max-verstappens-boy-car - Tumblr blog

max-verstappens-boy-car · 20 hours

Text

passions narrow but deep

inspired by this wonderful gif (also on ao3)

By the time she unwraps the measuring tape from his neck, Max is ready to bolt.

She brushes her thumb over his skin where she must have left an indent, over the muscle and just inches from his scent gland. Max barely holds back a flinch, clenches his teeth instead.

“There we go,” she says with a smile that drips with kindness, but Max doesn’t care, would rather be anywhere but here. “It’s better to be certain in these situations.”

Max doesn’t reply.

The woman is a beta, and he knows she’s supposed to be a neutral party in this, indifferent to the dynamic pull from either side. It’s clear too from the almost clinical way that she touches Max, hands ruthlessly direct in how she moves him, brushing over spots that would be intimate – invasive – from anyone else. But still, she has a scent, soaked in someone’s tart, uncomfortable stench that makes his nose itch.

Max pulls up the collar of his shirt, rubs his neck into the sides of it. He stole it from GP during their meeting earlier, and the familiar musk soothes his skin, his nose.

“Here it is, Max,” she says and hands over the strip of leather. The edges are rounded, and it looks like the collar Spyke had worn. Built more for durability than comfort, thick enough that no shirt would be able to cover it, the dark brown always visible on his throat.

“Do you need help to fasten it?”

“No,” he tells her.

He turns to leave, but there’s a touch to his shoulder, an apologetic smile on her face, and Max really fucking hopes it’s the last time he has to see her.

“I cannot let you leave without the collar on, the FIA mandate went into action today.”

He shrugs off her touch, fumbles with the clasp until the leather opens. It takes longer than it should, rough on his fingers, and maybe it isn’t meant to be taken off. Max wouldn’t put it past them.

It’s – fine, how it sits on his throat.

It doesn’t dig into his skin, but he feels it when he moves his head, the subtle strain makes it impossible not to. Max wonders how it will be in the car on tracks with sharp turns and bumpy kerbs, if they had someone test it under duress. If they considered how the collar could impact breathing, track awareness.

He doesn’t know who would have volunteered to test that.

“I think you wear it well,” she tells him kindly. Max wonders if he’s the first of them to come through, if she told the other three the same thing.

“I have written down your measurements if you want to –“

Max slams the door shut behind him.

There’s a box in his office when he comes back to the factory.

It’s neatly wrapped, and there’s a card to the side that Max doesn’t bother to read. He already knows what it is. There have been no recent anniversaries, no wins outside of the usual, no achievements to celebrate – nothing but the fucking FIA-mandated collar.

The collar inside is nice.

The leather is a dyed blue and soft to touch. The colour matches one of his TAG Heuer watches, the buckle the same but without the engraving. Max knows it must have been tempting to keep it, to brand this with the partnership too.

The leather is dotted with gold, no bigger than the holes for the buckle. But as he looks closer, the dots expand and turn into tiny Red Bull logos that span the length of the collar.

Max doesn’t mind it, but he knows Daniel wouldn’t like it.

Even now with a renewed loyalty to Red Bull, Daniel would wince at the sight, would tell him that it’s a bit on the nose. Tacky, he wouldn’t say – not now, not with the dreams he still has – but Max would know that’s what he meant.

He wraps it around his wrist, tries to remember the look of the watch he left at home.

The blue looks nice against his skin, and the bend of the leather is better than what the FIA had given him. The buckle comes apart easier, and Max has it off in a second.

He doesn’t put it on again.

Max’s favourite thing after sex is the smell, how the sheets will be soaked in their shared scent.

He’s spread out on his stomach, head buried in the pillow as he feels the slow drip of come as it escapes him. If he turns his head to the side, tucks his nose into his shoulder, he will smell how Daniel’s sweet scent has leaked onto his skin – the sharp notes of fuel, the contrast of the honey that leaves Max dizzy.

Daniel’s hand is heavy on his back, rubbing over the knobs of his spine until there’s a tug on his throat.

“I thought you didn’t like the collar,” he says, voice soft. His hands are careful, hesitant as he slips two fingers underneath the leather.

The collar sits tight on his throat like this, but Max likes how it strains under Daniel’s touch. His breath hitches, and Max already feels come-dumb, but his heart beats wildly in his chest, and Max never wants it to end. Daniel’s eyes are huge when Max turns to look at him, and he thinks he likes that even more.

“I don’t,” Max tells him and chases Daniel’s hand with his lips.

His mouth closes around the meat of his thumb, sucks the skin between his teeth. He moves his mouth down to the bend of his wrist where Daniel’s scent is strong, licks over his pulse until his mouth is full of it, the tip of his tongue almost numb.

“So why don’t you take it off?”

Daniel rubs his other wrist on his throat, over the collar where the scent will cling to him, staying on until his next shower. Even then Max never washes too well after nights like these, likes the way Daniel stays with him.

“There is a FIA thing tomorrow with Red Bull,” Max says. “The buckle is of course so tricky. It is easier to just keep it on.”

His head falls to the side to give Daniel more access to his throat. The collar strains with the move, and Max moans loudly, fucking into the bed where he’s getting hard again.

Daniel’s hand fiddles with the buckle, the end of the leather slipping out of the tiny metal thing. He pushes the collar down a bit and frowns at the marks it has left. Max usually turns the buckle to the back of his neck. It’s easier like that, irritates his skin less.

“I could take it off,” Daniel offers. His smile is soft as his thumb strokes over the swell of his throat, pressing into his windpipe. “Put it back on tomorrow if you want.”

His head is dizzy, and his body buzzes with heat. His dick chafes against the bed, but even that isn’t enough because he feels so fucking empty as slick slips down his thighs, soaking into the bed. His mouth barely fits around Daniel’s wrist, but it feels right as he bites down, sinks his teeth into his skin.

“Please,” he begs, slurring his words.

Daniel moves quick, strips the collar from his throat and lets his hand take its place, squeezing tightly until Max is loose against the bed. He shakes his wrist free from Max’s teeth and shoves the leather into his mouth instead, “Bite down.”

And Max does.

Max is on the sim when his heat hits.

It’s a rare sunny day in Milton Keynes, so Max shows up in shorts and lets himself be strapped in. The room is stuffy, but it always is, leaving him hot and bothered. Max doesn’t notice until GP touches him on the shoulder to say, “I think you’re going into heat, mate.”

Max squeezes his thighs together and finds a patch of wet between them, bullets of sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

“Oh.”

Since the FIA deregulated suppressants, Max has been working towards a natural heat cycle to let his body rebalance. But that has meant overproduction of slick, scent-sickness and worst of all, flash heats. His summer heat is scheduled for the break when both he and Daniel will be free, not when Daniel is stuck in Italy.

But it’s only a day, and Max makes do. Or at least he does, until Daniel calls him.

Something about hearing Daniel’s voice when he’s half-lucid and sick with heat makes him go wild. Everything that reminds him of Daniel has been left behind, leaving him with half his hand inside him, sloppy with heat and slick as he works himself up to his fist.

“Baby,” Daniel begs him softly. “Be good to yourself, please. For me?”

Max tries, he really does.

But nothing feels good like this.

His body is too big, his skin too tight, his hole is too loose and his hand isn’t big enough. He’s come five times, but his dick hasn’t become soft since he left the factory. His skin itches and when Daniel tells him to touch himself, to make him feel good, Max doesn’t even think as he rips the collar from his throat to wrap a hand around it.

Daniel finds him just after his heat has ended, hand still inside himself and the collar ripped apart by his feet. He’s dehydrated and tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep, and when Daniel tries to make him eat, Max begs him to fuck him.

“Please, Daniel. I haven’t, I can’t –“

There’s still come on his stomach, but it doesn’t count, it didn’t feel good – didn’t make him feel good. Not like Daniel does.

“Okay, Maxy,” Daniel says and fucks him soft, fucks him good until Max’s body feels like his own again.

It’s the same woman who has to make him his new collar.

The same bright smile as she whips out her measuring tape and motions for him to bend down so she can reach, “Better be safe and get the measurements right.”

His jaw feels tight, his feet rooted to the spot, and Max thinks for the first time, that maybe the Red Bull collar would have been just fine.

Carlos is deep in his answer about Monza when Max bends his head towards Daniel, “You are being weird.”

Daniel presses his knee against Max’s with a hum. His eyes are soft when he looks at him, but there’s a furrow between his brows. A note of something sour in his scent, and Max doesn’t like it.

Daniel shrugs, “That’s just me, baby. Race weekend, we’re all a bit weird.”

Max doesn’t let up, stares at him even as he’s asked about the upgrades, about his sim times and the track, how it will fit the car. But Daniel doesn’t budge.

When they let them go, Max shoves him into a side room and locks the door behind them. Daniel pushes him back and pins him against the wall, digging his thumbs into his shoulder.

“Fine, okay. You smell off, like – I don’t know? Are you close to a heat?” Daniel asks. But the frown is still there. He cradles Max’s arm in his hand and pulls his wrist to his nose, breathing in until his senses must be satiated with Max. His face turns soft, but the confusion doesn’t stray. “That’s not – your scent is fine. Could you be getting sick, maybe?”

Max rolls his eyes. He rubs his thumb over the leather of the collar and shoves it under his nose, watches as Daniel’s face transforms with it.

“Fuck, Max,” Daniel says and shoves his hand away. “That’s fucking nasty.”

“That’s Alex.”

“What?”

“The scent. You didn’t put my collar back on before you left,” Max tells him, eyes sharp because it’s not his fucking fault he’s smelling bad. Daniel of course should have remembered it too. “Always it is back at the hotel, so I had to wear George’s spare.”

Daniel leans in to bury his face in his throat and when he stands back up, his face is smoother than before, more confused than repulsed, “Oh.” He rubs his wrist over the collar, and Max already knows George will be furious, upright and prissy about it.

“You couldn’t have asked Yuki instead?”

“Fuck off,” Max tells him and pulls him in for a kiss.

The next time his collar breaks, it isn’t his fault.

It’s a hard-fought win and Max throws himself into his team, soaks in their praise, in their love. Max has always liked how they touch him after, rough touches and tight squeezes, on his back and his waist, his ass – everywhere they can reach.

Someone touches his neck, and Max doesn’t mind it, knows it’s from the rush of the moment.

Maybe it’s one of the newer guys because suddenly the touch turns frantic. They pull back too fast, too hard, and Max feels the snap against his throat as the leather gives away under their hands.

On the podium, he wears the Red Bull branded collar, neck red from where it had been pulled off him.

“Back again?” The woman says.

She doesn’t smile at him now, and the measuring tape doesn’t come out. She looks up his measurements on the computer, calls them out to check with him like Max somehow knows them by heart.

“I will put in the order right away, but it will be a few days,” she tells him, and Max knows then that she hates this too.

When the new collar comes in, it’s different.

The FIA must have changed their leather smith because the new one makes him break out in a rash, his skin red and sensitive. The team doctor prescribes him a round of steroids but even that does little to dampen the reaction.

So Max is back to wearing the Red Bull collar but that digs into his skin, sits awkwardly under the helmet, and GP has to tell him twice to stop fuzzing before he can focus on the race.

He’s spread out in Daniel’s bed, dragging his feet to get ready because that means putting the collar back on, when Daniel wraps his hand around his throat, covering up the marks.

“You know I don’t like this shit,” he says with a frown. His thumb soft on his skin even as his nail digs into sensitive marks. “Like, the collaring is a whole fucking mess. But they should at least make them comfortable for you.”

Somewhere in the box of scratched ‘grill the grid’ videos, some fucking marketing exec had the idea to make the alphas design their own collars as if the mandate had been rolled out for the entire grid, “And then we will make them for you to review later on!”

Mercedes’ invitation for that one had somehow gotten lost.

“This is of course what they have,” Max says with a soft breath. He leans into the touch, and Daniel’s grasp tightens, thumb digging into his pulse point. “I could order one also, but who has the time for this?”

Daniel’s hold becomes loose, and Max whines. Daniel shushes him as he pulls his hand away, kissing him as he goes, “Just a moment, baby.”

Max turns to his side to glare at Daniel, at the clock that is ticking down. Rupert will be here soon if he doesn’t get out of bed.

But Daniel is quick to come back, a familiar square box held between precarious hands, and a heat builds low in Max’s stomach.

“It’s cool if you don’t like it, but. I had this made a while ago, like after the shit with Alex?” Daniel says and hands over the box. He keeps his hands on Max’s and helps him unwrap it, the weight of his gaze heavy on Max’s face. “In case you lost it again, so you wouldn’t have to wear his. But I think this would also –“

Max kicks him gently to stop his rambling, rips the delicate paper off the box.

The leather is black and buttery soft when he pulls it out, an odd contrast to the velvet of the box. The buckle comes apart easily and there’s padding on the back of it, so it won’t dig into his skin. It’s thinner than the one from the FIA, barely a thumb’s width, but already it looks so lovely.

“You like it?” Daniel asks when Max still hasn’t said anything. He takes the collar and flips it over, turns it so the front is facing him instead, showing off the engraving of a golden lion staring back at him. “I had them put this in too. So it would fit with your helmet.”

“Daniel,” Max whispers.

He traces the logo with his finger, the familiar lines. There’s something else on the inside, on the side that will press against his skin, and Max sucks in a breath looking at the ‘3’ printed there.

“I love it. Will you put it on?”

Daniel’s face turns soft, his smile loose and happy. “Always, Maxy.”

Daniel follows him down onto the bed, body spread wide to cover all of Max.

“So fucking beautiful, Maxy,” he whispers and runs a hand over bare skin.

Max shivers underneath him, feels the way the slick pours out of him. Even like this, moments away from being fucked, Max feels desperate. But he always feels like this when Daniel is near, always wants him inside him, on him – close, in any way that he can be.

Daniel's hand wraps around his throat and squeezes, knuckles bumping against the edge of his collar, and Max moans. Daniel shushes him and presses sloppy kisses to his lips, “Soon, baby. I promise.”

Daniel’s fingers leave his skin for a moment to Max’s despair and then they’re back, making quick work of the buckle attached to the leather, pulling the strap free to –

“No! Please, don’t,” Max whines and fumbles to wrap his hands around his throat where the collar has come undone. “What are you doing.”

“I – Max?”

Max twists in his arms, turns on his side to look at Daniel who looks just as confused as Max is feeling. His heart beats in his chest, and Max doesn’t understand why he would take it back now.

“You said – it is my collar, Daniel. You gave it to me.”

“I did, yeah. Of course, I did, baby,” Daniel says, promises. His hands move slowly as they refasten the buckle, pressing the leather into his skin until Max lets his fingers drop. “I just, normally you want it off during sex, so I thought – “

“But it’s your collar,” Max says. “I like it because it’s yours, Daniel.”

Daniel cups his face with trembling hands, kisses him sweetly. “Okay, Maxy. We’ll leave it on.”

Max burns hot with heat, with need and desire.

He’s two orgasms in, and he knows it will happen soon. Daniel won’t tell him – Max asked him not to – but he can feel it coming, the anticipation heavy in the air. And then –

Daniel fucks him into him, a stutter in his thrusts and suddenly, there are teeth in his throat sinking into skin, Max mad with pleasure. The bond snaps into place, and Max can feel how his mind makes room for Daniel, how it relents and pushes until everything fits, already so in tune with each other.

Max is flayed open and bare, exposed. But in the best way possible.

“Did you – is it,” he pants, unsure if he will ever stop feeling like this, all consumed by Daniel. “Did you remember?”

Daniel removes his teeth from his neck, licks at the skin with slow, deep licks until leans up to kiss Max. Max hates the taste of blood, but like this, he loves it. The reminder of why it’s there, what it means.

“Of course, Maxy. Your collar will be here,” he says softly and wraps his hand around his throat, squeezing until Max’s sight goes blurry. He leans in to kiss the skin above his hand, where he bit him, “And your mark will be here, visible to everyone.”

“Good,” Max slurs and lets his head be moved into the crook of Daniel’s neck, biting down when Daniel tells him to.

Max barely comes to races anymore, prefers to watch them from home where no one disturbs him. But Daniel had wanted him there, so Max had come.

It’s only been a year since his retirement, but Max has already forgotten the absolute nightmare the paddock is on race day, chewing up and spitting out everyone they can put a name to, and who’s better than a former world champion?

He’s five minutes deep into an interview with some pundit he doesn’t remember the name of when they ask him about the roll-back of the FIA-mandated collars.

Max has already shared his opinion on it, both after he left the sport, and then again when the roll-back was announced. The shitty apology they had directed at him, George, Yuki, and Oscar for that first year where nothing had worked as it should, and then the five other omegas who had suffered under it.

George who had been fuming at the roll-back, at the lack of retroactive action.

“It was of course bull shit,” Max tells them now. His hand rests lightly on the swell of his stomach where the baby has started to kick, and he has maybe two minutes left before he has to pee again. “I don’t know why they made us wear them in the first place.”

“But haven’t we seen you wear your collar since your retirement, Max?” The pundit asks, and maybe it’s supposed to be a joke, but Max doesn’t know them, and it doesn’t feel like it is. Or maybe he’s just seven months pregnant and overly hormonal, who the fuck knows? “So was it really that bad?”

Max stares him down, rooted to the ground until they shift in their spot, and then he says, “I like Daniel’s hand around my neck too, do you want to ask me about that also?”

The other host cuts in, ushering him out fast and unsubtle, “And thank you, Max Verstappen! Let’s head back to the studio.”

73 notes · View notes