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Max knew he disliked George. Despise, even.
That guy is a mess, calling him a bully in front of the media with those teary eyes, like he wanted the whole world to pity him. Not only that, but he also went around saying things like “I’m not letting him through just because he's Max Verstappen in a Red Bull,” as if George had qualified ahead of him or something. And all other bullshit like saying he lashes out with borderline violence or something that Max didn’t even bother to remember.
Every headline, every clip, every snippet of an interview made Max grit his teeth. Aggressive? Sure. But a bully? Come on. That’s a stretch even by my standards.
His last straw was the interview on media day right before today’s race.
George, with his usual fake gentleman charm, fed the media exactly what they wanted. He told them that Max was too aggressive, too reckless. He even went as far as accusing Max of purposefully trying to crash into him, of putting his “fucking head into the wall.”
The reporters had laughed, scribbled down quotes like it was headline gold. And when it was his turn to face the media, he kept his tone calm. Offended? Absolutely, but he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction of a real reaction. Instead, when someone asked about George’s teary-eyed complaints, he just forced a smile, deliberately giving them a fake one, and said,
“Okay, well, I’ll bring some tissues next time.” which was followed by a dry and brittle laugh.
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the thoughts of George Russell and his goddamned sharp tongue constantly spitting manipulative nonsense from those infuriatingly pretty pink lips ruin his race today. Not when his focus needed to be on the track, on the tyres, on every split-second decision. The media’s noise could wait, and he would show the world that George was just being a baby, and this was simply how the sport worked.
Singapore demands. It demands every ounce of focus, every fraction of control. The humidity pressed down on him like a second fireproof suit, suffocating and relentless. The Marina Bay lights were dazzling but merciless, throwing shadows that twisted with every corner. Each lap was a knife’s edge—hot brakes, blistering tyres, the constant vibration rattling through his chest.
The car hadn’t felt right from the very start. Red Bull had put him on the soft tyre, because apparently they thought they knew better than the him, the driver, who actually sat in the damn car. It was supposed to suit the track better, they’d said. But on a street circuit like this, with traction zones demanding precision and the heat cooking every compound alive, it had been a mistake.
By lap 28, the inevitable came. The grip vanished, the rear twitched, and then his tyre locked. The screeching tires, the blinding sparks, the metallic crunch—it all happened in a split second. The world spun violently around him, metal and rubber screaming in protest. His engineer’s voice cut through the static, but Max barely had time to register it before everything went black.
And then it was nothing.
No sound, no pain, no heat from the engine. Nothing.
When he opened his eyes again, it wasn’t the pit lane or the hospital he expected. Instead, he was standing inside what should have been his own house. The walls, the furniture, even the smell of humidifier lingering faintly in the air. Everything looked familiar… and yet completely wrong.
Max knew this was his house, it just felt a bit… different?
Exhibit one, why does he have tons of adidas shoes on his shoe rack? He sure as hell didn’t remember owning half of these models.
Exhibit two, why was there a set of the same trophies lined up in the living room? A bunch of two trophy with same design, just a different number? had he stolen someone’s trophy? And worse, there were some trophies he didn’t even remember winning.
Exhibit three, why was there a Mercedes cap on his coffee table? Yeah, Toto had been on his ass about joining Mercedes before, but he sure as hell never said yes, and he sure as hell never owned their merch.
Max dragged a hand down his face, trying to convince himself that this was just a blur before he woke up. He remembered the crash: his engineer panicking in his ear, the heat, the violent spin, he’s pretty sure this was just the thin line between reality and dream because he’s in a coma or something.
Still, his legs carried him upstairs, step by step, like a muscle memory he didn’t trust. The hallway looked the same, yet off by half a beat, like someone had copied his house and messed with the details. By the time he reached his bedroom door, his chest felt tight. Maybe if he opened it, the dream would end, he’d wake up in the hospital, or in the pit garage, or anywhere but here. Maybe he’d just fall off a cliff and be done with life and die as a four-times World Driver’s Champion,
but when he opened the door, he just found… himself? or maybe his other self?
Let’s just say it was his other self, and if that wasn’t weird enough, there was also George there.
THAT George Russell. The very one he despised. The very same George Russell whose hair was always perfectly styled, whose goddamn pink lips never stopped sputtering nonsense—lips Max had dreamed more than once about taping shut.
And George Russell, because the universe thinks why the fuck not, was snuggled up to his other self like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Max rubbed his eyes, slapped himself a few times, yet the sight of his other self and George Russell cuddling to each other disgustingly was still there before him.
Still frozen at the doorway, staring at the most bizarre image of his life, his brain managed to form exactly one coherent thought:
What. The. Fuck.
Except maybe he didn’t just think it. Maybe the words actually came out, because his voice was definitely too loud—loud enough that both his other self and George jolted upright in bed, blinking at him in unison like he was the one intruding.
Max’s jaw practically hit the floor while his other self scrambled up from the bed, hair a complete mess, the kind of mess that only came from hours tangled up in someone else’s hands. His skin still carried a faint flush, shoulders and collarbone painted with fading hickeys and scratches that looked too fresh to be old.
and George… for God’s sake, George wasn’t wearing a damn thing, and Max could see everything. His chest was bare and dappled with fresh red marks. The sheet clung low across his hips, barely hiding the curve of his thighs, and even his legs weren’t spared, lined with faint bruises and scattered bites, proof of a night Max didn’t even want to imagine.
He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that when he opened them, the sight before him would disappear. But when his lids fluttered open again, George was still there, alive and horrifyingly real.
Was this karma? Some cosmic punishment for despising George so much? No. No way.
George was a bitchy little princess who loved playing the victim, there’s no way Max should be the one to take the blame for whatever this was. This had to be some kind of test. Like, the trial before they decided if he got to go back to life… or if he was heading straight to heaven or hell. And if this was the trial: being forced to witness naked George Russell tangled up with him on his bed, then God definitely had a sick sense of humour.
But the horrifyingly real George shifted, blinking against the morning light. He squinted: first at Max in the doorway, then at the other Max beside him, before finally opening his mouth.
“Max? Am I seeing things or are there two of you?” George asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
Before Max could answer, his knees just gave out. His vision blurred. His vision short-circuited.
And just like that, Max fainted.
George may be a piece of shit on the track, but Max couldn’t deny the fact that he was beautiful. His face looked like it was sculpted by the most talented sculptor from the ancient Greece. And his body—Max knew George has this habit where he likes to go tops-off and Max had plenty of share seeing George’s body and again, Max had to admit that George’s body is… impressive.
But that’s all he was. George is just another driver, just another rival who happened to have a pretty face and amazing body.
Never in his wildest dreams had Max imagined himself getting cozy with George Russell. If anything, the only thing he imagined about George Russell is making him cry—not those fake teary eyed he shows to the media, and certaintly not… whatever the hell this was.
Anything but this.
Max opened his eyes to the sound of muffled voices. His head felt heavy, like he’d gone ten rounds with his steering wheel, and for a moment he dared to hope that when he blinked the world into focus, he’d be back in the medical unit.
But maybe the universe really like making a joke, because the first thing he saw was George. Still half-naked, still annoyingly beautiful, leaning far too close for comfort with that stupidly smug expression on his face.
“Oh, look who’s awake.” George drawled, eyes glittering with amusement.
Max jolted upright, instinctively trying to shift away from George’s proximity.
“Fuck off,” Max muttered, heat crawling up his neck, before suddenly realizing where he was lying on. His stomach turned as the horrifying truth clicked: this was the same bed. Their bed. Which meant only one thing...
“Oh my fucking god…”
George’s grin widened, catching on immediately. “Relax, Maxie. We changed the sheets, don’t worry.”
Max’s jaw dropped. Speechless.
From somewhere behind him, his older self let out a low chuckle. “Don’t bother. He’ll keep poking until you get used to him.”
Max turned his head to that voice—his voice, but steadier, deeper. His other self was leaning casually against the dresser, arms crossed like this was all perfectly normal. Like waking up to find your rival cuddled up in your bed was no big deal.
“You,” Max pointed at his other self accusingly. “You’re—”
“—You,” His other self finished smoothly.
George laughed at their interaction, way too bright and too genuine. He pressed himself a little closer to his other self’s like he was staking a claim. “Blimey. Two Max Verstappen, huh?”
Max swear he wanted to scream. Or punch something. Or maybe crawl back into unconsciousness until this nightmare went away. His other self, which was acting infuriatingly calm, just sighed. Running a hand through his hair like he’d dealt with this before.
“Alright, that’s enough. George stopped teasing him and… Max? Stop staring like you’re going to eat him alive,” he sighed again before continuing, “Let’s take this downstairs and think it through.”
And somehow, Max found himself at the kitchen table with a coffee mug in front of him, made by THE George Russell. He eyed the mug with suspicion, fingers drumming against the cup cautiously.
George noticed, of course. “I didn’t poison that,” he said, lips twitching like he was holding back a grin. “You can drink it.”
Max shot him a glare but took a cautious sip anyway. The familiar bitterness rolled over his tongue. Exactly the way he liked it. He stole another glare to the Brit who was looking at him with one of his eyebrows lifted.
“See?” George’s grin broke free as he sat next to his other self while his other self just chuckled into his own cup as if this was just another Tuesday.
“So,” George said at last, “You’re from 2024?”
Max nodded slowly, “The last thing I remember was racing in Singapore and I had a crash.”
George’s brows shot up. “Crash? That’s different,” he tipped his head toward his other self who was sitting next to him, “this guy right here finished P2.”
Max whipped his head toward his older self, who only shrugged with that maddeningly calm expression. Silence stretched between them, broken only by George sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just dropped the weirdest fact in the world.
Finally, his other self leaned forward, all seriousness. “Look. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. It’s summer break. You stay here for now, keep a low profile. We’ll think rationally and fix this.”
Max wanted to argue, to throw the mug across the room, to scream that none of this was rational. But instead, he just hunched lower over his coffee, muttering under his breath. At least, his other self was being rational about this. Not just cackling and enjoying the show like some smug bastard—which, honestly, Max half-expected from himself.
They had breakfast after that. Max still clung to the hope that this was all a dream. But just as he was about to take another bite, George’s voice cut through the morning calm.
“Two of you and one me. Bit unfair, don’t you think?”
He said airily, a playful smile plastered all over his face—the kind Max desperately wanted to wipe off—leaning just a little too close to his other self, who, once again, seemed perfectly fine with it. Max gritted his teeth.
“Pathetic.”
George’s head snapped toward him, eyes glittering, lips twitching like he wanted to bite back. “Careful, Max,” he said, voice dropping just low enough to crawl under Max’s skin. “You’re in our house.”
Max bristled. His mouth opened, ready to spit back something sharp, but his other self had cut him. “Enough, both of you.”
George laughed, too genuine, too bright. The kind of laugh that Max hated even more because it made him look devastatingly pretty. He tipped his head, still leaning into his other self.
And the worst part? Max couldn’t stop looking.
He couldn’t stop noticing the way George’s hand lingered, the way his other self didn’t move away, the marks still peeking above George’s collarbone like proof.
Then George stood up, collecting the plates from the table with that infuriating ease. “I’ll just rinse these, yeah?” he said lightly, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his other self’s temple, “You two seem to have a lot to catch up on,” he continued, all while never breaking the eye contact with Max. His gaze stayed locked on Max, sharp and taunting, like he knew what exactly what he was doing. Like he was saying look what I’ve got, Verstappen.
Max’s grip on his mug tightened, knuckles white. He’s doing this on purpose. Fucking peacock.
The next few days passed in a haze of odd normality.
Max mostly stayed out of the way, lurking in the hallways or the kitchen, watching his other self move through the house with an ease that was both familiar and foreign. George hovered nearby, ever the infuriating presence, grinning at the way things flowed—or more accurately, at the way he could make things slightly inconvenient for Max.
George had a habit of pushing buttons, this, he knew very well before he stranded here in… what, distant future? Or another universe? He didn’t know, and at this point, he didn’t want to learn about it because he still hoped that all of this was just a dream, a trial, anything but reality.
So, this wasn’t new. George had always been a step too close under Max’s umbrella, grinning too wide for Max’s liking, saying bullshit that made Max clench his jaw. However, back then, it had been about racing: who could take the best racing line, who got the fastest lap, who could shove the other off the track without getting caught by the marshals. This, it was worse. So much worse.
George didn’t just push buttons—he lingered a second too long when handing a plate, leaned a fraction too close when Max reached for something, or brushed his fingers “accidentally” along Max’s hands.
And every night, Max lay in bed, mind unwillingly replaying each interaction. Every brush of skin, every teasing word, every grin, every little movement designed to frustrate him.
This is insane. I hate him. Fuck him and his pretty long lashes.
By the end of the week, Max had learned a few things: First, George, even in this… situation, is still a pain in the ass. Second, George, five years older, is ridiculously, infuriatingly, and unbelievably hot—not that Max would admit it out loud. And third, he knew he was screwed as fuck because he was paying far too much attention to George and his stupid mind games than he should have.
Today is the eighth day since he ended up here and still no fucking clue of how to get back.
Every morning felt like a repeat of the last: waking up, brushing his teeth, staring at the same familiar yet off walls, and wondering if this was some trial for him before entering heaven or an alternate universe designed specifically to torment him. And now, as the day stretched ahead, it seemed like it would be just another one of those endless, indistinguishable days: breakfast went as usual and the hours dragged on with nothing to report, and Max braced himself for a dinner that would probably feel just as painfully normal.
And it did.
Plates clattered, utensils scraped, his other self chatted away like nothing was unusual. Max poked his food trying to focus entirely on his plate, pretending not to notice George across the table, who seemed far too relaxed and as always, a little too close to his other self, as if Max wasn’t even there.
Until he felt it. Something under the table.
At first, it was subtle—a light nudge of George’s foot against his ankle. Max flinched, but George smiled innocently. Maybe an accident, Max told himself.
But then it kept going, a deliberate brush. Another nudge. And again. Each touch lingered a second too long, traveling just far enough to make Max’s stomach twist. Becoming bolder by each time his foot brushing higher along Max’s leg under the table. Max’s jaw tightened. His hands gripped the fork like a lifeline when George’s knee nudged almost dangerously close to… well, places it shouldn’t, until Max couldn’t take it anymore.
He snapped upright, clearing his throat, “Let me wash the dishes,” he muttered, trying to mask the way his body reacted.
George chuckled softly, eyes glittering with amusement, “How kind of you, Max.” he said innocently, as if he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the faint, knowing smirk on his lips tells otherwise.
Max ground his teeth. I want to shut the hell out of that mouth.
After dinner, which was enduring whatever little game George Russell had been playing under the table, Max found himself wandering toward the shelf, his eyes catching the trophies lining it. Some were familiar, some he didn’t remember winning, and some pair that were identical in design, just with a different number engraved.
He pointed at one particular pair. “Who’s who?”
George who was lounging on the couch, look up to him with that infuriating smirk, “Do you want the bitter truth or the sweet lie?”
“Just tell me already.” Max snapped, unable to hide the twitch of irritation in his voice.
George’s blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Mine’s the red one.”
Max blinked, then looked at the trophy. The red one was engraved with the number one. “Huh, so you did beat me. Bet It cost my car?”
“It doesn’t but it does cost your sanity.”
“How about this?” He pointed at another pair of same trophies with different number, “Which one’s mine?”
“The smaller one is yours,”
“You’re lying, aren’t you?”
George laughed, that low, teasing chuckle that made Max grit his teeth, then he stands up and walked toward him, deliberately closing the distance. He leaned just a little too close, enough for Max to feel the heat of him without meaning to and let his hand brush Max’s shoulder lightly.
Max swallowed hard, “Keep your hands to yourself, Russell,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous—but there was a twitch in his tone, a betrayal he refused to acknowledge.
George tilted his head, “Oh? But you seemed tense, no?” he asked, voice coated with fake concern, like he wasn’t the reason of whatever the hell is this. Before Max could respond, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the tension.
“Cut it out, George.”
It was his other self that snapped the moment in two.
George pulled his hands back from Max’s shoulder, raising them both as if he’s surrendering, “My! I was just helping you, here” he said, voice thick with false sweetness with a grin that was anything but innocent.
Max could see his other self’s jaw tightened, “Well, it’s almost 10, let’s go to bed, yeah?”
Max’s fingers twitched without him realizing it. Something inside him bristled; pride bruised, irritation flaring.
What the hell is this guy? I’m not some kid who has to go to bed at ten.
His jaw tightened as he turned away, forcing his gaze elsewhere, but even that felt futile. George’s smirk, the easy confidence of his other self, it nagged at him, a quiet, infuriating pull he couldn’t shake.
Tonight marked the tenth day since he had been stranded here. Still no fucking clues, only George fucking Russell pushing his buttons harder than ever.
He wanted to hide. Really hide. Curl up somewhere safe, away from the teasing, the smirks, the weight of George’s gaze. But every time he tried, George would catch his eyes, grin, and lean a little closer, letting the tension coil tighter around him.
Max couldn’t deny it anymore—he was completely caught in George’s orbit, trapped by the pull he’d been stubbornly ignoring.
He tugged at his hair in irritation, releasing a heavy, exasperated sigh. Then he stepped outside, about to grab a glass of water, to clear his mind, when noises drifted from the room across the hall—the one where his other self and George were supposed to be sleeping.
He froze. He shouldn’t go there. Every rational part of him screamed to turn back, but his legs moved before his brain caught up, as if drawn by some cruel magnetic force.
The door was slightly opened. Max didn’t want to peek, didn’t want to see—but his elbow brushed it accidentally. The door swung wider, and the room spilled into view.
What he saw made his stomach twist, his heart pound, every nerve in his body scream.
He shouldn’t stare, but he really couldn’t help it. Every rational thought screamed at him to look away, to run, but his eyes were glued to the sight of George Russell who was so vulnerable.
His other self caught who caught him staring opened his mouth, voice low and playful, “My, Georgie baby, look who’s here.”
Max’s stomach twisted. Panic, frustration, and something else entirely roiled inside him. He wanted to turn away, to flee, but his body refused to obey.
“What? Didn’t you dream of this? Shutting his mouth, ruining his pretty lips?” His other self asked him, raising his left eyebrows, as if inviting him.
“Max…” George whines, he fucking whines his name, even though it wasn’t meant for him, but it was still his name, and he sounds so, so sweet and desperate.
Max paused, still frozen on the doorstep, swallowed hard.
“Does he… wants this?” he asked his other self, voice low, cautious.
A smile curved on the other Max’s lips, “I guess you’re about to find out.” Then his other self turned his gaze to George, “Baby, he’s asking you. Go on, Answer him.”
George didn’t answer, he just whined again, shifting slightly, eyes glinting with mischief and desire. George tried to turn his head, wanting to look away from Max’s burning gaze but the other Max held his chin, forcing him to keep looking at Max.
Then his other self leaned closer to George, his lips brushing near George’s ear, voice low and teasing, “What do you think, George? Hmm? Do you want it? Both of us at the same time?”
George’s response was slow, deliberate—but unmistakable. He nodded, eyes half-lidded, lips parting just enough to promise trouble.
And it switched something inside of Max’s gut.
Before he even realized it, he stepped closer to the bed, every step tinged with hesitation, as if unsure whether he should cross the line or not, but George was like a magnet, and Max couldn’t help being drawn in. He hovered at the edge of the bed for a heartbeat—until George, seeing his hesitation, reached out, pulled him in, and crashed their lips together.
It wasn’t smooth nor was it careful. It was wet and sloppy. Hot and messy. Their teeth knocked at each other, lips pressing into each other. George’s tongue moves around his mouth, flicking each of his teeth with deliberate mischief. Max groans, hated that George had control of him.
Because holy shit—this was George Russell. His rival. The boy who had called him a bully. The boy whose mouth Max had fantasized about taping shut more times than he could count.
Now, that same mouth was warm, insistent, and pressed against his like it belonged there.
Max made a desperate sound, low in his throat, caught between confusion and want. His brain screamed what the hell are you doing?! but his body leaned in anyway. His hands found George’s waist. Gripped. Tugged. Pulled him closer. Not wanting to be dominated by him.
George gasped into the kiss, startled for a second—and then melted, giving in completely.
And Max kissed him like he was making up for every second he’d spent pretending he didn’t want this. Like he didn’t want him.
The other Max chuckled, clearly amused of the sight in front of him. He then places gentle kisses on George’s nape. His hands steady and possessive around George’s hips. Biting his neck, leaving bruises and marks across George’s nape and shoulder. His hands trailing along George’s back—which made George moans between his kiss with Max.
Max pulled away first, chest heavy, still reeling from what had just happened. He was mid-thought, trying to make sense of his racing heart, when George suddenly pressed him back against the bed, hands quick and confident, tugging his shirt over his head.
Max threw his head back, a shiver running down his spine, as George’s lips began their deliberate exploration. Soft kisses here, lingering licks there, tracing the contours of his now bare torso. Every touch was calculated, teasing, until George’s mouth travelled lower, hovering just above the waistband of Max’s pants, sending a jolt straight through him.
George looks up to Max who was still high from the kiss, gave Max a cheeky smile, then took of his jeans with his hands in a hurried movement and then— George fucking Russell had the audacity to bite on his boxer, with deliberate and slow motion, he pulls them down, all while keeping his gaze to Max. And when his boxers somehow finally came off, his cock sprang free, hitting George’s face.
George laughs, “My, hard already?” he teased as his hands firmly wraps around his hard cock. Stroking it up and down, slow, each stoke sent shivers along his spine.
Max groans and trembles at the sight. Every nerve In his body telling him to pull away. This was George Russell. His rival. His nemesis. He shouldn’t let himself fall into this, but when he felt the warmth of his mouth on his cock, all of those thought shatters—replaced by something so twisted, something between desire and humiliation.
Max looks up at George and, fuck him, really.
That mouth, that pretty pink lips, the very one who likes to sputter bullshit about him, are now wrapped around the tip of his cock. His head going up and down, taking Max cock slowly at first. His cheeks hollowed while trying to took Max’s cock even deeper to his throat. Then his head starting to move to a faster rhythm, he could hear the sound of George’s lips hitting his cock. So sinful yet addicting.
Max could feel it coming. He groaned, mouth murmuring between fuckfuckfuck and George’s name like a chant. He was close, so fucking close—until he could no longer felt the warmth around his cock.
“What the…?” He looks at George hazily, his chest panting.
“Now, Max, where do you want to cum? On my face? On my chest?” He said, innocently, and George— fucking George Russell then deliberately gave Max’s blueballed cock a slow, kitten lick, right from the base right to his tips, licking the pre-cum that’s leaking from it and smeared it on his own lips.
Maybe It was George’s swollen pink lips smeared with his pre-cum and his flushed cheeks, or maybe it was the way drools was running down on his chin, still connected to the tip of his cock, or maybe his stupid eyelashes that flutter innocently as he made a remark that made Max finally snapped.
“Hmm? Tell me, Max.”
And with that, something animalistic possessed him: he grabbed—pulled George’s hair and shoved his cock deep, deep. Hard and careless.
George’s gasped and gagged immediately at Max’s action. His nail digging into his thigh, as a pathetic way of fighting back, but Max doesn’t care. He moved George’s head up and down, to the base of his cock, yanked him back up and slammed him back again.
He could hear George’s muffled groans on his cock, but he doesn’t care. George was always pushing his buttons, and now he had enough. That lips who was always sputtering bullshit are now wrapped prettily around his cock and seeing George glaring at him, while tears forming around his eyes, it felt like a sweet, sweet reward for Max.
As Max was drowning deep into pleasure, fucking his cock Into George’s mouth, the other Max shift himself behind George’s back. His mouth trailing near George’s thigh, giving them soft yet possessive kisses right around his entrance, not quite there, but enough to make George high from the contrast of the brutal fucking on his face and the soft licks around his hole.
The other Max then landed a slap on George’s cheek—which was returned by a muffled scream from George.
“You think I wouldn’t notice how you looked at both of us like a fucking slut?”
Another slap echoed through the room.
The other Max grabbed a lube from the bedside table and coats his fingers with it. Then slowly, he pushes one fingers through George’s hole. Max could feel George’s scream on his cock but still, he shoved his head deeper to his cock. Ignoring the Brit’s muffled plea.
“You can take two, right?” The other Max asked George, which was more like a statement instead of a question because then he puts another finger inside George before he could answer.
George’s hands now gripping on his thigh, trying to support himself from the pleasure that is about to burst inside of him. Max could feel his cock throbbing inside George’s mouth. He was close, really close. He tightens his grips on George’s hair, moving his head up and down carelessly, every tug closer to his orgasm—
and with a final tug, he came.
He growled from the lingering warmth on his cock, his body burning from the swallowing movement on George’s throat. He released his grips on George’s hair and pulls out his cock, slapping it across George’s cheek a few times. Some of his release that weren’t swallowed were smeared on George’s swollen lips.
When Max pulled away, George’s plea finally came through as his other self was still moving his finger cruelly inside George. “F-fuck, Max s-stop please, I can’t—Nggh, Ahh—fuck! I can’t, I can’t—Max please, your fingers—too much, Ah—ah!”
But his other self just laugh and curls his digits even deeper on George, trying to find the spot. And when he did, George scream echoed through the room. He chuckled and quickened how his fingers moved inside George. Fast and precise, hitting the spot that make George’s toes curls.
The other Max knew George was close, so he leaned in closer to his ears and whispers, “Come for us, baby, I know you can.”
And he did came. Untouched.
George’s back arched, his whole body trembling, eyes rolled until only the white were seen, Max’s name coming out from his mouth like a war cry.
“Fuck… Georgie, you’re such a whore, aren’t you?” He said as he pulls out his fingers and landed yet another slap to George’s ass, “Our slut.”
George was still lying limp, his whole body trembling from pleasure, sandwiched in between Max and the other Max. George’s chest rose and fell, still trying to catch his breath when Max heard his other self’s voice cut through room.
“You can have him first,” His other self told him, moving away from George’s back, “His needy hole now all loose and prepped.”
Hearing that, Max then adjust their position. He settle himself between George’s legs then he positioned his cock—who’s hard again now—in front of George’s entrance. He could feel George’s hips grinded against his cock and Max, as much as Max wants to shove his cock inside and see George lose his mind, there’s something else he wanted.
“Beg for It first.”
And it was George begging.
He could hear his other self laugh, amused from his sudden boldness. But he was far too high on whatever this was too care about that.
He wanted George to beg. He wanted that lips to say sinful things, he wanted that mouth who used to call him a bully, begs for him. For his cock.
George, on the other hand, could only whines, which was cut sharply by his other self, “You heard him, Georgie, beg.”
Hesitantly, a sweet plea finally came out from George’s mouth, “Please, Max…”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me,”
It was sweet, honest, and desperate, but Max wanted something more.
“You were so good at badmouthing me to the media, but now? Not so talkative, are you?” Max grabs George’s jaw, locking his gaze into George’s teary eyes, “Tell me how much you need it, George.”
His other self laughs even louder now. “Go on, Georgie, tell him, tell us,”
Max could feel George moving restlessly, his hips grinding like a wild animal in heat on his cock.
“Please— please fuck me, fill me up, I-I need It, please Max, ruin me— ruin my hole, make a mess on my hole with your cock, please, I need it.”
And with that, Max grips George’s hips, and with a slow motion, Max thrust his cock Inside George’s and It felt… so fucking good. George was clenching around his cock, so warm and tight. So perfect.
George’s back arched, his legs trembling from the sensation of being filled up. His eyes rolled and his eyelashes fluttered. His hands tried to grab Max’s arms, his own hair, the bedsheets, anything to steady himself.
“F-fuck! Max, you’re too big, I-I can’t!” George’s nails now digging into the bedsheets, anchoring himself from the pain and the pleasure.
“Breathe, George. You can take It.”
“I fucking can’t—“
“Yes, you can, princess.” Max leaned at George, placing kisses on his face, licking tears that falls from his eyes. Max’s free hand now wraps around George’s cock, stroking it slowly, trying to distract George from the pain.
“You were made for me, for my cock, right?”
George whimpers at Max’s words, “Hold me, please—Max,”
And who is Max to refuse such a sweet plea?
So Max lets George wraps his hands around his neck and pulls him into a kiss, now not so messy, but still sloppy and bot. He could feel the saltiness from George’s tears on his lips but he consumes all of it like it didn’t mattered.
After a while, George’s tensed body finally relaxed. George was starting to move his hips, as if signalling Max to move. But he needed word.
“George, can I move?”
George nodded slowly, “Please.”
Fuck Max and his goddamned red bull car, really. He never knew George could be so, so sweet at his mercy like this. Should’ve done it sooner, Max told himself.
With that permission, Max starts to move his cock on George’s hole. He pulls away slowly at first, then sank back in. As George’s moan grows even louder, he quickened his movement, trying to find the spot—and when he hit it, George’s back arched, toe curling
“Max! Fuck—Nggh—Ah!”
He could feel George’s nails digging into his back, leaving scratches but he couldn’t care less about that now. Seeing George’s eyes rolled back, he continues to hit that spot again, deliberately making the Brit screams for pleasure under him.
“Fuck George, you’re so pretty, so beautiful.”
He never knew he would said it out loud, but he did, because how could he not?
George was trembling, moaning loudly and shamelessly. It sounds so, so dear to Max’s ears. He was completely at his mercy as he keeps hitting that spot in a cruel pace. Not letting the Brit breathes even for a beat.
“Max—Max, please, please,”
“Please what, George?”
“I don’t fucking know!” George yelps, “Just—please,”
Max groaned, “You should know what you’re asking for, George.”
He pushes his hair back and hooked one of George’s leg to his shoulder. The position made Max’s cock go even deeper. Hitting that spot even harder.
“Max, please, Nghh—I can’t, I can’t—please!”
He places kisses on George’s legs on his shoulder, “You can, George.”
The other Max who watched the whole scene shifted slightly, moving closer to George’s mouth. His voice sharp and low cut through the sinful sound filling the room,
“I’m a little sad, you guys look like you’re having fun without me.”
He then kneels right beside George’s face and his own dick to George’s opened mouth. George gagged immediately. His free hands slapped the other Max’s thigh pathetically, tears forming again at the corner of his eyes.
“Take It, Georgie, I know you can.”
The other Max grabs a handful of George’s hair and starts to move his hips, shoving his cock in and out in a sloppy rhythm.
The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room and the sound of George’s gagging, mingling with the creak of the bed beneath them, The air was thick, heavy, and hot from their bodies pressed together, every movement sending each of them to a heaven of pleasure.
His other self groaned and pulls his cock out, “Wanna come inside you,” then he shift away from George and Max. Watching his George and his younger self grinding into each other like animals in heat
Max’s thrust was even more feral now, he pulls out only to slam back in. Hard and deep, no mercy. The sound of their skin slapping also grew louder in the room. Max could feel George’s inside clenching even tighter on his cock now as his cock grow bigger, throbbing from the pleasure. Max groans and slams his cock even faster now, his grips on George’s hips now are firm, unyielding.
“Max—Max, I’m going to come, please!”
Max looks down at George’s untouched cock—and grabs it, stroking it at a cruel pace, which was returned by the Brit screams. “Max! Fuck—I’m close, please—please, Max!”
With a final thrust, George came. His back arched, toes curling, legs trembling. White spilled all over Max’s hands. His mouth were wide open, incoherent scream came out from it.
Max didn’t stop. He keeps thrusting into George, catching his own release. He could feel George’s inside clenching around his cock—and he came inside George with a loud groan.
“Fuck…”
He pulls out and white spilled from George’s hole. So fucking beautiful.
George, on the other hand was still overstimulated and high from his release, every nerves on his body burned with ecstasy, he could barely keep up with his own breath when he heard a voice cut through his hazy mind, “You can still keep going, right?”
It was small, but he nodded.
The other Max smiled, “Good.”
George felt his body who was lying down be handled to the other Max’s laps, he’s now on his knees and Max’s other self was behind him, while Max was still under George.
George could feel his cock brushed with Max’s cock under him, which sent shiver up down his spine.
George was still collecting himself from the sensation when he felt one single and cruel thrust, another cock filled his inside again. “Max! Don’t—Stop, fuck!”
The other Max lets out a low laugh, “Are you saying I should stop or…?”
George shook his head, “No—no, stop—don’t stop— Max, please.”
“Use your words correctly, princess.”
“Don’t stop, Max… Please…”
“That’s more like It.”
Then his other self starts to thrust mercilessly to George. Fast and calculated. Hitting the spot that makes his toes curls over and over again. And George was taking his thrust behind him like he was made for it.
George was about to fall on him when Max catches his body, “Steady, princess.”
His other self laughed and groaned at George’s ears. “God you’re so beautiful, such a slut for us.”
Every nerve, every inch of his body burned, raw and exposed, as if his skin had been peeled open just to feel. The body heat lingered cruelly, sparking down his thighs, curling low in his stomach, pulling tight with a hunger that refused to quiet.
His chest heaved, each breath dragging rough through his throat, lips swollen, tongue tasting of them. Every thrust, every stroke, every touch laid onto his body had him twitching, body betraying him with needy shudders. Too much yet he still wants more.
He whimpered before he could stop himself, hips shifting like his body was still searching, chasing something he knew he shouldn’t want but couldn’t turn away from. His skin hummed, slick and sensitive, every mark carved into him burning like a brand.
George was trembling, ruined, and yet the ache in him only deepened, greedy and unrelenting.
“You were made for me, for us.”
The other Max groaned at George’s ears. His movements turning rougher, more desperate, driving into George with an unrelenting rhythm. George cried out, body giving in as pleasure crashed over him, spilling against Max for the third time that night.
Max’s other self’s grip on George’s waist tightened, fingers digging hard enough to promise bruises. His rhythm faltered into something rougher, less precise; driven more by desperation than control. Each thrust grew wild, almost feral, as he chased his release. And then, with one final, deep, merciless snap of his hips— he spilled into George, shuddering against him,
“Fuck… So good for us, Georgie, you’re so good.” he groaned, voice thick and ragged, filling the room.
His other self then pulls out and collapsed, releasing his grips from George’s waist. Without that support, George’s legs gave way, his hands that had been tangled with Max’s slipped, no longer able to hold on, and he collapsed against him completely.
The three of them sank into the sheets, chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat, lungs working overtime as they caught their breath. For a long moment, only the sound of uneven breathing filled the room, the silence heavy and air hot.
It was George who stirred first, a soft shiver running through his body. His skin was still damp, sensitive, marked everywhere with proof of what had just been done to him. That was enough to push them into motion again.
They moved George to the shower, guiding him under the warm spray. Max’s other self stood close, hands firm but gentle, making sure George was steady, while Max hovered nearby, heart hammering, fingers twitching, nervous but determined to help.
His other self gave him a nod, “You should help him too, Max.”
Max swallowed hard and followed his other self. He was a little clumsier, fingers brushing over George’s skin with hesitant care, yet every inch of him was tended to, head to toe, each touch deliberate yet gentle, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.
George leaned into them, letting out soft sighs of relief and pleasure, trusting them completely. The closeness was dizzying, his Max protective, quietly possessive, and the not yet his Max frustrated, twitching at every teasing glance George threw him, yet unwilling to step back. He lets out a little laugh at the two of them.
George let out a little laugh, light and teasing. “Come to think of it… maybe it isn’t so unfair having two of you after all.” he said, his voice rough but still cheeky, eyes sparkling with mischief, clearly enjoying the attention from both Max.
By the time they finished taking care of George: drying him off and helping him into fresh clothes,his other self had already carried George to bed.
Max was about to follow them when his foot slipped on the slick bathroom tiles.
The world tilted violently. Tiles, the sink, the shower—they all blurred and stretched, colours smearing into one another. He tried to grab something, anything, but the edges of reality seemed to melt beneath his hands.
Then it was nothing.
Black. Nothing.
Silence—until a faint beeping pierced through the haze. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust with the light. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the bathroom.
It was… a hospital?
He gets up slowly and he could see himself wrapped in a blue robe. There’s an IV on his left hand. It was definitely a hospital.
He looked around, nothing weird—until he noticed a fruit basket, sitting neatly on the side table. It was obnoxiously colourful, and worst of all, it was tied with a silver-blue scheme ribbon. There’s a note taped to the top and he knows the handwriting before he reads it.
The race’s quite boring without someone trying to put my head in a fucking wall — G.R.