Alex’s already pulling his pants up, standing and walking towards Max so he can grab the shirt he tossed beside him.
“Oh shit, did you finish too?” Max says, voice coming off more ragged than he expected it to.
“Nah, mate,” Alex shrugs, turning his shirts the right side out before he puts it on. “It always takes me a while, it’s fine. You were really hot, though.”
Max suddenly feels very, very awkward. “Oh. Okay. Should I, like… I don’t know? Help?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Alex brushes it off, palming down his shirt so it doesn’t look too wrinkly on his body. “Look, you were great. This wasn’t really about me, mate. If you’re still into it some other time, I’m open to fucking you. Just let me know,” Alex pats his knee like they’ve just had a conversation that normal people have, and not done what they did.
Max can’t tell if any of this is really happening as much as he can’t tell if he’s more mortified or aroused by everything that unfolded.
He’s about to say something, he wants to say something. It’s on the tip of his tongue actually, something like thank you or fuck off and he hasn’t lost the words to the air, not at all, he really will say them.
Except Alex leaves before he can.
All that’s left is the confusion, guilt, shame and arousal in his gut, in the air. Max considers never leaving this room again, ever in his life. He thinks of how he was stupid enough to let someone in like this, let them see the Great Max Verstappen so weak and so less.
He thinks he’ll have to kill Albon for it, that maybe he really hates him. That Alex will forever have something over him now, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
That he’ll never be Great again.
But then again, Alex is leaving Red Bull at the end of the season, even if he doesn’t know that yet.
But Max does, because Kelmut’s told him.
So Alex can think all he wants about him; that’s he’s pathetic or a sub or a fucking fag or whatever it was that he said before. A bitch. Whatever. He’s leaving Red Bull anyway.
I cannot stop thinking about your ficlets where George is a girl who is dating Alex and max is down bad... Max's pov is so delicious. Are the other drivers also as obsessed with George? Was it implied that there are other drivers who have shared a bed with George and Alex? I'm dying to see what happens next 👀
honestly its been so long since i started those girl georgie ficlets that i had mostly forgotten abt them... loll!! but to appreciate you finding those from a year ago lost here in the depths of tumblr, i went searching on my google docs and found some stuff in that au i hadnt posted yet just for you!! so here you go:
girl georgie wip 1 (this one is actually the continuation of the last part i posted and somehow forgot to post the rest btw):
"Well, princess, what we do isn't just about you, now is it?" He says, pushing his hip up strong enough that she can almost feel him inside her, even though her panties and his boxers are still on.
She moans loud enough their hotel neighbors must hear it.
"Even if he's not into men, he can always just watch... or you could-"
Alex doesn't let her finish her sentence, manhandling her until her back is on the bed and he's hovering above her hard nipples, that stand see-through on her white champagne-drenched shirt.
"You don't really want to finish that sentence, love," Alex half threatens, half teases. She gasps every time his breath hits her chest, almost touching but not quite.
She doesn't say anything else as Alex takes her silence as surrender and takes her tit into his mouth, through the shirt and all. He must taste the lingering champagne as he sucks and kisses her nipple until her legs are twitching by his sides, only offering her half a second of relief before he moves on to her other one.
She's trembling by the time he pushes her shirt up and start making his way down her toned belly that she likes showing off so much.
Even when there isn't a single magazine that hasn't seen her half naked, Alex always acts like she's something precious to look at and touch.
He's almost where George wants him most, his full lips kissing just below her bellybutton, but she stops him before he can reach the top of her baby blue panties; pulling on his hair hard enough that he moans when he looks up at her.
"Promise you'll consider, that's all I ask," she begs, moans, using all her will power not to push him back down because she really has to get this message across.
Alex looks between her eyes and her wetness, mouth hanging open and saliva almost dripping down the corner of his lips as he nods, desperate.
He wants this as much as her.
George smiles wide as she lets him take it.
girl georgie wip 2:
The wire of George's bra is poking a hole through her skin, and she's half sure the purple lace is clashing with her skin tone – but she smiles through it, chest inflated and tummy sucked in and posture flawless and body angled in a way that can't look natural, but that's not the point anyway.
She gets the image a few months later. They photoshopped her lips bigger and her cellulite off and her lashes, somehow, even bolder; but she looks good.
Alex tells her so when they pass a billboard with said photo, and she tries not to think that this billboard is so close to the track that every person in the paddock has seen her half naked by now – or at least the photoshopped version of her.
They part ways when someone from the Williams' garage is waiting by the entrance to snatch Alex from her. He bids her goodbye with a soft kiss.
George is left alone then. Well, mostly.
Photographers take pictures of her as her heels click-and-clack the closer she gets to the Red Bull Hospitality, her phone a weigh in her purse that she decidedly ignores.
She doesn't think of what the press will make of her in Alex's old team building because she can't afford to do so right now.
Max is where he said he would be; second floor, third conference room to the right on the west wing hallway.
She gets in without knocking, closes the door behind herself.
"You wanted to see me?" George says, reluctance and innocent and something else fighting through her tone, making her voice crack a bit.
She stands taller than Max, who's leaning against the center table, half-sitting, his phone laying forgotten in his hand.
They'd be about the same height, if George wasn't wearing heels and Max was upright and had a good posture. As it stands, she looks a few feet taller than him.
She tries not to look down to meet his eyes.
"I didn’t think you'd come," Max says. He sounds honest enough, but George doesn't know him enough to tell his tones apart.
"Well, you texted me," George says, gesturing to her phone that still lays hidden in her purse, "so I assume you have something to say."
"Isn’t that usually your job?" Max pokes, tease, and George feels something flare inside her chest – anger, annoyance, or something else.
"It's still Thursday. You haven't had time to fuck up your weekend yet," George replies, taking his bait because Max knows the right buttons to click, despite not knowing her at all.
"We'll see about that," He pushes himself off the table, phone getting left behind. He has to crane up his neck when he walks closer to her. "Where’s Alex?" he lowers his voice, tone soomewhat like mocking but not quite.
"You asked me to come alone," George states, almost angrily. Her breath is caugh behind her throat the closer Max gets.
"And you did," Max whispers now, less than a feet apart from her.
Her back is to the door, and there’s nowhere to go in the room that wouldn't have her bumping against Max – and she's not about to take his bait again and step back. So she stands still.
"What do you want, Max?" She says, and her tone has gotten lower too, without her permission.
He looks her up and down, then back up again.
She thinks of how his eyes are always trained on her whenever they bump into each other on a club or outing. How he pointedly ignores Alex beside her and will not look away when George looks back at him.
How she looks back at him at all. Every time.
"You know what I want," Max says, and she does. She knows what he wants and she came here anyway.
She'll be in Alex's garage in a few minutes, and she'll wear Williams merch and talk with the Williams crew and Alex will kiss her before he gets into his cockpit and let the marketing team take photos of him. He'll mention her in the tiktok's they'll make and he'll drive her to the hotel later and fuck her on his bed and Max will be a few floors up and be none the wiser.
Yet, she stays still when Max takes another step closer. He's looking at her lips, obviously so, and she could step back and leave.
She doesn't.
"I saw your billboard," Max offhandedly says, as if he isn't all up in her personal space. He's still looking at her lips when he says; "It's nonsense that they've made your lips bigger, really. They look so much better like this."
He says the last part up close, his breath hitting her face like a slap or maybe even a kiss.
She doesn't move.
"That's- Uhm. That's the business, nothing to be done about it," She says, slurring her words and willing her eyes to stay open.
Max hums, says nothing else.
His hands feel big on her hips when he eventually moves to touch her. His breath is hitting her neck.
Her phone is ringing in her purse.
It's Alex's ringtone.
She steps back.
"Try not to make a fool of yourself this weekend," George rushedly says, but the bite is back to her tone.
She can only hear Max hums again when she turns her back and walks off.
His stare burns a hole through her back.
The wire of the lace bra draws blood from her skin.
She doesn't even feel it.
girl georgie wip 3? (i think this one was my attempt at rewriting the au to post it on ao3 but i never posted it for some reason):
That Alex Albon is no jealous boyfriend is not exactly Breaking News – not that he could even be with a girlfriend like George.
George was an attention whore, to put it simply. That's not to say it's an insult, but it doesn't make it any less true; George Russell is absolutely obsessed with attention.
That can translate in many different ways, according to her mood every given day. Sometimes she'll just talk and talk and make everyone and anyone present hear her ramblings, other times she'll post a picture in the tiniest bikini known to man – she has range, of course.
Alex doesn't mind so much that so many people are simping over his girl; she's hot, so of course they are.
George is a fucking picture; long legs, bright blue eyes, plump lips, small round tits, defined muscles, a big ass… she's the whole fucking package.
It helps that she's a formula one driver, too. First girl with her own seat, first one to get a podium, first one to win a race, then two, then three, then… well. The first.
Considering that, it's almost a given that everyone would be obsessed with her – even other drivers, who every now and then comment on her instagram pics with a fire emoji or a heart emoji or a winky face emoji or a- well, there's been a lot of different approaches to flirting with her over time.
Alex doesn't even mind that, either; formula one was a cock-fest before his girl came in, so it's only natural that they'd be driven to her.
Besides, George's always been faithful– or, at least, that's what Alex thought.
The request came so suddenly, Alex must've stood there unmoving a good few minutes before he managed to say; “What?”
“God, don't make me repeat it,” George says, flustered all over, red spreading down from her cheeks to her neck to the top of her exposed tits.
“I just- there's no way I heard you right, Georgie. Did you just ask me to-”
“Ugh, don't say it!” She interrupts, covering her eyes with her hands like that'd make her disappear.
Alex pulls out from inside her to sit back on his heels, a groan leaving her mouth as his hard cock bobs between her thighs.
“We didn't have to stop!” She groans, still hiding behind her hands.
“George, you just asked me if you could fuc-”
“Arghhh,” she groans louder, taking her hands out of her face to use them to push herself into seating, now properly looking at him. “Alex, I said this didn't have to be a big deal. I would never do anything you didn’t agree to, obviously!”
“You think I'd agree to let you fuck Max behind my back?” Alex deadpans, tone harsher even as his cock still hangs hard between them.
“Alex, please! It sound awful when you put it like tha-”
“George, that's literally what you just asked me to do. You just asked how would I feel if you wanted to fu-”
“I never said I would do it!” She raised her voice, british accent stronger now that she's gotten more agitated.
Alex just looks at her, watching the way she's flustered all over. Her wetness is still shining all the way down to her thighs, her tits bruised where Alex's bite at them, her belly contracting every few seconds – effect lingering from how close she had been to her orgasm before.
She's fucking perfect.
“Alright then,” Alex says, after the silence has been lingering for a while.
George creases her brows at him as if he’s crazy; “Alright then what, Alex? What do you even mean?”
“Let’s do it then. You can fuck Max,” Alex says, resolutely. Her chest rises and falls rapiding as her eyes open even wider to stare at him.
She starts; “Wha-”
“I mean it, you can fuck him,” Alex interrupts her before she can even get the word out, voice serious as he meets her eyes. “You can fuck him,” He insists, clearing his throat. There's a set look in his eyes when he adds; “But I get to watch.”
That finally gets her talking again; “You want to watch me fuck Max? What? Why?”
“Well, you want to do it. It's only fair,” Alex says, diplomatic tone to his voice. He barks out a laugh as she stands there, completely shell shocked in the way she looks at him; “What? Now you don't want to?”
“No, I do, it's just- God, fuck. I really need you to fuck me right now,” She gasps, almost moans to herself, her eyes flicking down to where his cock still holds hard between her thighs.
“Yeah?” He asks, teasing. There's a smile lingering in his tone as he moves the tiniest bit closer to her.
“Mmhm” she mumbles, barely coherent. She's struggling to keep herself up, arms twitching every time she insists on maintaining her body upright.
“Lay down Georgie,” Alex demands, sweet. It's almost instant the way her back hits the covers again.
Alex pushes himself up his hunches to crawl over her, his cock hanging between their bodies close enough that his tip touches her belly, a trail of his precum marking her body every time he slightly shifts.
He moves down until his face is hovering just above hers, breath ghosting her lips as he says; “Is this how you would want Max to fuck you? With you on your back like the pillow princess you are?”
She groans, legs wrapping around his knees to push him forward. He doesn’t move an inch.
“Baby-” she starts, half begging.
Alex doesn't let her get any further, “Is that way you'd call him: ‘baby’?” He taunts, almost mocking. She groans again, halfway into a moan. “You think he'd like that?”
She fully moans now, her lips touching his own but only briefly as her head bucks up. His tip is making a mess on her stomach, but she doesn't try to push him inside again.
“You know what I think?” Alex says, whispers, moving down until his words hit her neck almost like a kiss, but not quite. He moves until he's hovering above her ear to add; “I think he'd like you on top, baby. Riding him so you'd do all the work.” Alex reaches one of his hands between them, spreading his legs to push her thighs further apart. He hold the base of his cock to tease her clit with his tip until she's rolling her eyes to the back of her head. “You wouldn't like that, would you?”
George moans again, her thighs clenching around him, ankle hitting the back of his thighs in a foolish attempt to push him inside. She groans when the only thing it does is make Alex stop moving until she's moved her foot back to the bed.
He starts guiding his cock up and down her folds, up to her clit then down to her entrance. She's so wet, his tip keeps accidentally getting caught inside her when he guides his cock back up.
“Imagine, Georgie. Max laying down in this very bed, hands stretched behind his head as he just watches your tits bounce every time you fall back down on his cock,” he says, cock catching in her cunt again. He pushes the tiniest bit in now before pulling off and guiding his cock up to her clit again. “You know we can't have that. I can't have my princess doing all the work, can I?”
“Alex-” She moans, loudly now. She's twitching all over, cunt so wet his comforter will be smelling of her for days.
“Mm-mm, not Alex,” Alex clicks his tongue, disapproving. “Isn't it Max that you want to fuck you?” He says, mocking. His cock catches again, and this time he lets it stay in, pushing only his tip in and out as he moves his hand from the base of his cock to the bottom of her belly, his thumb circling her clit.
She's a moaning mess by then, entirely incoherent, but Alex still pushes; “I asked you a question, Georgie.”
aaand thats all i found :)
if anyone sees this and and wants to see some more from me, like my other abandoned wips or send me a prompt for something new (other than my ao3 fics), feel free to send me an ask hehe :3
prompts: norrussell with teasing/being mean but affectionate/banter during the 2025 championship, esp relating to what's happening on track or contract negotiations etc
here ya go! it's a loose continuation to my be your temporary fix fic
Lando doesn’t fuck her when they’re both in a good mood. Hell, he rarely fucks her when it’s just him in a good mood, not really since that first Singapore night. Even if he wins, it has to be one of those complicated wins, the ones that leave Lando twitchy and paranoid in ways George never understands, for him to come touch her. George doesn’t get weird after her wins no matter how they come about. Not like Lando does. She can’t taste anything but glory, couldn’t imagine being bothered by anything when she is on the tallest step. Lando has never met a situation he doesn’t love to make an obstacle for himself out of though.
But this wasn’t that kind of win for Lando. Sure, Lando lost positions at the start (to George, she thinks smugly), won only because of an alternate strategy, but she saw his face in the cooldown room. It was uncomplicated. It was: I’m back in this fight. He was quite simply… happy.
So George is surprised by the knock on the door after Hungary. It’s so obviously Lando, she knows that from just the sound of it, otherwise she’d assume Aleix. Lando has this certain way of knocking, not sharp and to-the-point like George. His is more rhythmic, never the same pattern twice, but still with a distinct tone like he is transferring the melody from his head to the wood.
George straightens up as this rhythm bounces around her walls. Stares at the blank wood for a moment before she moves to answer.
“Lando Norris.” She makes it teasing and fun as she leans against her door frame, towering over him. It’s an easy mood to slide into when she sees his face, the most fun way to be around Lando is to be constantly teasing. “Big race winner. Deigning to stop by.”
Lando doesn’t respond to her poking, just rocks back from his heels and right into the room, his body brushing right past her. He’s got his hands in his pockets and his hat on backwards. A hoodie on because he always has a hoodie on no matter the weather. Nothing she can read into too heavily. But then, without a word, he takes his hand out of his pocket and with it, he pulls out a condom. Tosses it down out in the open. George tracks it, raising one eyebrow as she does.
Well, then. That answers that. Not that there was really any other reason for him to be here, but George—well, you know what they say about assumptions.
Clearly the looks he was sending her during all the post race shenanigans were actual looks she was supposed to be picking up on. She had just brushed them off as awkwardly timed coincidences and went on with her celebrations.
It’s hard to adjust to this turn of events even as Lando sits down, sliding his legs open like he expects George to come sit right on his lap. When he hasn’t even bothered saying a word to her. Just tossed a fucking rubber around like she was some… some déclassé influencer he dm-ed. A sure thing.
George is overcome with the urge to stall, to draw this out until she finds her bearings again.
Because usually when she and Lando are going to fuck, George knows hours in advance. Not because they talk about it. No, never that. She just feels the energy thrumming in the air. Thrumming off Lando, the antsy-ness twitching in his arms and legs. Thrumming off herself too—the need to sink her teeth into something (or someone) she doesn’t care if she damages. Perhaps that’s why Lando thinks they don’t need any words exchanged. It’s not like they usually do. But usually George is pushing him against a wall and sliding her lips across his before he’s fully entered the room. Usually she’s overcome with the anticipation of fulfilling… whatever they are.
But now—now she doesn’t feel any of those things. She’s fairly content herself right now. A good weekend with a podium to cap it off. The contract isn’t officially signed but it’s close enough she’ll be able to relax over break. Her hunger isn’t there. Well, it’s there because George is always hungry for something, but it isn’t all-consuming. She can last a few weeks with these feelings.
“Your girlfriend’s here.” George decides to remind him. Not that she really cares because Lando’s crew is so insignificant, so trivial to the grand scheme of her life, but—they also don’t really fuck when Lando’s girlfriend is here.
Not that they’ve never. But usually.
Lando looks around the room exaggeratedly, peering at the empty corners with wide-eyes. “I don’t see her.”
It’s the first words he’s spoken and she knows she wasn’t imagining his mood. There’s good-natured humor all over his voice.
“God, you’re a prick,” George says, but she can’t help the tiniest of smile from sneaking out. Sue her. She likes Lando best like this.
Cocky. Sure of himself. Looking her up and down like because he got a trophy in the fucking fast car on the grid he’s some big hotshot
And yes, when he’s like this there’s nothing more George wants to do than stick her foot out and watch him trip over it. Watch his ego crack in one split second while she just gets to laugh. But it’s also so much better than when he’s all moody. Sure, he fucks her when he’s like that, but he’s always so utterly depressing afterwords.
Not a bore, because Lando’s never a bore, but horrid to be around anyway. George is overcome with the urge to fix, to force him back together until he feels alright, until he drives like she knows he can. George hates that feeling. She’s not here to be anyone’s mum. Least of all Lando’s.
“You like it.”
George snorts, but the doubling down on his confidence is enough for her to cross the room and slide into her lap. Just like he wanted. She still doesn’t feel that burning—that need to get fucked or she’ll vomit from the suffocating feeling of it all—but she feels something. Perhaps it’s just fondness as she traces his jaw with her nose while keeping up the conversation. His legs are solid under her, taking her full weight in a way he wouldn’t have been able to years ago.
“You excited for break then? Taking the girlfriend to Ibiza?” She pronounces it the correct way, lisp and all, just to be annoying and she can tell it works from the way Lando’s left eyebrow lifts.
“Had to come up with something to do, ‘cause I’m still waiting for a yacht invite. When’s mine coming, Georgie?”
That’s a new thing he’s started doing of late. Calling her Georgie when he’s trying to be annoying. Trying to get under her skin. He heard Aleix or Alex or someone she likes say it and now he won’t stop. Forming the word overly mocking in his mouth, so she can hear the heckling underneath. George considers putting her whole hand over his mouth and forcing his jaw shut whenever he tries, but he’d probably like that. Just like he likes when she isn’t careful with her teeth if he isn’t careful with his hands mid-blowjob.
The fucking freak.
Lando’s already talking again though: “Pretttttty wild to get a yacht before the contract.”
And blimey, of course that’s what he goes to next after Georgie.
Lando brings up her contract constantly. Constantly.
George would say Lando is more worried about it than her if that wasn’t utterly impossible. It’s the thing George has talked about the most this past six months. With her family. Her friends. Her team. Toto. The fucking media. It’s her life.
But it kind of does feel like worry, how Lando always pokes at the topic, his words nothing but sharp and unsympathetic. Not like Alex when they talk about it, the concern always present and outright. No, Lando is instead always chatting shit about how she’ll have to drive at Alpine next year if she doesn’t get a move on. How she’ll be Flavio’s new toy to play with. Almost like he wants her to correct him, reassure him that she’ll be fine.
As if that’s the way things should work. George comforting the man a hundred points ahead of her in the championship about her own situation.
She refuses to indulge him. Like she said, she’s nobody’s mum.
“You know me.” George just shrugs instead. “I’m just a big spender, mate. Blowing through stacks and stacks.”
Lando narrows his eyes suspiciously, clearly not getting the answer he wanted. She can count the different flecks in his eyes from this close and unfortunately this whole thing is working for George. The Georgie and the negging contract talk and Lando being here his big hands holding her hips in place. It’s all working, her blood pressure ticking up several notches and her veins pulsing with each heartbeat. Like how they always get when Lando is close by and irritating her, but not yet inside her.
She wants him inside. And apparently he does too, even if no one is punishing themselves tonight. Maybe that will make George feel weird tomorrow, maybe this departure from the norm will stick to her all break like a bad summer cold, but for now—for now the want is all George feels.
And she’s been deprived of her wants, left hungry for too much of her twenties, to not take what Lando is freely offering. She bends down and presses her lips to hers and waits for him to chase the rest.
rereading your norrussell fic "i'll be your temporary fix" and my heart still hurt everytime i read the last scene... just when george thought maybe lando's presence can help to calm her down but then lando left her all alone in her room... do you plan to write a sequel for this? because their dynamic is very interesting
thank you so much! i'm glad you liked it. i was planning a sequel at one point but it's been so long... idk. i do want to write more m/f norrussell so i probably shouldn't do this because I might reuse this parts but you can have the parts i wrote back when i was writing the sequel (so like before the 2024 season started)
WIP Norrussell—FWB
Chapter 2
Austin 2023
Media has barely started for Austin and George is already over it. She’s over the whole city—over America in general to be honest—and the heat that pricks at her neck and the endless stretches of breaks as she waits for more questions, more microphones shoved in her face.
Like now. She’s with Alex and Lily waiting in a makeshift foodcourt set up, poking at the salads Williams provided that George nabbed one of too. She’s not even sure what she’s waiting for—just knows whenever she tries to leave, she gets stopped.
“Why is Lando acting strange today?” Alex asks, barely looking up from his phone as he asks the question. He’s just talking to talk, not expecting anyone to actually have an answer.
“Was he?” George contemplates a sad piece of lettuce. Normally, she’s always happy to gossip with Alex, but not about this.
“He avoided us completely earlier. Turned right around when he saw us.”
Lily just hums, not really paying attention to her boyfriend’s chatter. She’s used to it after all these years, George supposes.
In the beginning, when they just started dating, George used to set tests for herself. Hang out with Alex and Lily for an hour and not make it weird. Two hours. A whole dinner. See them hold hands. See them kiss.
Prove to Alex that she could be normal. Prove to herself too.
Now it wasn’t a test, it was just life. If George wanted to spend time with Alex likely chance Lily would be there. And it didn’t—couldn’t—continue to hurt because it would be like George getting hurt by the sun rising every morning. It was just a fact of life. Impossible to change.
“He was fine at lunch yesterday,” Alex continues to muse. “What’s his deal now?”
The deal is George wasn’t at lunch yesterday and she was present for the hallway run-in today. And for some reason, just George’s presence is enough to break Lando these days.
George chews on her water bottle straw and contemplates a response. She goes with: “I slept with him.”
Oops. So much for being not gossiping. Or being normal.
Sometimes George says overly honest stuff like that for the hell of it. Just to test Alex’s reaction to her. She used to hope he would give a little bit of a frown that he tried to cover up if she mentioned a bloke, a hint of jealousy shining through for only George to notice. Now that hope is gone and all that’s left is the allure of picking at an old scab. Cause she is over it, but it’s always instinctual to prod. And besides, Alex never gives anything and the moment passes as nothing outside of George’s head.
Not today.
Alex chokes on his spoon and Lily straightens up, her phone dropping in her lap.
“You what?”
“I slept with Lando,” George repeats—a little bit of smugness creeping in at their obvious shock. Alex has called her boring too many times for this not to send a thrill up her spine. “In Singapore.”
Alex gapes, his mouth hanging wide open. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“With Lando?” Alex says Lando’s name the same way one might mention a friend’s recently diagnosed STD—whispered shock mixed with intrigued horror. “Have you gone mad—never mind, obviously you have. Care to say why?”
“Why not?” George shrugs. Acts as cool about it as possible. Just like she has since the night it’s happened.
Cause Alex’s initial assessment was right. Lando is the one being strange. George has been completely fine. She was fine in Japan and she was fine in Qatar and she’s been fine here too. Lando, on the other hand, has gotten increasingly less fine. He’s gone from slightly avoiding her gaze, looking at her shoulder instead of at her face to now actually ducking into spare closets just so they won’t pass each other in the hallway. He’s acting as if George is going to accost him right there in the paddock for another miserable round of sex.
“That’s not an answ—“
“How was it?” Lily interrupts. “Was he good?”
“Lily!” Alex’s voice reaches a pitch George hasn’t heard before. Dogs probably haven’t heard it either. “Don’t answer that, I don’t want to hear—“
“Eh.” George shrugs again. She hasn’t really reflected too much on the quality of it to be honest. Any time she remembered that it happened, remembered her deranged proposal, the way she shoved Lando into the door, onto the bed—and then the tears… she wants to catapult herself off the planet.
So she just doesn’t think about it. It’s perhaps the only thing George has ever been good at not thinking about.
“Are you gonna do it again?” Lily asks.
Alex cringes, but he doesn’t stop himself from leaning in—the man is absolutely addicted to gossip.
“Probably not. He didn’t even get me to orgasm.” It’s the truth, but for some reason George feels a little deceitful as she says it. Her mind replays the way his palm felt on her back, her arse. The way he would have kissed her slower if she had let him. The whole encounter felts so hazy, so strange that her not coming seems insignificant. Barely a footnote in her memories of the night.
“Oh, I didn’t need to know that.“ Alex grimaces.
Lily hums, considering this new fact. “I can see that.”
“You can see—you’ve thought about—“ Alex turns to gawk at his girlfriend. “What is this conversation?”
“I haven’t thought about it—I was just saying I can see it!“ Lily refutes and then they’re off, bickering at a speed that only familiarity and fondness can breed. George sinks back into her chair, giving up on the sad state of her salad.
Much later, when they’re waiting for the driver’s parade, Alex slides up next to her again. He stares out at the crowd of fans, the hundreds of American flags whipping in front of them. George wonders where they get the energy for it, why her bones feel hollow and empty when they’re so alive and vivacious. Don’t they know this whole weekend is pointless, the championship already decided?
“He did say you were fit back in F2.”
George startles, remembering Alex’s presence and she squints as she pushes her sunglasses up. “Who?”
Alex stares back like it should be obvious who he’s talking about. And—
Oh.
Right.
George tilts her head, trying to find the McLaren orange through the crowd of people. There he is, next to Oscar, laughing at a sign a fan is holding up.
He’s bundled up in too much clothes per usual, but George knows what he looks like under that now. It’s a strange thought to swallow, it tastes oddly sour on her tongue. Her knowing something intimate about Lando even if it is just the way his chest feels under her palms.
What’s worse is when she remembers he knows the same about her too.
The truth is George doesn’t like to think about it, but she probably has fucked up her and Lando again. They were friends again or at least their usual state of friendly and now they’re—she doesn’t know. Lando won’t look at her. Maybe she hasn’t been looking at him either—she tries to go back through her memories of him in Japan and Qatar. There aren’t a lot. She feels an unexpected pang at that, somewhere deep in her chest beneath her ribs.
She’s looking at him now at least, looking at his neck—the only real visible part of him—thick and tan. The way his eyes pinch up when he laughs. George wonders how he would have fucked her if she’d let him have some control. How would he have gotten her off if she hadn’t melted-down first? With his fingers? His mouth?
She realizes she’s paused too long and Alex is staring at her in a suspiciously considering way. She slides her shades down again. Smiles. “Everyone thinks I’m fit, Alexander. What of it?”
Alex snorts—and it’s mean and dismissive—but he lets her get away with it. “You know what I’ve always admired most about you, Georgie?” He asks, ruffling her hair. Somewhere far away, over George’s shoulder, she feels the prickle of a gaze on her neck. “Your modesty.”
Brazil 2023
Brazil is when it all goes to hell. George’s sanity that is—her season is already so far in the flames Satan himself couldn’t reach it. She’s been trying though, desperately trying not to think about that, because she has to keep it together. Keep herself in the moment even as the end of the year beckons to her—an oasis that’s just out of reach.
That’s why she schedules a meeting in Brazil. A GDPA meeting that is. Well, it’s tacked on as a last minute thought to the end of a driver’s meeting, but it’s a GDPA meeting none the less. Meaning George leads it. Which means George has something to do on the plane ride besides think about her point totals and wait for DunkinLvr69 to play his turn on 247 Backgammon. Which also means George has perhaps over-prepped the agenda. It might be a few bullet points too long.
But there’s just a lot they need to talk about for next season, things people won’t want to discuss once this season is wrapping up and they can taste the winter break on their tongues. Plus, she still has a lot of questions about Vegas—what with the most recent schedule passed around that’s double a usual weekend.
Most drivers are semi-participatory in the beginning—Carlos and Alex piping up like usual; plus Lewis deciding to speak about the most unpredictable topics. Also as usual. But as George moves from point to point, she feels the energy draining. Alex has been tapping at his watch for the last ten minutes and even Daniel hasn’t made a joke in a good five.
And the back row—well, George is studiously avoiding looking at the back row, because otherwise she might snap right there in front of the whole grid. Or at least, get extremely bitchy.
Which would be highly embarrassing.
But she can’t stop herself from saying something as she finally calls it quits on the meeting, promising to follow-up with a summary email—a statement met with a resounding groan from the room.
“Norris,” she calls, trying not to feel like an old dodgy schoolteacher. “A minute.”
It’s hard to speak over the light din of noise with everyone resuming their conversations, chatting as they head to the door. So she moves quickly—though her target is easy prey, getting up belatedly, not at her dismissal but at the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.
“Lando.” She grabs his sleeve before he can follow Max out of the room. “A word.”
Max considers her suspiciously, but she pays him no mind. He’s always suspicious around her. Or maybe that’s just his face, its hard to tell. Luckily, Lando is too groggy to do anything but acquiesce.
“You done coming up with ways to grill the FIA?” Lando asks, yawning into the sleeve of his jacket. “I didn’t think we were ever getting out of there.” George doesn’t think Lando spoken in a driver’s meeting—much less a GDPA meeting—in his life. Probably because he doesn’t know enough rules to try to debate them.
George can’t believe she’s behind him in the standings. It honestly makes her want to pluck her eyes out when she thinks about it.
“Well, seeing as the meeting’s finished…” George says, gesturing around to the empty chairs instead of breaking one of Lando’s hands so he can’t drive again. “That might be a clue that—yes, we’ve wrapped it up.”
Lando eyes her and slowly as he comes to his senses he puts together that her tone is… not happy. And just like that his walls come up, firmly placing her on the outside.
Right.
For a moment there, George was so caught up in her huff she forget they weren’t talking. Or Lando wasn’t talking to her. It’s impossible to forget now with how warily Lando regards her, a cornered animal awaiting the deathly blow.
“What do you want, George?”
George decides for the hundredth time this month that she’ll be the one to act normal of the pair—say what she has to say and then be done with him. “Can you not sleep during my meetings, please and thank you?”
Lando rolls his eyes—petulant and childish, she thinks—and fidgets with his sleeve. He doesn’t apologize for his blatant rudeness, nor does he deign to look at her.
“Make them less boring and you’ve got a deal.” Whatever’s over George’s left shoulder must be awfully fascinating. “If that’s all—“
She’s changed her mind. She wants to pluck Lando’s eyes out, not her own. If he can’t be man enough to look her in the eyes then he shouldn’t get to look at anything.
“No, that’s not all actually.” George uses her body to block him from leaving and Lando halts in his tracks, too scared of getting close to shoulder past her. “If you have a problem with me—“
“I don’t have a problem with you,” Lando says in the same way her nephew responds when asked if he stole a cookie out of the jar. “Why would I have a problem with you?”
“Well, there is no good reason, but—“ George hesitates, looks around. There’s no one left in the room, but she still lowers her voice. “Look, about Singapore, if you want to talk about it—“
Lando physically recoils, head snapping back so fast it’s a miracle his hat stays on glued to his curls.
“I don’t.”
George expected this, which is why she’s never brought it up. Lando’s first reaction would always be denial. Deny he was being a freak, deny he was the one making it weird, deny that it was anything at all worth a mention.
“Yes, I know you don’t,” George says in the most insincere tone she can muster. “But if you did—“
”What’s there to talk about?” Lando’s regained a bit of his composure as he scoffs. “We fucked, end of story. You don’t have to make it weird.”
George straightens up indignantly. “I am not the one making it weird!”
“Yes, you are.”
“And how so?”
“You’ve been all—“ Lando gestures wildly at her. “All George since then. You know, normal George. All George-y like usual…”
George-y.
“So I’m making it weird by not making it weird?”
“Exactly!” Lando says and then his brow furrows. “Wait, no—“
“Look—“ George moves to gather her things from the chair she left them on. This was a mistake—the last things she wanted to do was argue about this. Maybe she should have stuck to the initial plan of ignoring it, giving them to til next year. Lando will have forgotten all about this by then. Hopefully George will have too what with how the memory of Lando biting her neck has started popping up in her dreams almost as much as Singapore Turn 11. It is frankly making it very difficult to get a good night sleep. “It was a one time thing. Nothing important.”
That’s what she told Alex and that’s what the unspoken agreement between them was at the Singapore bar and that’s the simple truth. She doesn’t know why it feels strange to say out loud—maybe some things are meant to stay unspoken.
“Right.” Lando swallows and it’s too loud in the empty room. “A one time thing.”
He says it strangely, so George looks up from her backpack. His eyes fall down to her mouth for one second—no, two seconds, three seconds—and George can feel the way his chin pricked against hers all over again, like they were kissing for the first time again.
And, oh, George thinks. That’s why he’s been weird about this.
“Unless…” George pauses. She feels a tad flush and it’s undeniably Lando’s fault. Just like everything has been since that night. “You don’t want to make it a one time thing?”
Just like the first offer it’s out before George can think on it. And just like that time too, she doesn’t immediately want to snatch it back. She lets it sit between them, the words so weighty they’re almost visible.
“Do you want that?” Lando counters quickly. He hasn’t moved closer, but he’s looking at her now. Looking her dead in the eyes.
“I asked you first.”
“I asked you second.”
Oh, George thinks again, but this new realization is not like the first. It’s not a quiet oh, rather it’s jarring in her brain akin to a note played blatantly off-key.
He’s a coward about this too.
Of course.
It’s a fact George has always known about Lando—has half resented him for it and has half had an ugly sense of superiority about. The fact he was so much more a coward than she was. And that he wouldn’t be here—wouldn’t be standing in front of her with his Papaya sweatshirt and million dollar watch—if he had to do it the normal way.
The way George had to do it.
If he had to go up to sponsors and executives and make PowerPoints and Word documents, begging them to see his talent, to give him money and time and opportunity. If he had to open his heart up time and time again to complete strangers, so they could see his most precious dreams and tell him no.
And then do it again.
No, Lando was lucky he got to slide right from Adam Norris’s credit card to Zak Brown’s—the precious McLaren wonder boy. Never having to ask for a thing that wasn’t already provided to him. That more than anything made George sick with envy, made her exchange glances with Alex whenever Lando was talking so they could roll their eyes in silent judgement, made her clench her nails into her skin when he told her to be more fun, more happy. It made her want to make him beg for something in his goddamn life just so he’d know how it felt.
It’s so easy to want—and that’s what he was doing now with her, wasn’t it? Wanting? Wanting her.
For Lando, it’s always been impossible to try.
He’s such a fucking coward.
They stare at each other, Lando’s fingers fidgeting restlessly as he crosses and uncrosses his arms. She thinks about how they’d feel inside her and then she thinks about how they felt on her hips and then she very purposefully thinks about nothing at all.
Lando shifts again and George lets out a soft laugh.
“Never mind, Lando.” George is happy to dismiss him. She forgot how exhausting it was to talk circles with someone who thought her very existence was embarrassing. Even if he does want to fuck her apparently. “Just don’t sleep during the bloody meeting.”
Lando’s mouth flattens into a straight-line, but he takes the dismissal like he takes every failure. By refusing to acknowledge he even reached for something in the first place
“Anything for you,” Lando snarks back, reaching for the door and then not bothering to let her go through first, barely holding it open at all as it hits her shoulder with a thud.
So at least, they’re back to normal.
And that should be the end of the story.
Except it’s not.
Because maybe Lando is too cowardly to say it, but George thinks about the way his eyes fell to her lips. She thinks about it for the rest of the weekend and she thinks about it in Vegas. How close he was, how his fingers tapped against his leg, how if she kissed him right there in that room he would have pulled back with an “Oi!” but then kissed her back.
The knowledge that Lando wants is a suddenly an all-consuming thought. It makes George feel as if she’s been gifted a superpower. She doesn’t know what to do with it, feels she’ll be clumsy if she ever tries to actually use it, but she feels the urge to wield it all the same. It itches at her skin, hums at her fingertips til George has picked her nails down to the quick just for something to do.
And it makes her nights interesting too. Gives her something to think about—no, fantasize about for the first time in awhile. It’s been so long since George has fantasized about anyone—even her short-lived boyfriends have been more a bullet on her checklist than a presence she pined for when they weren’t around. She didn’t even realize she missed it—the wanting.
Has she wanted since Alex, George wonders and then moves on from thought quickly because this… thing with Lando is nothing—nothing—like Alex.
But whatever it is, it’s becoming increasingly dangerous whenever she’s at the track, because every time she looks at Lando, he’s already looking back. His eyes fly away quickly, the back of his neck burning, and George feels another surge of power thrum through her hands.
In Abu Dhabi, George thinks about doing more. About being the one to say something, about whether she would be caving to what Lando wants or if it would actually be her pulling him to what she wants. If it would be a way for her to be brave and forward and all the things Lando isn’t. She could ask again, but this time make it a simple for him, just like when she asked back in Singapore. She thinks about it—in bed, at dinner, in the shower—and her legs shiver at the idea. Sometimes when she thinks it over, playing all the different possibilities, she feels more like she’s writing the future then inventing a story in her mind. Because whatever she does, Lando will follow.
And if George makes a move, right here before the last race of the season, he’ll say yes. He’ll probably laugh and he’ll definitely tease, but that’s okay. George doesn’t mind the teasing. That will only put them back on familiar ground again. As long as he kisses her back.
But then Lando has to leave the driver’s dinner on Thursday early and George’s body is wracked with coughs the rest of the weekend and the whole thing suddenly seems like too much work. The confidence fades with every new ache George feels in her body. If Lando wanted her, he could do something. Surely he’s pulled girls loads of times? Surely he knows how to ask?
More importantly, surely this new obsession of hers was conjured up by a nightmare of a season and only worsened by the progression of her flu. On Sunday night, she’s decides she’s glad she did nothing and right as she’s in that half-conscious state before she tips all the way to sleep, she tells herself this is the end. The next time George sees Lando—hopefully in Bahrain, this will be over. The staring, the dreaming, the wanting. Done and buried in 2023.
The next day at the airport, George spots him right as she’s getting on a plane to go home and rot in her bed. He’s a speck of orange that turns at the last minute, right as their paths align. She nods at him and he smiles—quick and close-lipped and so Lando—and George wants.
And she doesn’t know what to do.
Winter Break 2023-2024
As she’s reading the comments on her new Tommy ad, she sees Lando at PSG and some snowy Alps and in fucking Australia.
George gets the uncomfortable feeling that Lando is much better at this whole being rich thing than she is.
(Lewis announcement)
George doesn’t know why she’s freaking out. Maybe this is better. Lewis doesn’t know everything, he can’t see the fucking future. Even if somedays it feels like he can.
And the rumors are everywhere. Fernando will be her teammate. No, Carlos will. Esteban. Actually Alex.
Does it even matter if Mercedes is sliding back to midfield? Who cares whose her teammates if the fucking car won't fucking drive?
George is drunk and barely standing when she pulls out her phone.
Self:
We should meet-up in Bahrain
Hook-up.
The text comes through the next morning. George had forgotten her own. (EXPAND)
Lando:
????
what are you on about
Self:
Sorry
Don’t read that
He’s already read it, George’s text a last ditch attempt that only serves to reveal her hiding place.
But still Lando’s next response pops up a whole day later.
Lando:
If we do fuck are you gonna be mental again afterwards
Self:
Not if you’re good at it this time around
Lando:
fuck off
brought u to tears didnt i
George thumbs down the message and takes another aspirin, feeling a little bit lighter.
******
She agrees to do a sit down interview with Lando and Alex one of the days they’re all back at their respective factories. Her fingers hover over the email
They’re seated in a pub, probably trying to give them all a more casual “look we’re just like you” feel. Alex is being difficult about it, the way he always is with media.
He insisted on being the ones to read the cards today, not because he even wanted to—Alex would answer in one word responses if he could—but because he knows George is itching to. Knows that she loves to control the flow and ebs of a conversation so of course he has to snatch that from her.
Twat.
Alex is scrunching his nose up at the card. “What is the one race you would re-do if you could?”
George feels a pang of sympathy in her stomach towards Alex and she doesn’t know why they keep writing these questions, knowing how different all their lows are. George decides to jump on the grenade first, maybe they’ll wear out the question before Alex has to answer.
“Well, Singapore obviously,” George says, crossing her arms. “That was a real low moment.”
“No highlights that weekend?” Alex asks innocently. Too innocently. So innocently George knows exactly what he is alluding to and her eyes narrow. Luckily, Lando doesn’t as he turns to Alex, confused.
“No.” She keeps her voice perfectly affable. “No highlights.”
“Hmmm…” Alex pretends to consider this, but George sees the twinkle in his eye. George would murder him if they were off camera. “Cause Lando had a really good weekend, podium and everything. Poor George, didn’t even finish.”
“All right.” Lando laughs a bit awkwardly, clearly thinking Alex has gone too far with the banter even if it is aimed at her. “I think she gets it, mate.”
“Some might say it was so bad she practically didn’t finish twice that ni—“
“Alex!” George exclaims and then catches herself. She can feel Lando’s gaze hot on her cheek and she hopes her concealer covers the pink she feels creeping up her face. “That’s enough about Singapore. Let’s talk about Portugal. 2020.”
It’s mean but Alex must know he deserves it as he takes it in good-humor, listing through a bunch of different disastrous options from his RBR days before spinning the conversation onto Sochi and Lando.
George is twitchy the rest of the interview, but she keeps it contained. She thinks
**************
They go out for actual drinks after (EXPAND)
George pauses. They’re talking quietly and she leans forward to listen.
“How are you doing?” Alex asks. “Since Singapore?”
Lando groans and buries his head in his hands.
Alex laughs and pats him on the back. “That bad?”
“I’m wanking over George Russell, mate. Like daily.” Lando’s voice is pitched high and whiny. “I’m living the nightmare.”
Alex laughs again. “Come on now, don’t tell me that’s the first time you’ve pulled one thinking of George.”
George slides between them, not needing to hear anymore. “Cheers to that.”
(later on)
“Why are you talking to Alex about me?” Lando asks.
George considers him. He sounds actually upset, but it also might just be his usual petulance. It’s hard to tell and Lando’s always walked a very thin line between the two.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Don’t tell any of the grid,” Lando says and it sounds like he’s quoting something, quoting—hang on…
George scrunches her nose. “I don’t sound like that.”
“That was a perfect impression,” Lando says quite snippily.
“Well, I don’t sound like a chipmunk, so no, it wasn’t—
“I haven’t told anyone.” Lando sticks his hands under his armpits and glares. “Like we promised.”
“Ugh…” George drags her hands down her face. “I’m sorry.” The words feel ill-suited to her tongue. She reshapes them, molds them til they fit better. “I’m sorry if me telling Alex hurt your feelings. I didn’t intend for that to happen.”
Lando scowls harder. “That is an awful apology.”
“How about I let you fuck me during testing?” George snaps back. “Is that a better apology?”
“No! You were going to let me do that anyway.”
“Fine. You can tell your friends.” Knowing Lando he’ll decide that friends actually means the media and then she’ll wake up to a headline saying Norris thinks Russell is no fun in bed, needs to work on her sex game. “Or no, actually just Fewtrell. No one else—“
“Ugh. I don’t actually want to tell people, George. You’re literally not that important, I promise.”
It’s harsh and it digs under George’s skin, settling there even as Lando gives her the answer she wanted.
“Then what is your issue? Because it’s Alex?”
“There’s no issue. I’m fine. I just don’t need to tell Max.”
“Well, I really am sorry. I didn’t think you would care.”
Lando snorts. “Come on, at least be honest. You just weren’t thinking about me at all.”
And then he gets in his car and drives away, leaving George all alone in the car park.
guys i want to write a pwp mutual masturbation first time with a man type of scene but i literally dont know what ship to write it for!!!!! please help!?!?? im taking any suggestions!!!
Not really an unpopular opinion but Kimi Antonelli should have stayed in f2 for some years to gain some basic racing etiquette and knowledge because what he does on track is just an angry school boy behaviour
