no idea if you’re still taking fic requests (and absolutely no worries if not!! thank you for your banger writing as is) but if you perhaps are.
I keep reading your lando pussy curse free use thing and drooling it’s everything and I’d love to see that universe explored a bit more? it’d be nice to see what george does in those workout leggings or how oscar gets passed around… or one of the drivers who didn’t get brought up in the og fic even!
anyway keep up the great work your writing is enchanting
in the same verse as this piece <3
It's a matter of convenience, when George wakes up with the curse, to slide into the tightest workout leggings he owns. Without his dick to fill them, underwear just feel strange, so obviously he has to forgo those. It just makes sense. Some people find the loosest things in their closet to hide in. George prefers having everything locked in tight. Sue him.
If it were up to him—and he would never admit it out loud—he would skip over everyone else and head straight to Williams every time he's like this. It's fine, sure, messing about with whoever he happens upon on the way. Fine to have to waddle through the paddock, with an arsecrack full of leggings, and slip into Alex's driver room to wrap it all up. But really. If it were up to George, he'd go to Alex, and he'd let Alex fuck him all morning until they both fall asleep and George wakes up normal again.
Unfortunately, it rarely is up to George. Or fortunately, depending on how you look at it.
Lewis catches him out on his stealthy attempt to navigate the paddock. Lewis says, "I think I have a pair of those," gesturing vaguely at George's leggings, and George lets himself be guided into a Ferrari hospitality toilet. Lewis is always good about it. They've only really fucked about it once; mostly, Lewis likes rubbing his big hand against George's fresh pussy through a layer of fabric. Likes grinding the heel of his palm against him until his thighs are shaking, until he can hear the wet of himself soaking through the lycra. Lewis always makes him come, which is nice. Not everyone is so kind.
Relatedly; it's Max who catches him next. It's George's fault, really, for spotting Lando and dodging mindlessly out of the way; George, personally, gets a bit shy about seeing anyone else who's been cursed recently. He's always a little embarrassed, especially, about the way Alex uses Lando's cunt like a messenger pigeon every time. This is beside the point. The point is that George slips down what he thinks is a deserted alley of the paddock, runs directly into Max Verstappen, and ends up bent over right there with his leggings yanked down around his thighs.
Max doesn't speak to him when they do this. Which is fine by George, but it is annoying that there's no perfunctory oh, shall I wear a condom? Would you rather I don't nut inside of you and make a damn mess of the place? Annoying, but unsurprising. Once Max is done, even, he doesn't speak. Just pulls out, yanks up his ugly khakis, and grunts what could be something in the same solar system as a thank-you.
Whatever.
It's a bit easier after that. Williams isn't all that far, and even though George is squelching with every step he manages to avoid everyone else on his way. He dodges Isack—George is sure he's lovely, but he's not looking to find out today—and Franco—who Lando had talked up with great enthusiasm but again, not today—and then finds himself sneaking through Williams' hospitality without any further incident. Even Carlos doesn't catch him this time.
"I thought someone with wet socks was coming to try to assassinate me," Alex says, the second George shuts the door behind him.
"Do shut up," George says, and lets Alex manhandle him onto his back on the couch.
Alex spends a while doing what Lewis does; rubbing George through his pants, working him up until the wet squelching between his thighs is truly embarrassing. He doesn't get his dick out for a long while, which is always a bit annoying, because George does want it. But it's fine, Alex climbing up between George's legs, hitching his hips down in a parody of fucking. It's gratifying how hard Alex gets. The rigid line of him grinding into George's pussy, pushing the lycra up and in until George might as well be flossing with it.
Eventually, after George has startled himself by coming before Alex even has him bared, Alex sits back. His pupils are blown and his hair is hanging over his forehead, heavy with sweat. He's panting, needy, cupping George's cunt like a stressball.
George says, "Well—" at the same time that Alex says, "Oh, fuck it."
Alex gets both hands between George's legs, crooks his fingers into the seam of the leggings, and pulls.
George makes a noise, furiously turned on. These are some of his favourite pants, he doesn't say. Come to think of it, they're also some of Alex's favourites.
Now, George's pussy is bared to the cold of the room, so wet he shivers the second he's exposed. He means to squirm away but Alex is shoving two fingers inside of him, fucking into him in a weird way that George doesn't understand; his fingers are curled, knuckles dragging against George's insides, but not in a way that is designed to make George feel good.
"Are you—"
Alex pulls his hand away, flicks his wrist. What's left of Max's come splatters the floor.
"I'm not even going to ask," Alex says. It's for the better, probably.
In the next second, Alex's joggers are shoved down, and his cock is out, and George is never so desperately wanting as when he's like this. When he has a cunt for fucking, and Alex's cock is thick and hot and bobbing between them. It feels so right that George should be ashamed of it.
The shame, if there ever was any, escapes him the second Alex fits against him and plunges inside.
George is still so wet that it sounds sloppy when Alex fucks him. Sloppy at first and then sloppier, after Alex comes for the first time. Sloppier still when Alex pulls out, slumping over George's body and pushing his fingers back inside, the pad of his thumb rubbing over and over and over George's clit until all George can do is claw at the back of Alex's head. He's not like this often enough to know if Alex is actually good at this, or if it's just because it's him doing it.
Alex, eventually, gets it up again. He pulls the hole in the crotch of George's leggings even wider, the tight rip of fabric tearing, George's whole body tingling with need or want or something worse. This time Alex fucks him slow, bent right over him so they can kiss, which is something they only do when either of them are like this.
When Alex comes again, it's George who locks his ankles around Alex's hips. It's George who clings to him, holds him close so he won't pull out. He just wants to feel it. The pulse and throb of it, Alex's cock softening slow, slipping out on its own, dribbling a trail of come after it that trickles down between George's arsecheeks and soaks into what's left of the leggings. Alex doesn't seem to mind. He's sleepy, sated. Rubbing his face against George's neck and making some joke that George doesn't catch because he's too busy grinding his clit up against Alex's pelvis until he can make himself come again. He mourns the loss of fullness when he squeezes Alex out with the force of it, but he can't mind so much.
It's another reason that George always bee-lines to Williams when this happens; Alex lets him stay there, clumsily sitting up to pull the shreds of George's leggings off of him, fetching him a pair of gym shorts that George absolutely isn't going to put on until he changes back and cleans up. He makes another joke that George ignores in favour of rolling over to take a nap, waiting for Alex to spoon up behind him before he closes his eyes.
Heloooo Kee! Can we put Galex in a situation, 7 and 13? (Trapped in a room/closet/elevator and Drugged/drunken/sleepy confession)
from this prompt list
"I think I'm in love with you," George slurs.
Alex pauses. He's got one finger hovering over the button for the sixteenth floor.
"I know," Alex tells him. "You said that last time this happened."
George gives him a look that's not all that far off from a kicked puppy.
"But I do," he says, all wobbly voice and wide eyes.
Alex goes back to pressing the elevator buttons, which aren't beeping or lighting up at all. Every time they've stayed at this hotel, this has happened. Every time they come to Spain, they book this same hotel, and every time they expect it to be different.
And this time Alex'd been the one in charge of booking. So he can't even blame George for it.
"I know," Alex says, impatient. They've only been here about five minutes. It usually doesn't take all that long to get going again, but it could be a whole hour stuck in here with George's maudlin ass.
"Alex," George says, piteously.
Alex sighs roughly and abandons the button panel to sit on the floor next to George. He looks a bit silly in his nice chinos and loafers and—cashmere, probably?—sweater, huddled up in the corner of a dim, dirty elevator, still looking at Alex like a kid who's had all of his candy stolen.
Alex plucks his hand out of his lap and winds their fingers together firmly.
"You're very drunk, Georgie," he starts.
"Yes, but—"
"—and you do this every time."
"Well, I—"
"—and we are literally here on vacation together," Alex interrupts. "There's one bed. We've got that big two person jacuzzi. I fed you dessert off my spoon at dinner."
George is quiet for a moment.
"We've been dating for months," Alex says. Because George Russell, after one too many drinks, becomes a fucking amnesiac.
"Oh," George says, suddenly beaming. "Oh. Well, that's nice."
Alex pats his hand consolingly. George is looking down at their twined fingers like he's just won the WDC.
"So," George says, leaning unsteadily closer. "So, do you—you like me?"
"Jesus Christ," Alex says.
The puppy eyes make a reappearance.
"Yes, George, I like you."
He looks a bit like he might cry out of sheer joy. Alex pats his hand again, and George wriggles closer. If the hotel staff doesn't get them out in the next three minutes, he's absolutely going to pass out on Alex's shoulder, and then Alex is going to have to half-drag him to their hotel room.
"I like you too," George says sleepily.
Alex would roll his eyes if there were anyone there to see it.
kinktober day 5 & 6 || sweat/scent kink, body worship || galex
(on ao3)
for @albonoooo, without whom this one would not have come about
How George gets himself worked up like this he’ll really never understand.
He’s seen Alex shirtless about a million times. Seen him completely naked about a thousand. It should follow, then, that it shouldn’t bother him to see it at all, right? Surely so many years of full frontal exposure should’ve desensitized him at least a little.
But here he is. Here they are in this luxe, private sauna, and George is working himself into a right state about it.
The heat looks good on Alex, is all. He looks so comfortable, so relaxed with his head tipped back. The beads of sweat at his hairline are just starting to prickle up and drip, one at a time, down his forehead. His chest is shiny with it already. This vague sheen that George thinks might be nice to run his fingers through. Draw a smiley, maybe, like window condensation.
“I’d tell you looking isn’t free,” Alex says without opening his eyes, “But even if it wasn’t I think you’d still pay for it.”
George averts his eyes instinctively. Again—years, they’ve been doing this, and he still feels like he has to look away when Alex calls him out on it.
When he does look back, Alex’s eyes are open. He looks absolutely tickled. Bastard.
“Not like it’s not even,” Alex says. He says it in this jokey sort of tone, but he’s also checking George out rather obviously.
George forgets that bit, sometimes. That Alex maybe likes looking at him as much as he likes looking at Alex.
“Well,” George says, leaning over to ladle water over the sauna rocks, “I certainly don’t charge.”
It’s a silly thing to say. Absolutely laden with implications. He’d only meant it in—in the Instagram way, how he puts his whole… him out there on public display all the time, but it’s—it makes it sound so much worse when he says it like that. Bloody hell.
“No,” Alex says, amused. “No, you really don’t.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alex pull the towel from around his waist, settle it off to the bench.
“What are you doing,” George says. He’s not scandalized. Really he’s not. Just concerned, isn’t he? That Alex’ll get charged for indecent exposure. Never mind that the cabin they’re in is private, reserved just for them. Also, he’s pretty sure the Finns get naked in the sauna all the time, so.
Damn.
“My balls are sweaty,” Alex says. There’s enough of a whining edge to it that it could almost be believable. If George didn’t know him better. If George didn’t know Alex wanted him to look, look, look.
Well, fine. George looks. Why not?
He wipes sweat from his brow as he works his way up; starts at the bony arches of Alex’s feet, the jut of his ankles. His long, shapely legs, the hair on them, the muscle under tanned skin. The space between his thighs, where his cock hangs soft. He’s seen it before. A thousand times. Seen it in a sauna before, even, so he knows how it looks, longer and heavier with the heat.
It pulls thrills through him like stitches. After all this time, still. Alex has this effect on him.
George huffs. He huffs and he looks away, pulls his own towel from around his hips, tosses it on the floor. There. Now they’re even.
“Well,” Alex says.
George looks at him with as much disdain as he can muster.
Alex is looking back, but his eyes are trailing down George’s body again. Lingering on his chest, between his pecs, gaze so sharp it feels like fingertips on his skin. George imagines he can feel it. Alex’s fingers over his stomach, dipping into his navel. Down to brush along the base of his cock, like he likes to do sometimes.
George doesn’t have the benefit of being an absolute bastard like Alex is. So he’s already halfway to hard of course.
He doesn’t even have to look to know Alex is smirking at him.
It’s annoying, how he knows how this will go. How he starts to move before he even can think about it, crawling across the bench, watching Alex’s arm sling across it in his periphery to welcome him in. He knows what it’ll taste like when he dips to lick the sweat from Alex’s shoulder. He knows how it’ll feel, the texture, when he runs his tongue along the scar on his collarbone. He knows what it’ll sound like, when Alex murmurs, “Georgie,” like he always does.
It’s annoying, but he also knows he can have something like the upper hand. Alex always has the upper hand.
George steps off the bench, gets between Alex’s legs and leans over him with a hand on his shoulder. Bends to lick Alex’s chest, to swipe his tongue across a dark nipple. The taste is familiar but better, somehow. The shower before the sauna has left Alex’s sweat tasting clean and salty and satisfying.
He follows it down. Goes to his knees as he follows the imagined path Alex’s eyes had taken down his own body with his tongue until he makes it to where he wants to be most; where Alex is dark and hairy and musky. Where George can bury his face in coarse curls and rub his cheek against the thickness of Alex’s cock. He’s gotten so hard so fast that George can’t help but feel a little smug about it.
Alex touches his hair and twitches his knees outward, but George doesn’t go for his cock. He pushes his face into the crease of his thigh, where the smell is strongest, where even clean the sweat still smells and tastes so strong. The hair isn’t as thick here but the scent is so much better. George licks him clean at the joint, lets him spread his thighs all he wants.
He goes for his balls next. Alex hadn’t been lying; they’re sweaty as all get out but still, George puts them in his mouth.
“George,” Alex groans. “George.”
George feels a bit crazed with it. Looking up at Alex, sweat dripping down his chest and his taut, flexing stomach. At his face, mouth hung open and eyes half-shut and his cheeks a bright, fevered red.
He watches Alex’s untouched cock twitch, feels it against his brow. It’s so swollen, so hard, looks so big from this angle. Not that he’s going to tell Alex that.
“Georgie, come on.”
George goes to Alex’s other thigh and buries his face there instead, huffing deep breaths of musky skin like he’s starved for it. Alex’s knees are shaking. He’s spread so wide open that he’s slid down the bench, slumped against the backrest, arse slippery with sweat against the polished cedar.
Impulsively, George dips lower, slipping his tongue against the space behind Alex’s balls.
Alex swears and immediately slides down further, tucking his own balls up with a big hand to let George in. And George goes in, licking up the sweat collected between Alex’s arsecheeks, nose pressed to his taint. It’s the sort of heaven he never could’ve dreamt of. Surrounded, warm and sated, all his needs taken care of.
Who’d have thought a bit of rimming could be Paradise?
Alex is saying his name again, and George presses the flat of his tongue against his hole, breathes and tastes and melts. It smells so good. Tastes even better. He wants to tell Alex that bit at least—how good this is for him.
There’s a loud click, abruptly, and then a soft buzz.
Alex says, “Fuck,” and sits up, flailing one arm out for the sauna timer. Just their luck, really.
George swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He’s slick in the cheeks with his own sweat, sticky on his lips and nose. He wants to laugh. At the absurdity of it, at Alex’s absolutely stricken face.
“Better go,” George says, standing, pretending his cock isn’t swinging stiff and proud in front of him when he swipes his towel up off the floor and wraps it around his hips. It doesn’t do all that much for his modesty, really, but there’s no one around to see it.
Alex shoots him a bit of a glare. He’s sweaty and red all over. He’s got a hand wrapped around his cock, flushed purple with want. For a second George thinks he’s going to have a wank right here.
“Right,” Alex says eventually, getting his own towel situated without looking George in the eye. “Won’t do to get heatstroke.”
He gives George a bit of a slap on the arse on the way out and George bites back a grin. Feels like a promise.
