Work Text:
Before entering the meeting room, George ran into an acquaintance he hadn't seen in a long time.
— Alex?
— George, hey! You look great.
They shook hands.
— When did it arrive?
— Last night.
— That's good. — George smiled, friendly.
— Do you…have the number of any mechanic or tire repair shop I can call? The car I rented got a flat tire on the way. I think it was a sharp metal or something like that.
— Seriously? I do have it, I'll send you a message. Is your number still the same?
— Yeah!
— Great, I'll send it. I need to go now, it was good to see you.
— Good to see you too. Thank you.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
George's phone vibrated suddenly during the meeting where the English diplomat was resolving customs issues to allow the imported coffee from Brazil into the country. It was Kimi. George continued his meeting until the phone started vibrating incessantly, the messages had turned into a call. The son knew he was working, so why did he keep doing that?
Unless it was important. Maybe it was important even too much, since the son almost never called. He began to sweat cold and his attention started to drift around the room with the other colleagues. George Russell was a diplomat who had been working in England for over ten years, holding a degree in International Relations from the renowned University of Cambridge.
When he finished his PowerPoint presentation, he excused himself from the others, claiming it was an emergency, and returned his son's call.
— Andrea, what happened?
— I crashed the car... I talked to Dad, he's coming to pick me up.
— What did you do? Andrea- — Russell took a deep breath, seeking wisdom. — How did this happen? Your father is going to kill you, I'm going to kill you, which car did you crash?
— I crashed the new Mercedes that Dad gave you. — George felt like he was going to faint. — I lost control of the car, it wasn't on purpose.
— But you're okay, right? I'm going home, we'll talk there.
— Yes, Daddy. Dad just arrived here.
— Great, pass it to him now.
George sighed stressfully, imagining Verstappen's reaction since the car, which had been ordered days ago according to his husband, had arrived at home less than a week ago and was George's early birthday present.
— Hello. — Said Max in a tone of voice that George knew well. He could swear he saw the Dutchman's jaw clench.
— Call the tow truck and take Kimi home now. I want to see him.
— Are you going to let him off the hook?
— Shut the hell up and take my son home now, I'm the one in charge.
George hung up the call, grabbed the top part of his suit in his office, and drove home. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands until the blood in the tips of his fingers stopped circulating. Upon arriving home, he parked his Aston Martin next to his husband's Audi and then got out of the car, slamming the door a bit harder than he usually would.
As soon as he entered the house, he noticed the high density of the atmosphere emanating from Max; his neck was red, he wanted to fight with his son, scream, hit, but he knew that if George found out, it would at least mean divorce and jail.
— Do you want to explain to your father how it happened? But tell the truth, don't lie like you did with me. – Says Max, asserting himself. — Did you at least ask for permission to take that car, Andrea!?
— I was just going to stop by Gabriel's house, Dad. It was a quick thing.
— Quick thing, Andrea?! Why didn't you order an Uber?
— I just-
— Okay, okay, but I want to know how you broke the car like that, Kimi. You broke the bumper, you broke everything. — George intervenes.
— I-I lost control of the car…
— Andrea, you were going 240 km/h on a DAMN ROAD WHERE THE SPEED LIMIT IS 80. — Max shouts and walks away from the two, heading to the couple's bedroom.
— I don't believe this, Andrea. Are you going crazy? You could have died, killed someone! You didn't crash the car simply because you lost control, you crashed the car because you thot you were racing in Le Mans! — He took a deep breath, looked away, and ran his fingers thru his brown hair, trying to calm down. — You're grounded, no allowance, no driving, nothing, do you understand? Now it's going to be from home to school and from school to home. No PS5, no Switch, nothing. Pack your bag, I'm going to call your godfather to come pick you up, you're going to spend the night there, I need to talk to your dad.
Kimi turns his back on his father, irritated for having lost almost everything that made his days less tedious, for having grown up with a father who was a former Formula 1 driver and another who was a diplomat, he didn't really know the value of money. And he certainly didn't understand how costly his irresponsibility had been.
When Kimi left with Hamilton, George went to the room and found Verstappen in the same state, if he tried harder he could emit smoke from his scalp from overthinking.
— This kid deserves a beating. And you know it, you close your eyes and pat him on the head every time, and that's why he's the way he is.
— And the beating was supposed to solve what!?
— A lot!
— Did it solve anything for you?
— Fuck you, Russell. — He walked around his husband and went to the kitchen.
The heavy footsteps emitted a loud sound on the stairs that reverberated throughout the entire house. The trembling hands, a mix of anger and frustration, reached for the bottle of Royal Salute with eagerness and a certain force. Max took swigs straight from the neck, feeling the drink trickle down the corners of his mouth, tracing amber streams down his neck to his chest.
He swallowed the liquid that tore at his throat with mastery, it went down his esophagus to his stomach with the sensation that all his tissue had been charred. He grabbed a glass of whiskey, took ice from the freezer, and filled it with more drink.
George's footsteps descending the stairs gradually became audible. The marble counter separated them, Max turned the glass once more and filled it again, seeing George smoking a cigaret, a habit he only practiced when he was under a lot of stress and his son wasn't around.
— You are spoiling him.
— You've already said that. — George leans over, grabs the glass, and takes a considerable gulp of the drink, then looks at Max, who was leaning under the counter with his two large hands resting on the stone.
— Because you don't listen. He is a spoiled brat because of you, you got him used to it. You work so hard to have the perfect life, the perfect clothes, the damn perfect house and job, but you're terrified they'll realize that most of it is just a facade. You are a fucking void. — he said, pointing his finger at George's face.
Russell leans over the counter, slapping his husband's face in a single blow. George felt his hand burn, Max's face had been marked in the shape of Russell's large hand in a bright red hue. George walked around the counter, facing Verstappen, who stared at him with a deep and challenging look. Max knew that George hated being challenged, in any context whatsoever. However, Max always challenged him. His existence was a challenge for the Brit.
George pushed him hard once.
George pushed him harder, and this time, Max had to pay attention to his steps to avoid falling.
George pushed him one last time, this time putting all the strength he had into it.
Russell made an expression of anger mixed with physical effort, Max's back met the piece of furniture that held some of the drinks like brandies or wines that were taken from the cellar and left there for easier accessibility.
Some bottles swayed and the ones closest to the edge fell, making a shrill sound of breaking glass, but it was part of the natural ambient noise at that moment, as none of them really cared.
The attention was fixed between the looks they exchanged, a mix of anger and disgust, the spilled liquid touching Russell's expensive leather shoes, and the cinnamon fragrance of the whiskey rising, but George couldn't tell if it was the broken bottles or his husband standing in front of him.
— You are the most unbearable son of a bitch I've ever met, sometimes I think my biggest mistake was marrying you. — Russell jabbed forcefully at Verstappen's puffed-up chest.
— We both know that's a lie. The poor George William Russell, son of nobodies in the damn hole of Kings Lynn! I got you out of that shit, without my help, without my damn name, you wouldn't have the damn position you have today.
— I never needed you for shit. I got into university on my own merit.
— And when did I ever mention that damn university!? You know better than anyone that you would only be a diplomat without me if you had opened your legs to those fucking magnates!
Another slap was delivered to Verstappen's face, the new mark overlapping the previous one, causing the blood concentration not to recede. And he was there, standing still, feeling his cheek burn mixed with the numbness from the alcohol consumed earlier.
Max knew that George had been frustrated at the time because, in addition to his non-admission due to insufficient age, he had also been harassed, so he moved some small mountains of money to get him accepted, and that's what happened.
— You know what I hate most about you, Max? You do things willingly and then play the victim, throwing it in people's faces.
— Do I do that?! — Max pushed him toward the kitchen, spitting a bit of blood into the sink for having bitten his cheek during the last slap.
— All the time!
— Kutwijfi… (Fucking bitch) — Max murmured softly in Dutch.
— What did you say?! WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?
Max forgot, for a moment, that he was married to a competent diplomat and among the 7 languages he was fluent in, Dutch was one of them. He felt a chill run down his spine until he felt George pulling him by the arm and pressing him against the sink. Russell was gripping his cheeks tightly with just one hand, looking at him with disgust.
— I want you to repeat that shit to see if I don't kill you here and now. — George released his husband's face and stepped back, lighting another cigaret, he filled the glass with whiskey, keeping it full again.
— Did you talk to him today?
George looked at him, gazing into his eyes more fiery than ever.
— Did you sleep with him this time? — Max continued.
— What the hell are you talking about?!
— VAN DIE THAISE KLOOTZAK, JE WEET DAT IK OVER HEM PRAAT! (From that Thai bastard, you know I'm talking about him.)
— I was in a meeting at customs.
— I saw his car.
— Did you go there!?
— You know I did, I went when I found out he had arrived in London, I slashed that bastard's tire but it didn't do any good.
— DID YOU SLASH HIS TIRE?! — George took a drag from his cigaret. — You're psycho.
— YOU KNOW WHY, YOU KNOW IT'S YOUR FAULT.
— IT'S BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT TO YOU.
George grabbed the entire bottle of Royal Salute and threw it at Max, aiming for his head. Max was quick enough to dodge, but one of the shards grazed his neck and cheekbone.
— DON'T YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO DO ALL DAY, MAX?! PLAY ON YOUR DAMN COMPUTER, DO THE DAMN LIVES, I DON'T KNOW!!!
— I HAD EVERYTHING UNTIL YOU RUINED IT, I HAD EVERYTHING I WANTED, A CAREER, PEOPLE KISSING THE GROUND I WALKED ON, BUT NOW I'M HERE, TRAPPED WITH A PERSON WHO PREFERS THAT SON OF A BITCH ASIAN ACCOUNTANT! — Max pointed his finger in Russell's face with anger. — I gave up everything for you, for our son, for us, our marriage. But you only humiliate me. You only despise me, I'm tired of all this, tired of you.
— See? You're doing it again. You're blaming me for things you chose to do. I have nothing to do with your choices, I didn't ask you to stop running, you stopped because you wanted to!
— I stopped because it was my duty as a father and husband!
— So don't blame me for it, because all of this was your decision. YOUR FAULT! – George said as he approached and pointed his finger at Max. — You could pay more attention to your son, do some activities with him, go to the gym, play tennis, swim, damn it, he does hundreds of things alone that you could join him in!
— Now I'm the terrible father?!
— You are a slacker and maybe you have terrible attitudes as a father because a few hours ago you were saying that he should be beaten, just because your father hit you, you think you have the right to hit our son!
— I'm not my father, okay?!
— Oh really?! Well, it sure seems like it!
Max's blood boiled, his expression changed. George had gone too far and he knew it, but his pride wouldn't let him apologize or show any expression that indicated he was sorry. He hated being wrong, he hated even more admitting he was wrong.
Rational thought, which was already fading away, gave way to a feeling that brought back memories of an old time, when his father would beat him or leave him on the roads so he would return alone and think about what he had done.
Max felt like killing his father with his own hands; sometimes he would stay awake while his father slept and watch him, vulnerable in that way, begging to be struck with a cleaver in the neck. Once he even boiled water in the kettle to pour it on his father's face, but something inside him stopped him.
It was something uncontrollable, a feeling he needed to let out, he felt like killing George Russell for a few minutes. So he did. He used both hands to strangle his husband against the cold counter, Russell holding him firmly by the forearms, staring intently.
Max's grown nails dug into the thin, pale skin of George's neck, causing wounds on the sensitive skin, but the lack of air hurt more. His lungs were sore and constricted due to the lack of oxygen. He tried to draw in air but nothing came.
Max was gripping his neck with all his strength, he had an expression of disgust. His body emanated hostility, he was completely out of control. Verstappen watched George's face turn crimson. His eyes filled with thick tears that streamed down his soft skin and met the Dutchman's rough hands.
The seconds felt like hours passing, George's blood increasingly acidified in the presence of carbon dioxide, he felt his strength draining away. The hands that once held her husband's arms gradually loosened, the eyelids slowly covered the sky-blue orbs.
His mind went blank for a moment, "Was Kimi having fun with Lewis now?" He thought. But gradually he regained his senses when the hands ceased their grip on his neck, allowing oxygen to enter his body once more.
Max turned him with his back to the counter, pressing his cheek against the stone, tore off his husband's pants, and soon began to open his own. His cock was hard and wet, aching with desire for his semi-conscious husband.
George dripped lubrication, the sticky strips clung between his thighs like spider webs, the husband more than anyone knew that they harbored certain problematic fetishes.
— Look at how you're dripping, begging me to fuck you. Is that what you want, isn't it, darling?
Max took his heavy member out of his underwear and brushed it against Russell's vagina, penetrating forcefully all at once, receiving desperate moans from his husband, still soft and weak.
— Je bent van mij en van niemand anders. (You are mine and no one else's.) — He pulled his hips back until only the tip was inside, only to thrust forward all at once, pushing his husband's limp body ahead. — You belong to me, George, forever.
George felt that he could come there, everything hurt and at the same time gave him pleasure, Max whispered low curses in Dutch but he was too oblivious to everything to understand. The husband's cock reached too deep places in the painful thrusts.
Max's large hand reached for George's soft hair and pulled it up, making him lift his neck, revealing the bruises he had caused not long ago. He held his husband's hips with his free hand and continued with slow and strong thrusts, feeling the tip push against George's cervix, causing a pleasurable discomfort in the Brit that made him roll his eyes, saliva dripping from his mouth forming a small puddle on the stone.
George couldn't take it anymore, it was too much, it was fatal. The Brit squirted forcefully, wetting the floor; mixed with that liquid was a bit of urine, as the sphincter of his bladder was too tired to work and stay contracted. The cascade of George's fluids mixed with the amber liquid of the broken Royal Salute on the floor, Max withdrew from inside his husband and stepped back a little.
George's body was turned toward his husband, and he could observe the wet trail of tears coming from Russell's tear duct and the strip of saliva stuck from his lower lip to his chin. He picked him up and carried him to one of the large glass windows, pressing the limp body against the icy surface.
Max aligned himself with George's vagina and penetrated him once more, howling against the Brit's neck. Verstappen moved his hips in a hostile manner, echoing a perverse and lustful sound throughout the house, he was having sex with George as if it were their last day on earth.
Verstappen's full lips met the bruises, leaving delicate kisses while he fucked his husband non-stop and listened to George moan loudly.
— Max! Please...
— I love you so much… — Max used his tongue to lick the congealed blood from the claw marks he had made on George's neck.
— I love you…
— I will fill you with my children until you only stay at home, you will only be good for sex and breastfeeding our little ones.
— Get me pregnant, love... we're going to have two more babies...
Verstappen freed his mouth from his husband's neck and then joined both lips in a violent kiss, their teeth scraping hard against each other, resonating with a clink, tasting of blood, cigaret, whiskey, passion, and devotion. George was about to come again, he moaned loudly between kisses as his lips were sucked by his husband.
— Max... Love... I-I am going to... – George moaned desperately.
— Come for me, schatje.
Max held George with one arm while the other went toward George's neck, forcing his head against the glass in a tight grip.
— Look at me, you whore. Come while looking at your husband.
George's eyes fixed on Max. He came like an avalanche of pleasure, his thighs trembled, the muscles of his vagina contracted around Verstappen's wet member, and a large amount of lubrication was expelled. Max moved even faster, prolonging Russell's pleasure while torturing him with hyperstimulation.
Max came inside him, the thick semen being deposited at the bottom of George's vaginal canal, warming him even more from within. They spent a few minutes holding each other, sharing sweat thru contact while Max's cock released the last drops inside him.
Verstappen sat his husband on the counter, spreading his legs to observe the battered vagina in a vivid red hue, pouring out all its liquid. He took his long fingers, pushing everything back inside, and soon licked them, looking at Max with lust.
— You look so hot.
— Really? Fuck me again.