i’m obsessed w ur mean dom george and his boy scout knots, even more so w the events of this weekend and the weird amount of flirting him and max have been doing recently!! i could totally be barking up the wrong tree with gax vibes but they have been really fun this year
Okay forgive me nonny for typing directly into the answer box, the typos will be horrendous, but I'm in a tiny french café right now and unfortunately dom george gax has seized my mind so:
Max Verstappen propping up the VIP bar at the Bellagio is not George's problem at 9.04 on Monday, when his hangover is beating a tattoo between his eyebrows that even his largest pair of sunglasses can't hide. His GPDA hours are strictly 9-5, Wednesday through Sunday. On Mondays, he gets peace, he gets quiet, he gets to order precisely one hair of the dog Bloody Mary and crunch through the celery in private.
Max orders another gin and tonic without tearing his eyes from the door, and George sighs.
He'd texted himself, last night, somewhere between the first club and the second. Assumed, naturally, that Danny's one-man tour of the US would have to hit Vegas for Max's fourth, even if he was conspicuously absent from the race itself. But when he checks now, there's still no reply.
His "G'morning" rumbles out, frightfully inarticulate, throat still whisky-burnt. Max spares him a bleary glance.
"Is it?" He sounds dopey drunk. His mouth looks sticky. George's mum loves a G&T too; she used to tuck him in at night, suddenly fond and warm and cuddly, and the smell would tickle his nose, comforting and disorienting in equal measure. It's never the gin that lingers, always the lime and the lemon. Max should switch to Hendricks, with its cucumber twist. It would suit him better.
"Are you staying here?" he asks. Max blinks, makes a nod that's half a shrug. Good enough. "Are you packed? When's your flight?"
"It's my plane," Max says mulishly, like he hasn't got at least three friends - or maybe it should be colleagues at this point - booked in for AirMax. Not George, of course. George is travelling with Toto. He's quite looking forward to it, ten hours in quiet approval, thumbing through The Times on an iPad, starting from the Sport section.
He doesn't bother pointing out the obvious, but he does allow himself a couple of disapproving tuts. It's surprising when Max's shoulders curl, slightly, a flush crawling up from under the collar of his hideous team jacket.
George checks his watch. He's got time, he supposes, to play the good Samaritan.
(When Max's red eyes flick back to the door, he thinks he might've done it anyway, his fifteen minute buffer be damned)
"Let's get you to bed, then, shall we?" It doesn't take much to haul Max upright. They're all easy enough to throw about, if you've got the strength. But he's not expecting Max to tuck into his side, nod into his shoulder and chest.
He manoeuvres them both to the lifts with minimal interruption, which is a relief. Max is more pliable than at the bar, but practically useless. He's on one of the keycard-only floors, because of course he is, four time champ and maddeningly casual about it. George has to rummage through his pockets for it; Max makes an insultingly shocked noise when George slides long fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. "Don't get excited," he scolds.
Something twitches under his fingertips. The firm hard line of the keycard is nudged into his grip.
George raises his eyebrows, tilts his chin, and turns to tap it, secure their no-stop ride through a ludicrous number of floors.
Then he spins back, and Max's inordinately large mouth is fastened to his jaw.
Detaching him takes some effort. "We are going to bed," Max argues, as George cranes his neck away.
The lifts had seemed too big before, American big, a fun house of mirrors exaggerating the gilt and gaud of it all. Now he could do with a couple of square miles more between him and the drunk determined look in Max's eye.
He's looking straight at George, but not like he's ever looked at him before. There's nothing to recognise in those eyes.
("I saw Max in the bar," he'll tell media in three days, a wry smirk on like cheap perfume. "But he didn't see me." And then he'll get the recognition he wants, surprise and a flicker of heat, quickly doused. A bit mean, to do it for the cameras. But he'll know by then, that Max likes it mean.)
"No," he says now. He fits his hand across Max's chest, between the swell of his pecs. Palm against his sternum, thumb and fingertips pressed to his collarbones. The span of it makes Max look small. His eyes have gone lidded.
"No," he says again, and presses firmly. Max is lax against the mirrored wall, mouth still open. Drunk, but neither of them are passing a sobriety test right now. George's driver is probably getting a coffee right now, checking the time. George won't make him wait. He's considerate like that.
Four floors zip by in quick succession.
"Not until I say," he tells Max, firm. Forgiving.
He steps into Max's space slowly. Makes him wait, straining against the pressure of George's hand, until he deigns to lean down and lick into that gin-sour mouth.
Max is sloppy, uncoordinated. George keeps his hand where it is but lets Max grab at his waist, his arse. He grinds like a puppy when George slips a thigh between his, but his dick's either even smaller than the paddock gossip says, or suffering from one too many doubles.
It doesn't matter. It's always been enough for George to be wanted. To grant, or withhold.
It doesn't even sting now, when they're surprised to want him. All of his victories will always be a shock.
He stops Max from straying up his jawline or down his neck. He doesn't want to spend his flight sticky, grime against the prickle of a fresh shave. Keeps it to kissing, a light nip at Max's bee-stung bottom lip when he gets pushy.
He's got one eye on the dial, though, so when the door opens on Max's floor, with its implausible colonnade, George has stepped back, just a friendly finger and thumb holding Max's chin. The blue of his irises has almost disappeared behind the black of his pupil.
"Bed," George orders, sharp, and Max stumbles out with more speed than George thinks he'd get sober. Sober Max would fight all the way down; it'd take hours to get him sweet. It'd be time well spent.
He follows at his own pace, pleased to see Max holding the door open for him, hands shoved deep into his pockets in a poor show of casualness. It's lost the second George steps inside and Max is on him again, fingers scrabbling to pull George's shirt out of his pressed slacks.
When he pushes Max off this time, he wraps his hand against the base of his throat. Squeezes, just a little.
"Shirt. Jeans. Off. Bed," he orders, clipped and quiet. Max looks delightful when they hit home, stunned and open and young. George quite badly wants to put his thumb on Max's tongue, watch him drool around it. But he's being good; he's got a plane to catch. He holds himself still for the clumsy minutes it takes Max to comply, waits until Max is flat on the bed, duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed.
Bless him, he's still soft in his boxers. But his face is enough for George to know.
Daniel had liked it too, when George had put him on his back and told him to stay still. That cocky grin wiped off his face for a long minute, brown eyes blown wide. Maybe that's their problem, Max and Danny. No one to give the orders.
He allows himself just this: a trail of fingers, up the length of Max's leg, over the meat of his thigh, the softness of his stomach. A flick against a hard nipple, and a light chuckle at the full body jerk Max makes under him.
And then, with a flourish worthy of a Vegas magician, he yanks the duvet up to Max's neck. "Sleep it off, you madman."
Max's fury is a series of choked, inarticulate noises George would relish extracting in other circumstances. Luckily, Max has not regained any of his mobility; he fights against the duvet, but George has easily enough time to tuck himself up against his waistband, hidden by the fall of his trousers, and make it to the door.
"Congratulations again," he throws back, before it closes behind him. He finds he means it.
He's on the pavement, monogrammed carry on in hand, just as his driver pulls up. He makes a note to tell Alex, with some elisions. He could use a reminder of the value of punctuality.
There's a sign on the freeway, just before the airport. "What happens in..." and so on. Somehow, he's not convinced Max will see it that way come Qatar. But-
It lingers, the sight of Max's face. Not spitting angry, or dumb with lust, the need to submit. But tired and empty and hopeful nonetheless, eyes fixed on the entrance of the bar.
Disappointed not to see you in Vegas, he texts Daniel as Toto and Susie settle in opposite him. You should make it up to me.
That, Danny replies to.
to my winner? 👅👅💦
Yes, George types. Both of us.
