Some Things You Just Can’t Have

by Ex0ticbutters

Summary:

George wants to be loved by Max

Max just wants to see him cry.

Maybe they can both get what they want.

(enjoy themes of crying, angst, idiocy and GAY)

Chapter 1

George’s mind whirled with possibilities, outcomes, reasons for and against, challenging everything he stood for.

His morals.

He didn’t want it, couldn’t want it and would not let himself have it- repeated like a mantra as he squeezed his eyes shut.

The cigarette hung loose between his fingers, ash falling to the floor. It burnt away at the end, wasted as his mind drifted away from the present.
He blinked his eyes open several moments later and gazed out into the Singapore skyline.
The view offered a welcome distraction, yet his eyes still burnt with unshed tears.

Glimpses of the race returned to him in nauseating waves- each one soaked in regret and self-hatred. His body betraying himself as he dropped to his knees, falling back against the wall, drawing his legs in closer. Shaky hands bringing the cig to his lips, taking a long drag.

There are so many things George Russell wants.

He wants a successful career.
He wants an extended contract.
He wants to impress his fans.
He wants to make his parents, the team proud.

He wants to make Toto proud.

He wants a WDC.

... and he wants Max Verstappen.

Trembling hands start furiously rubbing at his eyes, willing the tears to go away. The thoughts to go away. It doesn’t work and his face is damp with tears before he has time to process them falling.

He takes another long, deep drag.
His cheeks are blotchy, face tear streaked and eyes itchy and red. He’s not even sure how long he’s been sitting out here, but his skin’s covered in goosebumps and he’s shaking harder now. His team hoodie hangs off his shoulders, pooling at his waist. His legs are bare save for the boxers beneath the hoodie.

If anyone could see him it would be a pitiful site, him curled up against a wall hugging his knees like a child, sniffling and sobbing sporadically. His soft curls falling in front of his face, framing him like a tragedy.

Maybe Max would think he looked beautiful.

Shaky fingers stump the cigarette out on the concrete beneath him, sighing miserably as he watched the skyline blink.
It was early, maybe 4am.
Thoughts of Max had been plaguing his mind since the race yesterday. Since the anger in Max’s eyes and the heat of his breath had frozen his mind, sending vibrations through his body.
He’s blushing even now. Just remembering the intensity behind those pale blue eyes. The way his mouth moved as he spat vile truths at George.

‘Fucking unbelievable. Do you even know how to drive? Fucking idiot’

George doesn’t remember what he said in return but it spurred Max on, fuelling the burning pit of anger in his rival’s stomach.

‘Honestly George you’re fucking useless, it was my corner! Did you really think that move would ever work there?’

George is pretty sure he had teared up at that point, he wishes he could erase the memory. Erase the way Max’s eyes softened, only slightly, a hint of sympathy building in the corners.

‘You’re pitiful George.’

That line echoed in his mind even now. Hours later.
He’s sure Max is on his jet, travelling to the next country, preparing for the next race.
The rest of the drivers and their teams leaving soon after the race too.

But he’s still here, in his hotel room, on the balcony, crying his eyes out in the middle of some sort of mental breakdown…because of an argument with Max Verstappen.

That is pitiful.

He hates himself for how much Max affects him. How easy it is for him to ignore the hostility and hatred in Max’s words to focus on the fact he’s talking to him, standing near him -focusing attention on him.
George eats up the attention like a touch starved puppy. Any attention from Max is enough to occupy his mind for hours.
Letting him retreat into his memory to revisit every crinkle of Max’s eyes, the way his face flushes hot from anger and his brows hang heavy. The curve of his top lip, plump, soft, kissable.

His mind supplying him a million fantasies with Max at the centre of them all.

Sometimes he wishes Max liked him. That they were friends.
He wonders if that would make his obsession easier, if he’d even be obsessed at all.
But even in his fantasies, Max doesn’t smile at him. He just stares. Cold, amused, always a little cruel.
And George still wants him.

The thought weighs heavy on his mind for several moments. He leans his head back against the wall and looks up into the sky.

He’s so incredibly fucked.

A sharp knock erupts into the silence of his hotel room, echoing through to the balcony and filling his ears. He jolts in shock.

Who the fuck could be at his door? At 4am in the morning?

He starts to doubt his own mind, glancing at his watch, to indeed confirm it was 4:17am.

He stumbles upwards, still trembling slightly from the cold... and his breakdown.

He doesn’t bother checking the keyhole. He’s shaking with irritation and pent-up emotion.

He swings the door open and his eyes fall on none other than Max himself.

 

-------------------------------------------------------

 

Max Verstappen was not a stupid man
Perhaps unobservant, maybe ignorant- but he’s certain there something wrong with George.

He looks at him weirdly sometimes. Like Max just hung the moon. And other times like he ran over his cat.

His pupils always expand, and he bites his lip like he wants to devour Max’s soul. Its creepy.

But Max doesn't hate it. He doesn't like it either, obviously.

George is an enigma. He’s the most complicated man Max has ever met, and he’s surrounded by emotionally complicate men every day of his life.

He’s pretty certain he hates the way Georges gorgeous, bright blue eyes glaze over with sadness whenever he's having a hard day- or when one of Max’s never-ending quips and insults hit too close to home.

 

He never feels bad for making George cry.
At least he tells himself he doesn't.

Max glances down at his feet. The same feet that have by no coincidence or choice of his own, voluntarily walked to George's hotel room- after stopping at the front desk and definitely not begging them to tell him which room George was in.

His evil, betraying feet.

He steels his expression and takes a deep breath.
He’s here to apologise.

Making George cry in front of the media- basically the entire audience of F1- was not his intention.
And he regretted it the moment the articles dropped “Versatppen crushes Russell with brutal rant” and “Max sets the pathetic Russell straight”

He cringes now at his own words. His heart aches a little remembering how George’s lip has started to tremble-the way he bit down on it. His wide,wet eyes silently begging Max to stop.

It was of course far too late by the time Max’s anger had simmered enough to remember what he had said in the argument and by that time, George had all but fled the scene.
Max blinked hard and shook his head, willing the memory of George’s sad sagging shoulders and his sniffling, laboured breath as he stumbled away to disappear from his mind.
He needed to focus. What'ss done is done and all he can do i-

George opens the door and all semblance of Max’s plan melts away. Script flying out the window at the sight of a dishevelled George.

He looks just as surprised to see him as Max is to see him in this soft and vulnerable state.

His curls are unruly, falling across his face in a use-to-be-sweaty sort of cohesion.
The jumper he's wearing is comically large, sagging off his shoulder just enough Max can catch a glimpse of collarbone.
His eyes drift downwards. George is bare-legged. No trousers. Just a tiny indication of boxers beneath the hoodie.

Theres a sharp smell clinging to him –cigarettes.
Max frowns. George didn't smoke.
Or at least... he didn't use to.

Georges eyes they carry the same heavy sadness from the day before -although this time, it's clear he did not fight his tears very hard.
George stares at him like a deer in headlights.
Big, glassy eyes full of confusion. Fear.
And something Max can't quite name.

They stare at each other dumbly for several seconds.
Time seems frozen, like even the air is holding its breath.

Max opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

Eventually he settles on something stupid...something easy.

 

“...Hi” he says – gruff and low, more awkward than he meant it to be.

George doesn't move. Doesn't speak, or blink.

Just...stares back at him.

Eyes glassy. Silent. His lip still wobbling.

And suddenly Max is hit with the sick feeling in his stomach.

Something’s wrong…

Chapter 2: 2

Summary:

Angst! Crying! Tension! Buildup!

It’s all going on…

Max is mean and horny…George is sad and horny

Match made in heaven!

“Can I come in or-“ Max spoke with hesitation, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

Silence.
A beat. George blinks.

‘O-oh right, yeh, sorry’ he mumbles. He can't take his eyes off Max.

He stumbles backwards, gesturing for Max to come in.

Max didn't miss the way his breath hitches when he brushed past his shoulder.

The red bull driver looks around the room.
Smaller than his was. Hardly been touched.
The bed is so well made it's a wonder if he’s slept at all.

He strolls over to the open balcony doors, looks down at the half-smoked pack of cigarettes and the filled ashtray on the floor. He visualises the state George must have been in before he knocked at the door.
He wonders if George has been crying all evening...

If the red rims and bloodshot eyes are anything to go by, he’d guess yes.

The taller man shuffles, the floor creaking with him. Max turns back around to consider him again.

‘Since when do you smoke, George?’ Phrased like an accusation. Like George wasn't a fully grown man with his own say over his life choices- healthy or unhealthy.

“- bad habit” He glances down, embarrassed. A faint blush spreading across his cheeks to the tips of his ears. ‘It helps when I'm...stressed’

Stressed is being used very loosely here. He looks to George's bin, containing at least 2 others empty cigarette packs in it.

Stressed.

‘You should quit’ Max retorts. Silence follows.
The conversation leads to a standstill.

His eyes wander over George again, standing in just a hoodie in the centre of his hotel room. The sun slowly starts to rise, illuminating his bare legs, as it peeks through the blinds.

Georges hands are shaking dumbly at his sides. Eyes looking everywhere but Max.

‘There something seriously wrong with you Georgie’ he muses.
He watches George closely, gauging his reaction.

He’s frowning, trying to look tough, unbothered, but the telltale wobble of his upper lip gives him away.

Max smirks in triumph.

“You’re too emotional. On and off track. You’re a mess and everyone can tell you're falling apart”

His breath hitches, the air catching in his throat.

“You’re as pathetic now as you were yesterday. As you’ve always been. Ever since we were kids in karting you’ve always been weaker. More emotional...”
Max waits a beat.

“A cry baby.”

The Mercedes driver continues glaring at the floor like he wants to make a jab at Max.
Or punch him.

Or start crying.

“Fuck you Max” he mumbles.
Even angry he sounded pathetic.
“If I was interested in you that way Georgie, it certainly wouldn't be that way around”

George splutters at that. Taking a further step back from Max, his back hitting the balcony door.

He doesn’t really know why he was being mean to George. Maybe because the sight of his pity party enraged him. Or because he liked to push, to see how far he can go.

“You’re a decent driver. You’d be a great driver- you just don’t have the mentality of a winner”

He steps towards George again,
George’s back is flat to the door. Max’s face just inches away now.

As bad as he might feel after, there is something so beautiful in the way Georges eyes teared up.

Big round eyes full of tears, his long lashes clumping together just from Max’s words alone.

His sharp feminine features always exaggerated by the hot flush of shame when he cries.

‘Are you going to cry Georgie?’

He can't drag his eyes away from Georges plump wobbly lip, bitten raw but oh so kissable. Max wants to devour him.

George doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

His breathing is picking up, head downcast and eyes darting around the floor, like he cant really see it even though it is right there.

If Max were a nicer man, he’d ask if George is ok.

The taller males breathing is becoming more and more erratic.

His eyes so clouded by tears that are yet to fall, his mind replaying every one of Max’s words. The tension between them, the ghost of Max’s breath on his neck. It was all too much for George.
George’s laboured breathing fills the otherwise silent room.

Max takes a step back, the anger from before dispersing- his eyes focused on the state of George now.
Max stares at him, his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. Breathing hot, heavy, fast breaths that were hardly filling his lungs at all.

Fuck, is he having a panic attack?

Max is not qualified to help with this for fuck's sake.
He huffed.
‘George’

Wide, wet, panicked eyes meet his. Like a crazed animal.
His lips parting as if to speak. Likely to apologise over and over again.

George tries to speak

“M-Max,” he gasped out, barely audible.

“Mmmh-” His lips trembled as he struggled to form the word.

His body is shaking.

“You need to breathe. Idiot”

George seems to ignore this instruction.

“George” he says firmer, trying to catch the younger man’s
attention- it was pointless. George is in the middle of a panic attack and Max has no idea how to stop it.

He weighs up his options.
Grab him and shake him?
Shout at him until he stops?
Call for help?

The option he went with isn’t even one he considered until he feels the soft lips of his rival on his.
His own hands gripping the shaking shoulders of the taller man, attempting to steady him. Ground him.

If the small, soft moan that slipped out of George’s lips was anything to go by, Max had succeeded in distracting him from his panic attack.

They kissed for several seconds. Max dominating the kiss, pressing George into the windows with his body. So hard, so firm.

George was making small hungry whines.

Every time Max broke the kiss to let them breathe, he’d take one small breath and push forward into Max, trying to catch his lips again.

Max was genuinely surprised by this reaction. He didn’t peg George as such a slut.

“You’re so needy baby”

Theres no words to describe the noise that falls from George’s lip. Somewhere between a whimper, a moan and a whine.

It’s pathetic.

Max kisses him hard and pulls away. Stepping back fully to admire the state George has ended up in.

His curls are damp, sticking to his forehead. The flush on his face is heavy. Spreading from ear to ear and staining his cheeks a vibrant pink.

His eyes are still so wide, still full of big fat tears and he’s panting. He looks into Max’s eye, dazed and confused.

‘Why did you come here Max’ he mumbles.

What he means is why did you come here, mock me and then make out with me.

He leave the last part out of the question.

His voice is thick with confusion, sadness and something else…

Max tilts his head to the side, eyes studying George.

Straying down to George’s shirt. Watching the way his shaking hands tug at the hem, pulling it down, trying to cover himself further.

Arousal.

‘Maybe just to make you suffer” Max retorts.
It’s an attempt at humour, but the words have a weight of truth to them.

Max almost wishes he didn't try as he sees the way Georges face crumble.

Finally.

He sniffles pitifully, breaking eye contact- blinking rapidly.

Seeing him cry shouldn't have such an effect on Max, but he's enamoured. Totally and wholly consumed by the sight.

He can’t rip his eyes away from the tracks forming on George's cheeks. The way his lip wobbles, his cheeks flush with shame.

It sends a divine tingle through Max’s body.

He steps forward again.. towards George trembling, hunched over figure.

He flinches violently away from Max. God he was getting emotional whiplash from the guy. Just a few seconds ago George was hungry chasing after his lips, moaning like a bitch for him.
George whimpered as he pushed himself further into the window, desperate to get away.

“God George”

Max has never wanted to fuck someone so badly in his life.

It was sick. He knew it.

But something about the way George cried.

His eyes so big and wide and sad, trembling and ashamed…

It made Max's cock throb.

It made him so hungry.

The way he'd whined when Max pulled away, like he couldn't stand the distance for even a second.

Max shifts where he stands, his body hot and wired.

George is still panting. Pressed against the glass like prey, still pretending he’s not crying. Still blinking desperately ignoring the wetness already cascading down his cheeks.

Max bites back a moan or his own.

He can feel the heat radiating off George, hiding just beneath the shame.
The subtle twitch in his hips, the helpless whimpers.

Max swallows, jaw tight.

He didn’t care if it was sick.

He was going to make George cry harder.

Notes:

lowkey wrote this all in one night…i hope it’s ok…

I will lock in for the smut next chapter! yummmmmyyy

Chapter 3: 3 (SMUT WARNING)

Summary:

it’s gettinggg stickyyyyyyy!! it’s getting sticky in hereeeee

I LOVE SLUTTY BOTTOM GEORGE

please thoroughly enjoy this i put my heart, my soul and my pu$$y into it!

Notes:

time for the smut you’ve all been waiting for!!!

George's world was spinning.
His brain short circuiting. Stuck on the kiss. Replaying it like a broken record in his head.

Max had kissed him

Max Verstappen had kissed him.

No.

Max had made out with him - tongue hot and wet, brutal, licking into George's mouth like he owned it.
Devouring him.

Max had knocked the breath from his lungs. Rendered him immobile. Standing there, shaking, pressed against the window.

Max Verstappen his rival. The man he's known since he was a child.

George couldn't move even if he tried.

His legs felt like jelly. His mind drowning in so much lust and confusion.

He wanted Max’s lips back on his own. He wanted to feel his hot breath as he peppered kisses up his throat.
Sucked deep red bruises into the skin of his neck.

Marked him.

Claimed him.

He wanted to feel Maxs firm body pressed against his. He wanted to take Max’s dick in his throat and prove just how much he wanted him.
How much of a slut he could be.

He whined unconsciously at the idea. The noise slipping from his lips before he had time to register it.
“Oh” Max mused.

“Do you want something Georgie?”

YES. Yes.

He thinks he might have whined again. His brain felt fuzzy.

 

A firm, large hand appears in his hair. Gripping his curls.
“Get down on your knees for me” Max orders.

He hated the way his knees hit the floor so easily. Hated how much he wanted to please him, to obey.

Max isn't sure if it's from the lack of oxygen, the panic attack or embarrassment – but George is flushed red.

His bright blue eyes looking up at Max. Hesitant but still filled with lust.

Still glazed over with tears, somehow.

He looks hungry as well, his mouth drooling.

 

His boxers were tight with arousal.

The friction of his knees spread wide making him rut unconsciously against the seam.

Max smiles cruelly.

 

He never would’ve guessed perfect ‘Princess George’ could be such a slut.

He strokes through George's hair.

George is still looking up at him. A small line of drool slipping past his lips now, as he rocks on his heels.
Little pitiful noises slipping though his lips.

Max groaned at the sight. His dick twitching in his jeans.

 

“You’re drooling” Max said with mock concern, thumbing it from George's chin.
“You that desperate for my cock already?”

George didn't answer with words- he couldn't.
His eyes fully fixed on Max’s crotch.

Max grips his hair tighter, pulling him forwards until his nose bumped Max’s jeans.

“You gonna take my big dick Georgie? Gonna be a good boy for me?”

He could have bet money that someone like George would have a praise kink just by how he acts on track, but the way George moaned was obscene.

 

“mmpfhhh- I- Max. Yes, please, please, plea- please"

 

George's mouth is so close Max can feel his hot, panting breath through the fabric.

George whimpered again. Dizzy with heat and shame. He didn't know what was wrong with him- didn't know why it felt like his whole body was vibrating.

Like he’d die if Max didn't touch him soon.

His knees burned against the floor.

Thighs trembled.

George's breath hitched as Max cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer until the space between his face and the thick bulge in Max jeans was non-existent.

His lips pressed into the fabric. He could hardly breath.

Max voice was soft, but cruel. “Look at you. Rubbing your pretty face all over my dick like a needy bitch”

“You want to show me how much of a desperate cockslut you can be baby boy?” Max ground out.

George gasped. “Please-”

“Please?” Max echoed, dragging him back just far enough to see his face. To see his big wet eyes.
“Please what, Georgie? Use your words”

George blinked slowly. Eyes glassy. He didn't even know what he was saying anymore His brain short circuiting-

“Please- I want- I can be good- I'll- I'll be good, please”

Max chuckled low. “You’re already being good, baby. Never though I'd see you like this. Who knew you had it in you to be such a pretty slut”

George's flush deepened.

 

He hid his face in Max’s jeans, ashamed of how turned on Max's words were making him.

His erection aching behind the fabric of his
boxers.

 

Max’s fingers tightened in George's hair, pulling his face up to expose his throat, pale and trembling.

Max stared down at him, his eyes dark.

Without speaking he used his free hand to unbutton his jeans and undo his fly.
He unhooked his dick from his boxers and let his length spring free against his stomach- tip dripping with pre cum.

Again without speaking, he placed his thumb on George’s bottom lip, willing him to open his mouth.

He slid the digit in- George's tongue immediately began to suck and swirl around it.
Wet sucking noises filled the room, accompanied by George’s shaky breaths every few seconds.

Max groaned low.

 

“You gonna let me choke you with my dick George?”

George gave a full body shudder. Nodding enthusiastically. Maxs thumb still firmly between his lips.

Max removed it with a wet pop.

George looked at him with pleading eyes. Tilting forwards instinctively, lips parting again.

Max stopped him with a firm hand on his jaw.

“Not so fast”

George whined. Tired of the teasing.

“Tell me what you want.” Max smirked.

George swallowed hard. His voice soft and needy “...I want to suck you off”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Properly”

“I want to suck your dick, please Max” George whispered, ashamed of how desperate he sounded. “Please, I need it so bad”

Max tiled his head. Pretending to think about it.

Instead of responding he fisted George’s hair and dragged his face over to his dick.

His other hand guiding it between George's parted lips.

He mercilessly thrust into George's mouth. Using him like a toy- like he was nothing more than a warm, wet fleshlight.

Burying himself at the back of his throat. His face pressed into his pubes.

George’s tongue worked with practice perfection. Learnt skill.

Max groaned deep. “You’ve done this before haven't you slut. How many other drivers' cocks have you sucked, huh?”

Georged whined in response. Sucking faster, slobbier- more desperate.

Max registered the subtle rock of Georges hips and had a wicked thought.

He repositioned one of his legs, so his shoe was directly between George's thighs.
As George rocked forward again, he moaned pathetically.

The arch of Maxs shoe sitting perfectly between his spread thighs, letting him grind his cock against him.

“Aww Georgie, are you humping my shoe like a bitch in heat?” He mocked.

George whimpered around his dick. He didn't pull back. Didn't stop.
His cheeks burned red. His knees shifting for leverage as his thighs clamped shut around Maxs shoe.

His rutting getting faster, sloppier. Desperately chasing the friction.

His tongue was still relentlessly swirling around Maxs length.

 

Max was close.

He could sense George was too.

 

He pressed his foot up, firmer, watching Georges hips jerk in response.

“You gonna cum princess? Just from humping my shoe?” Max taunted, voice low and shaking with arousal.
Hand returning to George's hair in a vice grip.

George moaned - loud and obscene- slightly muffled by the dick in his throat.

He trembling, teetering on the edge of orgasm.
His hips were grinding frantically, cock rutting onto the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Max could feel his own orgasm building. Sharp and hot at the base of his spine.
He fisted George's hair, forcing him down further- choking him.

“Thats it Georgie. Be a good little slut- “

George gagged. Moaned high pitched and broken.

He was so aroused, so humiliated.

He couldn't think straight.

 

He shuddered, hips locking forward.

He came with a pathetic, desperate cry -spilling into his boxers.

Max groaned- loud and primal- cumming hard down George's throat just seconds later. His grip tightening as his cock twitched.

He held him there, forcing him to swallow every drop- as they both rode out their orgasms. Georges hips still buckling, spasming forwards.

A few seconds later Georges body sagged, exhausted.
He was panting still, desperately trying to catch his breath.

Flushed hot with humiliation.
Suddenly dealing with the realisation of what they’d just done.

Max smirked down at him.

 

George lips were swollen; his cheeks streaked with spit.

If it wasn't for the large jumper he was wearing, Max was certain hed be able to see the soiled state of his boxers beneath.

Max hummed. He liked George like this.
Obedient. Needy.
He leaned down and placed a kiss on Georges sweaty forehead.

“Good job Princess” his lips murmured against the skin.

George almost melted through the floor.

Notes:

Ok…sorry for the cliff hanger but it had to be like this!!! i will cherish all suggestions for the next chapter and serve up more sweet delicious angst for us all to enjoy.

Who knows where we will end up!!! •
*cough*hate sex*cough*