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Franco was throwing his scarce belongings into his backpack with little to no care at all; he was fuming. His flight was less than three hours away and he couldn't wait to finally get into his seat in economy, put on his sleep mask and headphones, and take a deep nap until he arrived in Nice. It was a little over an hour's flight, but he needed to rest his mind for a while. There was nothing he longed for more than to lick his wounds in his cozy apartment in Monaco.
He knew he was being too hard on himself but he did not care; this was his third race of the year with the new team and he still couldn't figure out this car's systems. The brakes were too stiff, the power steering was giving him nightmares, and he had sore wrists from trying to compensate for the humongous amount of oversteer that fucking can with wheels gave him. He could not understand how his teammate was taking that ugly thing to the points while he stayed packed all the way back, getting outlapped Every. Damn. Race.
He did not have anything else to throw into his bag, so he sighed and lifted his hands to his temples, giving himself a tight massage. Fuck Formula One. Pinnacle of motorsport, his ass. He couldn't believe fucking Nico Hülkenberg got a P5 with a bloody Sauber. He dragged his fingers through his hair and pulled at it a little. That, at least, felt good for his headache.
His phone was silent because he always made sure to put it on Do Not Disturb, or else he'd have to read dozens of comments from his circle telling him how sorry they were for him, or how they knew it was not his fault but the car's. But what if they were wrong? What if the car was not the issue and he was? Fucking Pierre was getting points in the same car. Well, not the same, same car, but, yeah.
He knew Maria might have texted him by now with the details of his flight, so he opened WhatsApp. There were a few messages in the drivers' group chat; he could not care less about answering a damn meme sent by George fucking Russell right now, but the last message was from Lewis. It read:
someone flying to London need a lift? got...
And the message cut off there. If Franco wanted to read the rest, he had to open the chat. Fuck it. He opened it:
someone flying to London need a lift? got an extra seat since i'm flying all alone ✌🏾
Franco left the group chat and opened Maria's chat.
Fran your flight has been postponed for a few hours you'll be landing in Nice...
He left that chat too. He could get a connection from London to Nice. Was it the most direct way? No. Was it the comfiest way? Also no. But Lewis had sent that text over 20 minutes ago and no one had answered. If Franco ignored it and got on his flight directly to Nice, he would still arrive around the same time that he would if he took a detour with Lewis. He opened Lewis's chat directly; there were no messages in it. He wrote;
hey lewis is that flight to london still available?
Lewis replied in an instant:
sure is, i'm heading to the airport right now, see u in 30, be there or be square ✌🏾
Franco huffed something that was almost a laugh. What was it with the damn emoji? Franco texted Maria quickly:
see u on wednesday.
Maria liked the message. He got outside to the car waiting for him and they parted for the airport. Franco was looking out the window, and when he was not looking at the window, he was checking the time on the dashboard of the car.
Finally, they arrived. Franco grabbed his backpack and moved with the crowd, trying to find Lewis and his jet. He got a notification from Lewis, –yes, he had logged out of Do Not Disturb mode just in case Lewis texted him—and it was his current location. This man's a genius, Franco thought, chasing the blue blinking point on his phone.
When he arrived at the lounge, he saw Lewis sprawled on a couch, sipping what looked like white wine.
"Franco, you made it," he smiled, the gap between his teeth staring back at Franco.
"Couldn't let thee Lewis Hamilton hanging," he joked. Lewis liked it, apparently, because he chuckled at it.
"Yeah, well, Lewis Hamilton seems to be out the window this season, huh?" he said, taking a sip of his wine and looking at Franco carefully, as if observing what was going to be Franco's answer to the self-deprecation.
"Well, you're still miles better than me, mate, so you're barking up the wrong tree." Lewis relaxed his shoulders. He didn't seem pleased by the answer, but he didn't seem displeased either, which Franco took as a good sign.
"Please, help yourself." Lewis offered a clean, sparkly cup towards him. Franco took it just to be polite; he only poured a finger of wine in it.
Lewis did not drink any more of his wine until Franco pressed his cup to his lips; that's when he understood Lewis was not going to let him waste the wine. Franco finished his in two sips.
"Okay, let's go," Lewis said, standing up and motioning with his head to get to the jet. Franco could only follow.
A stewardess accompanied them to the plane. It was beautiful on the outside and absurdly fancy on the inside. Franco had only traveled on private planes a handful of times, but without a doubt, this was the best jet he'd been on so far.
"Nice ride," he said when they settled into the off-white leather seats right in front of each other.
Lewis shook his head. "Not mine. I sold the one I had, just to be more friendly with the environment and shit, but I still have to travel privately, right?"
Franco huffed a laugh, his headache slowly disappearing. "So why bother then? You could've kept yours."
"Nah, it's all about selling an image in F1. I thought you knew by now," he said, tilting his head and looking at him more seriously.
"Max has a private jet and so does Lance Stroll," Franco said more quietly.
"Exactly," was Lewis's answer, and Franco was still thinking if that meant what he thought it meant when a stewardess appeared at their side.
"May I offer you gentlemen some beverages or snacks?" she said. Her red lipstick was immaculate on her face.
Franco shook his head. "Just water for me, please," he said.
"I'll have a water too, sweetie. Sparkling," Lewis added.
She poured their waters into shiny new glasses and left.
"So how does it feel to be back after so much speculation?" Lewis asked him, barely sipping from his glass.
"Uh, it's been great to be back even though I'm still managing to—"
"Cut the media training crap," Lewis said, laughing with one hand up. "It's just us here."
Franco turned around and looked towards the cockpit where the flight attendant had disappeared, seeing that the door was closed.
"She won't come back for the rest of the flight unless I call her." Franco flushed at those words, even if they were harmless. "She knows I like to be alone to reflect when I fly." Okay, that made sense. His heart was still racing, though.
"It feels fucking awful. On my second weekend at Williams, I managed to scratch some points. Here, I feel I have to tame the car like I'm dealing with a tiger or something; it fights back, it feels like shit," he started saying, his accent thick when he got this heated. "And everyone in the garage looks at me like it was my idea to replace Jack in the middle of a season. It was not. I'm still grateful for the opportunity, but it's not something I had a say in. I feel bad for the bloke."
"No, you don't."
Franco chuckled. "No, I don't," he said and looked up. "What about you? You seem like you're struggling too."
Lewis took a big sip of water before answering. "Like it's happening to you, the car is not built for me. The handbook is in Italian and I don't know any fucking Italian."
"I do."
Lewis laughed, not his high-pitched laugh, but the low one, the one that said I have more money than you ever will. It did something to Franco's guts, if he was being honest. He crossed his legs.
"Care to give me some lessons then?"
"It's all in the tongue," Franco said, blushing at his own words now. He was just nervous from being with his childhood idol, that's all.
Lewis stopped the little circular motion he was making with his glass and looked at him. "Ah," he said. "I can work well with that then."
Franco looked at the glass his tanned hand was holding, following the trail one of the small bubbles was making. When it came to the surface to die with a pop, he looked up. His face felt on fire.
"How come Charles is getting podiums and the seven-time world champion isn't?" he said to change the subject.
Lewis's face turned serious now; a spark in his eyes told Franco he was getting into dangerous territory.
"How come Pierre Gasly finishes in the points and you don't?" Lewis said now, defying Franco to say something more; kind of like wanting him to do so.
Franco couldn't stop his next words even if he had tried to. "How do you get overtaken by Nico Hülkenberg in a fucking Sauber on the last lap?"
He bit his lip with horror when he realized he might have overstepped. He wanted to take back those words immediately, but they were out there, and Lewis had heard them loud and clear. That's perfect, Franco. You get a lift out of kindness and you insult your idol and his legendary skills in the sport you love the most. For fuck's sake, someone end his misery now. Can the engines of the plane stop working right now? An emergency landing could help him.
But when he looked up, Lewis was smiling. Not with the same kindness he had at first when they met in the lounge, but with malice. Like he was plotting something.
"You certainly have a dangerous tongue, don't you?" he asked. He tilted back in his seat, opening his legs wide now, his glass of sparkling water on the little table between them.
Franco gulped. "Sorry," he said.
"No, no, don't be," Lewis said, a smirk playing on his face. His whole demeanor said he was loving this. "I think this might be the first time a guest insults me so openly to my face," he said, chuckling.
Franco's breath hitched in his throat. Oh god, he'd fucked up bad, hadn't he?
"No, I didn't mean—"
"Oh, you did. And now you're going to stick to your words, sweetie."
"Sorry," Franco said again, fidgeting with his fingers.
Lewis looked over his shoulder, then back at Franco, and arched an eyebrow. He thought about something for a second before saying, "Prove it."
"Huh?" was Franco's dumb response.
Lewis didn't speak for a second. He unbuckled, stood up, and walked to the back of the aircraft. He unlocked a door and went inside, where there was a perfectly made bed. He sat down, looking at Franco, who was still in his seat, now holding onto the armrests for dear life.
"Come here," he said.
Franco swallowed hard. He nodded once, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stood up.
Lewis raised a hand in the air and shook his head. "Crawl," he said.
Franco couldn't believe his ears. He looked back at the closed door of the cockpit and thought Lewis was crazy if he was into this freaky thing when there were other people flying with them, but his body seemed to cave in anyway. Because the next thing he knew, he was kneeling on the carpeted floor.
"Hands on the floor too," he commanded. His voice was velvety, and Franco couldn't help the rush that flowed through his veins, landing at his center. He felt dizzy with it, his headache long gone. Franco did as he was told; he pressed his hands on the floor in front of him and looked up at the man sitting so composed on the bed.
"I said come here," Lewis repeated, leaning on his arms. No one had the right to look so beautiful; it was unfair. Franco started moving. He did not feel sexy at all, but he did feel humiliated by this action, and that thought awoke something in him. Why was he feeling aroused by being treated like a damn dog? You learn something new every day, as the saying goes.
Once he reached where Lewis was sitting, he moved to sit back on his heels, still kneeling. He looked up at Lewis, big green eyes meeting chocolate ones.
"You can always say no; we'll forget about this ever happened," Lewis said, caressing Franco's cheek, his thumb stroking his cheekbone. Oh god, this was really happening. Franco had not taken this flight opportunity to be like this with Lewis Hamilton—or had he? He wanted to be close to him, to exploit his silly little crush as much as he could, but this was out of his most twisted fantasies, and trust him, there were a lot of fantasies underneath his curls.
"I want to," he said, and Lewis's mouth fell open in surprise. Franco turned his face to the side and kissed Lewis's warm, open palm before grabbing his hand and putting Lewis's thumb in his mouth. Lewis frowned, unable to fight the low groan coming out of his chest.
"Good," he said. He removed his thumb from Franco's mouth to stand up and close the door of the little bedroom. "Good," he repeated.
He stood up right in front of Franco's face. His crotch was already hard and pointing at Franco, who was struggling not to look directly at it, looking at Lewis's face instead, waiting for the next command. He did not know he liked being told what to do this much.
Lewis pulled down the elastic of his joggers but left his Calvin Kleins untouched; they were white, contrasting with the dark skin of his stomach. Franco raised his hands to drag them down too, but Lewis stopped him by the wrists. He clicked his tongue.
"Nuh-uh," he said, shaking his head with a smile. "Use that filthy mouth of yours."
Franco felt like he was on fire. Someone pinch him. Or not. If he had crashed on his last lap and was now unconscious, still on the Barcelona circuit, no one resurrect him, please. The face he had made must have been some sort of work of art, because Lewis moaned at it before Franco even leaned in.
He kissed the elastic band—a chaste little kiss. His lips felt the warmth of Lewis's skin even through the barrier. The second kiss was open-mouthed, right under the navel, where the skin was softer and warmer. Franco traced the line of the underwear with his tongue and felt Lewis's breathing hitch. Franco's own cock twitched in response.
He bit the waistband to drag it down and accidentally bit some skin with it. Lewis hissed at the sudden flick of pain but did not move. Franco smiled, making a little list in his head: liked to command, liked pain.
He dragged the underwear down, looked up at Lewis, and smiled his most charming smile before flashing his tongue. Without grabbing Lewis's hard, dangling cock, he licked the tip.
Lewis hissed again. "Yes, sweetie, enjoy it," he said, one tattooed hand coming to Franco's curls.
Franco was tasting him first. He knew they did not have all the time in the world, but they had enough for him to start teasing a little. Franco's wet tongue followed the shape of the head, and then he blew on it. The contrast of the warm tongue and the cold air gave Lewis goosebumps on his thighs. Franco was enjoying this a little too much.
"You know what you're doing, don't you?" Lewis said, pulling on Franco's hair so he would look at him. Franco nodded, sticking his tongue out to keep licking the tip. "So pretty. Go for it, sweetie," he said, and guided Franco's mouth onto him.
Franco liked the heaviness of Lewis's cock—how it pressed against the back of his throat, how it tasted, how it beat against his tongue. It was an addictive elixir, and Franco might never have the opportunity to do this again. He knew Lewis was not a monogamous person; the whole world knew. So, he was going to make every second worth it.
He breathed through his nose, relaxing his lips around it. He looked up to meet Lewis's gaze, which was a little blurry now from the tears that had already started forming in his eyes.
"What a beautiful boy you are," Lewis said again, his other hand coming up to massage Franco's tensed jaw. Franco knew it was a lot of stretching, but he could take it. He knew he could.
After a few seconds of him just taking in the size of his idol, he started moving. Slowly at first, trying to wet every inch of Lewis's length so it would feel good for him too. Then he pressed both hands on Lewis's thighs to help stabilize himself better and started moving faster, suctioning harder.
Lewis let his head fall back, moaning like there were only the two of them in the aircraft; Franco liked that he didn't care they could get caught. He closed his eyes and felt a tear fall. Lewis was refraining from moving his hips; he wanted Franco to do all the work, and Franco was doing it so, so well. He took sharp little breaths through his nose whenever he could, completely focused on the man in front of him. He was dizzy from all of it, and maybe the lack of oxygen was playing a part too, but it felt so good he did not want to stop.
He dug his nails into the soft skin of Lewis's thighs, dragging them to add some pain to this maddening cocktail, and Lewis let out another groan. Franco would've smiled if he wasn't so locked into his rhythm right now. He felt the hand pulling tighter at his hair—not inciting him to go deeper, not pushing him away, just a little punishment for his audacity. Franco couldn't get enough.
He surged forward, his nose deep against Lewis's skin and his throat pressing all around his length, so tight that Lewis tried to pull him off. "Okay sweetie, I'm gonna—"
Franco did not move. He repeated the motion over and over again, letting Lewis's cock deep inside his mouth, strings of saliva dangling from his chin. Then he felt Lewis moan, deep with a huff, pulling at his hair as Franco tasted the warm, sweet flavor of his release. It was the best thing he'd ever had. It was so much that Franco could not swallow it all; almost choking, he pulled away from Lewis's still-dripping cock, and some of the cum splashed him on the cheek and chin.
He looked up then. He knew he must look like a mess, but Lewis grabbed him by the chin to make him stand up. "So fucking beautiful, unbelievable," he whispered before kissing him hard. His own jizz and Franco's saliva were all over his beard; it was the hottest kiss anyone had ever given Franco, and it came from the hottest man alive himself. Franco felt weak in the knees, but Lewis grabbed him by the waist and turned him around, pressing Franco's back against his chest.
"You were so good, sweetie. You're the best of the best, aren't you?" he said, dragging Franco's pants and underwear down to his knees. He slotted himself, half-hard, between Franco's butt cheeks, and Franco rolled his eyes from the pleasure.
"Spit," Lewis said, offering his palm, and Franco did as asked. Lewis's dark, tattooed skin came around Franco's own forgotten dick, and it felt like the most delicious touch he had ever felt; he couldn't help but whimper at it.
"Shh, there are other people here, Franco. Don't be loud."
Franco was too out of his mind to answer that—to tell Lewis that he had been loud earlier, too—but he didn't care. He moaned again. Lewis pulled his hair, forcing him to look back at him, and kissed him from behind. The angle was awkward and certainly something Franco had never done before, but it was exhilarating. Every nerve in his body was screaming that he was about to reach his limit.
When Lewis twisted his hand on his cock and bit his lip, that was when Franco knew he couldn't hold on any longer. His knees gave out and he almost collapsed right there, but Lewis's hand held his waist again, preventing it. He came all over Lewis's fingers, and the contrast of the white against the tan skin made him want to go for round two.
"Gorgeous," Lewis said, before planting a kiss on his cheek. For once in his life, Franco was speechless.