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Summary
“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