deader
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These are things Max can still tell about George, like how he’s lost weight because his agency is a fucking prison and Max is no longer there to tell them to fuck off. Or how despite his tailored suits and white teeth, George is a needy loser who cries too easily and likes picking fights with Max despite it.
The world doesn’t know anything about George, not like Max does.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 9,455
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- 1/1
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Bookmarked by deader
16 Jul 2026
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It’s funny, really, how little they talk. What is there to talk about? They were completely different people back when all George’s face inspired in Max was annoyance, that hasn’t suddenly changed just because he’s a little fonder of him now.
When Max brings up video games or his plans to go play darts with friends, George hums along and pretends to care. Max can’t muster up the same pretense when George talks about padel or whatever gossip his girlfriends have fed him at brunch so instead he busies himself with tracing the shape of his lips with his eyes, imagining them swollen and wrapped around him.
More relationships would last longer if people just ignored each other’s personalities and focused on sex, Max thinks.
Bookmarked by deader
15 Jul 2026
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“George is not my boyfriend,” Max responds automatically. Then, “he’s mad at me again.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. He’s always mad at me.”
No one bats an eye at them, not really. It’s an open secret around the paddock that they sometimes fuck when they’re not fighting and sometimes when they are fighting. It’s stress-relief, sex you don’t need to sign an NDA for. It works even if George causes him more stress than he relieves. At least he’s quiet with a dick in his mouth. Sometimes.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 8,239
- Chapters:
- 1/1
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- 2
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Bookmarked by deader
15 Jul 2026
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“I wanted,” George gasped, his kisses messy, his chin wet, “I wanted you to fuck me with that trophy. Earlier.”
“Fuck yourself,” Max growled, but he picked up the trophy nonetheless. It was cold, that was the first thing he noticed, and very smooth along the sides, with a slightly sharp tip that would scrape if used with abandonment. “This thing here, you want it inside you instead of me.”
“Is that terrible?” His jacket was torn off, and his belt quickly joined it in a pile. “Are you jealous of that too, Verstappen? It’s big, right, and what an incredible shape—”
British Grand Prix 2026. The Silverstone trophy was really just asking for trouble.
Series
- Part 4 of pareidolia
Bookmarked by deader
12 Jul 2026
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Max toed the shiny sheet of gold heat shield and said apropos of nothing, “Back in the days they used to tell fortune from looking at the guts.”
That got something out of George. He blinked, head slightly tilted. “Pardon?"
“Divination. I forgot what culture—something old. I watched something about it on a flight. They would disembowel an animal and poke at the guts—the intestines, whatever else—and read…” He couldn’t think of the word in English and gave up with a shrug. “You know what I mean. The future.”
“Omens,” George said almost mechanically.
“Yes, omens.” Max nodded. “So what omens have you received?”
“That I’m well and truly fucked, aren’t I."
Canadian Grand Prix 2026. Max finds George in the Mercedes garage at one in the morning, standing in the entrails of a car that should have won.
Max has never believed in divine will or luck.
Series
- Part 1 of pareidolia
Bookmarked by deader
09 Jul 2026