Work Text:
The club pulsed with a heat that had little to do with Miami’s rainy night, music was like a heartbeat, low and insistent, vibrating through the soles of George's shoes as he leaned against the bar, glass in hand. He sipped slowly and leaned back, loose-limbed and smug in that post-race, post-podium calm that only came a few times a season.
Oscar had been flying on track and was now in a shadowy booth next to Max, and from the pink blossoming on his cheekbones, probably getting half complimented and half hit with complaints absolute joke the navy car was. Charles looked at them from afar, clearly not happy at the sight of someone young and fast that close to his man.
Younger and faster, George thought, grinning.
A familiar laugh snapped his attention sideways. There—tall, golden, messy-haired trouble in the shape of Jack Doohan, weaving through the crowd, shirt half-untucked and sweat glinting at his collarbone. Wild was the word. Gorgeous, too, in a way that was borderline unfair under the haze of neon lights.
“Mate, that last chicane nearly sent me into next week.”
“Yeah, saw that,” George replied, smirking. “Looked painful.”
Jack grinned, then—without asking—plucked the drink from George’s hand, took a sip, and leaned in a fraction too close. “This yours? Thought you might be drinking something stronger.”
“And I thought you had better manners.”
Jack tilted his head, playful. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That earned a real laugh, low and warm.
Jack grinned wider, like a fox with blood on its teeth. Then he stepped in closer, not quite crowding George, but close enough that the booth suddenly felt smaller, the air a little warmer.
“Congrats on the podium, by the way,” Jack said, voice a touch softer now. “You drove the hell out of that car today.”
George cocked an eyebrow, leaning an elbow on the table. “Thanks.”
Jack’s gaze flicked down—slow, deliberate, then back up. “You looked good in champagne.”
George wasn’t drunk. Tipsy, maybe, a little lazy around the edges, just enough to let the tension in his shoulders loosen, enough to let an amused grin stretch his lips when Jack’s thigh brushed his under the table and didn’t move away.
“You got a plan here?” George asked.
Jack shrugged, then smirked. “I’m improvising.”
“Bold.”
Jack leaned in, voice near his ear now. “You don’t seem like you hate it.”
George turned to meet his gaze, the press of their faces close now, breath mixing between them. Jack’s eyes were bright, blown wide under the lights.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” George said, voice low.
Jack’s fingers brushed his jaw, light, not quite a touch. “Thought so.”
The club swirled around them—laughter, basslines, the chaos of celebration—but George wasn’t paying attention to any of it anymore. Just Jack, golden-skinned and grinning like he’d already won something.
“You’re trouble,” George murmured, even as he tilted toward him.
Jack’s smile turned feral. “You like trouble.”
George didn’t argue.
“Come with me,” Jack said, already tugging at his hand.
George didn’t ask where, didn’t need to.
He downed the rest of his drink, dropped it back on the table, and stood up. Jack’s hand was already at his wrist, warm and sure, leading him through the crush of bodies and into the heart of the chaos. They moved through the haze and the lights and the sweat-slick air, through laughter and the pulse of music so thick it felt like it was in their veins.
The dance floor swallowed them, a sea of movement and heat. People pressed close, but Jack pulled George closer, his hands guiding them deeper into the rhythm, until their torsos brushed with every sway.
The beat climbed between them, heavy and sensual, a slow grind more than a dance. Jack’s thigh pressed between George’s legs—not by accident. There was purpose in every motion, every flick of Jack’s fingers against the hem of George’s shirt, every deliberate press of skin to skin.
He moved with lazy confidence, like he knew exactly what George liked before George did.
George’s hands found Jack’s shoulders, then slid down to his waist, grounding himself against the slow pull of tension low in his spine. As cliché as it may sound, he usually didn’t do any of this, but now it was too late to do anything but follow the current, to give in to the way their bodies locked in rhythm like they’d been doing this forever.
The lights cut across Jack’s face in red, then blue, then white. His gaze searched George’s, and stayed until turquoise met aquamarine for something softer than lust—confirmation. You good?
George nodded, just once.
That was all Jack needed.
The music changed—slower now, dirtier, the kind of beat that made hips roll and bodies cling. Jack shifted behind him, his hands guiding George by the waist, spinning him slowly until George’s back pressed lightly to Jack’s chest, one hand slipping across his waist. His breath ghosted hot across the back of George’s neck, lips brushing just enough to make him shiver.
George exhaled hard, tilting his head slightly, granting access without a word. Jack’s mouth grazed the edge of his jaw, a tease more than a kiss, while his other hand slid lower, not enough to scandalize but enough to make his point. Fingers dipping beneath the waistband of George’s jeans, possessive and unhurried. His touch burned.
Their bodies moved together, syncopated with the bass. George pressed back, just slightly, and Jack responded with the subtlest shift of his hips. The friction was maddening and perfect, charged and volatile.
Jack’s fingers splayed wider across George’s waist. He dipped his head lower, lips brushing close to George’s jaw but never landing, as though asking a question he already knew the answer to. George’s fingers came up to tangle in Jack’s—pulling his hands just a bit closer, just a bit lower. Not quite explicit. Not yet.
Jack’s voice was barely a whisper against his ear. “Still with me?”
George didn’t speak, he just nodded, small and sharp. Jack’s nose skimmed the side of his neck, and George felt the shiver crawl up his spine.
He wasn’t used to this—being led, being looked at like he was about to be devoured, and liking it.
He let himself lean back, spine brushing against Jack’s torso, the shape of him solid and warm. Jack’s hands slid to rest just under his ribcage now, his chest rising and falling in time with George’s own breath.
George turned his head slightly, catching Jack’s eye in his peripheral.
“Oh, you’ve got it going on, ” Jack grinned.
George turned in his arms, a hand fisted in Jack’s shirt before he realized it, yanking him forward, silencing the smirk with his mouth.
Jack met the kiss with a low hum of satisfaction, his fingers tightening at George’s waist, holding him close as their mouths met in something far too filthy for public consumption. It was all heat and teeth, a collision of want and frustration and victory. Jack tasted like stolen rum and adrenaline. His hand didn’t stop, still hooked in George’s waistband, thumb brushing dangerously low.
Around them, the club blurred into nothing—just sound and sweat and the grind of hips, the wet heat of breath between them. George’s fingers curled tighter in Jack’s shirt, dragging him impossibly closer, like he wanted to burn the space between them to ash.
When they finally pulled back, George’s lips were red, parted. Jack was flushed and wild, pupils blown wide.
“I’m gonna take you home,” Jack said, voice low, raw.
George didn’t blink. “You better.”
Jack grinned—sharp, feral, satisfied—and his hand finally slipped free of George’s waistband, only to slide up his spine, slow and possessive like he was staking a claim. “Knew you’d say that,” he murmured, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass and slide under George’s skin.
Then he took George’s hand again, laced their fingers without hesitation, and tugged him off the dance floor like he’d done it a hundred times before. Neither bothered with goodbyes or explanations, they just slipped past the writhing crowd, through heat and smoke and fancy drinks with olives and little umbrellas.
The club doors spilled them into the night, a wave of cool air rushing in to meet the heat clinging to their skin. George blinked under the haze of streetlights and moonlight, his body still vibrating with music and Jack. The sudden drop in temperature should have sobered him, but it didn’t.
They crossed the pavement in silence, steps quick and hungry, the city still alive around them. George caught his reflection briefly in a darkened window—hair tousled, lips parted, flushed from dancing and more. Jack walked slightly ahead now, but not too far, glancing back only once to check if George was still following—like there was ever a chance he wouldn’t.
They reached the car—Jack’s, low and sleek and black as sin car, half-tucked into the shadows of the street. One moment their hands were still linked, Jack’s thumb tracing lazy circles against George’s skin, the following one George was pressed up against the passenger-side door, Jack’s hands now planting firmly against his hips.
George barely managed a breath before Jack’s mouth found his, hot and tasting faintly of the drink he’d stolen earlier.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t supposed to be.
George groaned low in his throat, hands coming up to grab at Jack’s shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left. Jack’s thigh slid between his again, rougher this time, and George let his hips shift forward into the pressure, his back arching against the car door with a soft thud.
Jack’s lips left his only to drag along the sharp line of his jaw, then down, down to the curve of his neck, where he lingered. Open-mouthed kisses, then teeth, then tongue, as though marking every inch he could reach. George tipped his head back against the cool metal, fingers fisting in the fabric at Jack’s waist, breath catching with every pass of heat and scrape of teeth.
“Fuck,” he breathed, half a curse, half a plea.
Jack chuckled, low and wicked. “That good, huh?”
George didn’t answer—just arched again, pressing himself harder into Jack’s body, into the friction, into everything.
The street was quiet but not deserted. Someone could walk by, and maybe that should’ve stopped them; it should’ve mattered, but it really didn’t, not with Jack kissing down his throat, hands gripping the back of his thighs.
George put a hand on Jack’s chest, pushing him an inch away, just slightly. He was breathing heavily, his eyes searching George’s.
“We should go,” he said, voice hoarse, thick with restraint.
George nodded, fingers tightening briefly on Jack’s shirt before releasing him.
“Let’s go.”
Jack kissed him again, quick and hard, then stepped back, barely giving George time to collect himself before the car unlocked with a sharp beep.
The drive was fast and quiet. Jack took corners with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, close enough that George could almost feel the warmth radiating.
George’s heart didn’t slow. If anything, the silence made it worse.
By the time the car slid to a stop outside the hotel, the tension was unbearable.
They didn’t speak on the way in. Jack moved fast, and George was right beside him, the click of their shoes across the polished floor echoing in their ears. The lift was empty. Jack hit the button with a flick of his wrist, then leaned against the mirrored wall, finally letting himself look at George again.
And fuck, George felt it.
That gaze—sharp, reverent, wanting—landed like fire against skin. He stared back, lips slightly parted, hands flexing at his sides, feeling as if he didn’t touch Jack again soon, he might actually burn alive.
Ding.
The doors opened, and Jack led the way again, George a step behind, pulse pounding in his ears. They barely made it halfway down the hall before Jack turned, walking backward, keycard already in his hand. His voice dropped again, soft but loaded.
“Last chance, Russell.”
George didn’t even flinch.
“I made my choice when I let you steal my drink.”
Jack smiled, wicked and satisfied, and turned to unlock the door.
The hotel room was dim and modern, spacious enough that the city lights spilling through the wide windows painted silver patterns on the floor, smaller than the one Mercedes had booked for his first driver. George barely saw any of it. The second the door clicked shut behind him, Jack was on him again.
They crashed together like magnets, mouths meeting with bruising force, hands roaming fast now—neither of them interested in patience anymore. Jack’s hands were everywhere—under George’s shirt, up his sides, in his hair. George met him move for move, teeth scraping along Jack’s lower lip, fingers tugging open the last buttons of his already-wrinkled shirt. It hit the floor without ceremony.
“You’re something else, George,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Fucking beautiful.”
The compliment struck something deeper than it should have. George swallowed hard, chest rising and falling, a flush spreading from his throat to his ears.
“You talk too much,” he muttered against his mouth, gasping as he was pressed harder against the wall, Jack’s thigh slotted between his again.
Jack grinned and kissed him harder, just to shut him up. He dragged George’s shirt over his head, dropped it somewhere between kisses, and began walking him backward through the apartment, mouths still fused. George didn’t even look at where they were going until his knees hit the edge of the bed.
Jack pushed George down first, straddling him, palms flat against his chest. They breathed into each other’s mouths, faces close, not speaking. Just looking. Just feeling. There was no space for pretense now, no room for second-guessing or nerves. Just skin and heat and hunger, the press of bodies that had spent all day chasing speed, now finally catching up to themselves.
Jack’s weight on top of him was grounding. Warm. George lay back against the plush bedding, his hands still resting lightly at Jack’s sides. The frantic edge of their energy had softened now, not gone—but paused. Jack hovered just above him, breath warm and steady, their chests rising and falling in sync.
It wasn’t awkward. It was… curious.
George exhaled through his nose, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “You gonna kiss me again or just stare all night?”
Jack laughed softly, dipping his head until their noses brushed. “Just making sure you’re still here.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere.”
“Good.”
The kiss that followed was slower this time—no teeth, no rush. Just the warm press of mouths and the steady beat of hearts in sync. Jack’s hand cupped the side of George’s face, thumb grazing just beneath his eye, and George leaned into it without thinking.
His hands moved too, tracing up Jack’s back, feeling the long stretch of muscle under his fingertips until he met the hem of Jack’s jeans. He pulled at them slowly, a silent ask, and Jack nodded against his lips.
“Yeah,” Jack murmured, standing up briefly to tug them down.. George followed suit, kicking his shoes off next, then letting his trousers fall from his hips in a lazy shuffle before settling back into the pillows.
Jack looked down at him—at the spread of his limbs, the blush of heat across his chest, the rise and fall of breath—
“You’re really something, George.”
George huffed a small laugh. “You’ve already said that.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
Jack leaned down again, this time kissing lower—his mouth brushing across George’s collarbone, his chest, the dip beneath his ribs. His hands moved slowly, mapping every inch like he was learning a language. George let his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, letting himself feel it fully.
The softness in Jack’s touch surprised him. It wasn’t what George expected, given how the night started.
“Jack?” George asked, voice just a rasp of sound as Jack’s lips skimmed down his stomach.
“Yeah?”
“Come on.”
Jack kissed him hard, pouring everything into it—his hands, his mouth, the heat that had been building between them since the bar. George met him there, hips rising, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
Jack followed, pressing his body against George’s, smiling when he felt George’s long legs wrap behind his back. He followed the shape of George’s body like it was a map to somewhere he’d been trying to reach for a long time.
Their bodies moved together, searching, finding rhythm in the tension. Jack’s mouth was everywhere—down George’s throat, across his collarbone, tongue and teeth marking soft skin like he wanted to leave a story behind. George arched under him, fingers digging into his back, chasing every jolt of pleasure like it would ground him.
All it had taken was a little pressure for George's legs to open like a rosebud, letting Jack slip between them in a trail of kisses.
“You’re unreal like this,” Jack whispered between his thighs.
George’s reply was a moan sung to the night. He pulled Jack up, wanting him closer, needing more—more contact, more heat, more of him. Jack entered him slowly, the air between them was thick with sweat, with breathless sounds and the slap of skin, the low creak of the bed beneath their bodies.
“Jack,” George breathed out again, not even sure what he was asking for.
Jack didn’t answer with words. Just met George’s eyes, the heat in them tempered by something impossibly gentle. Then he leaned in, kissing him slow, deep, grounding. Like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend it here.
“You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, voice wrecked.
George’s fingers slid through his short hair, mouth hot at his throat, teeth grazing sharp at his collarbone.
“Then don’t stop.”
Jack pressed his face into the curve of George’s neck and quickened the pace.
George met him beat for beat, gasping into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut, the rhythm between them tight and overwhelming. Hands grasped at each other—hair, hips, shoulders—like letting go even for a second would be unbearable.
When it hit, all that remained of George’s aquamarine irises was a small outline around his dilated pupils.
It was a crescendo, a crashing wave that ripped through George like fire. His whole body seized, legs tightening around Jack’s waist, nails leaving red trails down his back as he came with a breathless, broken sound.
Jack wasn’t far behind, growling something into George’s neck that sounded half like a curse, half like a prayer. His body shuddered against him, arms wrapped tight around George like he could fuse them together.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was their breathing—staggered, uneven, slowly settling.
George’s hand slid into Jack’s damp hair, pulling him down for a softer kiss. Less urgency, more awe.
“Fuck,” Jack whispered into the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” George murmured, still catching his breath, “that about covers it.”
Jack laughed, chest rising and falling with the last tremors of it.
They lay tangled in sweat and silence, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Jack shifted slightly, brushing a hand over George’s hip, then turned to rest on his side, propping his head on one hand. George lay on his back, one arm flung loosely over his head, the other resting where Jack's hand had just been.
“You’re gonna fall asleep like this.”
George raised an eyebrow. “That a suggestion or a challenge?”
Jack shrugged one bare shoulder, then slid a hand across George’s stomach, warm and easy. “Bit of both.”
George just smiled, looking every bit like a cat who got the cream.
“Shower first,” he smirked.
Jack groaned. “You trying to ruin my life?”
George chuckled softly. “Trying to make sure you don’t stick to your sheets.”
He slid off the bed and padded across the room without shame or hurry, switching on the bathroom light and then the shower. The sound of water hitting tile filled the quiet. Steam curled at the edges of the doorway like an invitation.
George was already rinsing his hair when Jack slid in behind him, hands instantly finding his hips, steadying, grounding.
They didn’t talk much. Jack grabbed the soap, lathered up slowly, deliberately, sliding his hands across George’s back, shoulders, down the length of his spine. Not rushed. Not teasing. Just… taking care.
George leaned into it. Eyes closed, arms braced against the wall, he let himself be tended to, let himself be. Water streamed over them, heat loosening every tight place left in his body. When Jack’s hands reached his waist again, he turned, blinking water from his lashes.
Jack kissed him then, gentle and unhurried. Less like a man chasing heat, more like someone making sure he’d be remembered in the morning.
George’s hands found Jack’s jaw, fingers threading into wet hair. The kiss deepened for a moment, but never rushed. They stayed like that, mouths meeting under water, skin slick, breath shared. No pressure. Just closeness.
“You’re being disgustingly sweet,” George murmured against his lips.
Jack’s smirk was felt more than seen. “Let me have my moment.”
George shook his head, still letting his head fall back against the tile.
“You’ve got no romance in you, Russell.”
“You’ll live.”
Back in the bedroom, the sheets had gone cold, but neither of them cared. With the white fluffy towel still around his hips, George reached lazily for his shirt, draped carelessly over the chair—but Jack caught his hand.
“Don’t,” he said, soft but firm.
George looked at him, one brow raised.
Jack took the shirt from his hands and tossed it gently aside. Then he stepped forward, curled his arms around George’s waist, and pulled him close. Skin to skin again, warm and clean this time.
“Just—don’t bother. You’re warm. You’re here,” Jack murmured, chin resting against George’s shoulder. “Stay.”
George hesitated just long enough for Jack to feel it—and then relaxed into him.
“Alright.”
They crawled into bed, damp hair and all. Jack curled around him from behind, arms draped across his middle, fitting them together like they’d done this a hundred times before. George tugged the sheets up to his waist, Jack’s breath warm at the nape of his neck.
“You snore?” Jack asked again, voice drifting into something half-asleep.
George hummed. “Only when I’m really comfortable.”
“Good.”
Jack’s hand tightened gently over his stomach, fingers splaying like he was trying to memorize the shape of him. George laced their fingers together.
“G’night,” Jack whispered, lips brushing the curve of his shoulder.
George closed his eyes.
“Yeah. Goodnight.”