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lost-in-fandoms · 3 days

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Manifesting a pole and good race in Spain by having GP make Max drive qualifying with a plug <3 (praise kink, little bit of dom/sub dynamics)

cw: explicit sexual content, probably unsafe driving practices (can't think this is safe in a F1 car), probably nonsense technical talk

"Okay Max, we're aiming for something between zero and plus two in this lap."

Max shifts gears, GP's voice clear in his ears. His focus is divided still, part on the track and part on the pressure of the plug inside him, on the way he's half hard in his fireproofs. As if he's reading his mind, GP speaks again.

"How does it feel, Max?"

It's a thrill, knowing that to anyone else it will sound like GP is only asking about the car, about the settings, about the track, but Max knows he's actually asking about both things at once. Their game, their secret.

"Okay," he says, voice steady. The plug is his smallest one, but it's still an insistent presence in the corner of his mind. At least for now. He knows it will feel different later.

"Three cars ahead of you," GP informs him, and Max wonders if he too is half hard, or if his control stretches that far. "Russel has gone, now only Gasly and Piastri. Recharge off before turn 13."

Max takes a breath in. Holds it.

"And you can go whenever you're ready."

He breathes out, and for one minute and 13 seconds he's one with the car. His heart pumps with the engine, cylinders pushing blood around his body, fingers melding with the steering wheel, feet holding the carbon fiber itself. For one minute and 13 seconds his body and its needs don't matter unless they're bound to what the car is doing.

"And recharge on. Good lap."

GP's voice slams him back to himself, man separated from machine. He shifts, and suddenly his body remembers itself, the sharp bite of arousal stealing his breath for a moment, long enough to muffle whatever GP is saying.

"Sorry, what was that?" his finger doesn't shake as he presses the radio button, not yet, but he still feels charged, electric.

"Box this lap, Max. Anything you want to change?"

An out Max doesn't want.

"Maybe one click on the front wing."

"Copy."

He doesn't go back out during Q1, just sits in the car with the screens in front of him, watching his time drop from p1 to p6, but remain safe. Usually GP stays on his spot on the wall, but Max isn't too surprised when he comes over, leaning over the halo to catch his eye.

"Do you need a break?" he asks, low enough nobody should pay attention to it, but vague enough that even if they did, it wouldn't matter.

"I'm okay," Max reassures, shifting slightly just to check. Now that GP is this close, it's harder to keep his hands away from himself, but he manages. He's being good and he wants to keep being good.

"If you need a break, you tell me. Clear?"

Max nods, but GP reaches forward slightly, tipping his chin up to meet his eyes again.

"Max."

Visual and verbal confirmation, always. That was one of the things GP had made him promise before they had agreed to try this.

"Clear," Max confirms, nodding again. His voice catches a little, and GP hands him his bottle before he can even think about reaching for it.

"Good," GP says, mouth ticking up at Max's responding shiver, before patting his helmet and standing back.

Q2 is a bit harder. Sitting still in the car, nothing to think about but the pressure that isn't quite enough, has done nothing to cool Max down, but still his desire is just a lake: deep and quiet, something he dips into when he's not focusing on going fast, faster than anyone else. It's manageable.

"We're doing a cooldown lap and then you're going again, Max."

Max frowns. It means his lap wasn't good enough, and in his current mindset that's slightly more upsetting than usual.

"Where did I lose time?" not good enough! his brain screams. He clenches his hands on the steering wheel.

"Turn 4, the exit of 10 and then 11 and 12. There's the toggle available for turn 4 if you need it."

There's a long pause. Max grits his teeth, forcing himself to not close his eyes while he waits, knowing it would be catastrophic. He lets two cars pass him by, not even bothering to check who they are.

"Track should be clear after the two Ferraris go. Recharge off before turn 13." Then finally, "you're doing a good job, Max."

Max breathes out.

He wishes there was a way to ask him to say it again, to say it right, but he knew what he had agreed to when this had started.

He flicks the recharge off.

"Recharge on, mode 8 and let Russel by. Well done, Max."

Relief washes through him, both for the lap and for the praise, making him wish again he could close his eyes, making him wish GP was touching him while speaking.

GP doesn't come by to check on him this time, and Max is equally relieved and disappointed, wanting to have him close, not knowing if he'd be able to resist the temptation to reach out for him.

His car is the last one out in Q3 and he doesn't know how much of that choice was dictated by GP just wanting to keep him sitting still a little longer, keep him wanting. They both know racing comes first, but he wonders, if it didn't harm his qualification, how much GP would let himself lean into this game they're playing.

"Feel free to push a little more on this outlap."

The vibrations of the car send sparks up his spine now, his lower back feeling a little tense, the plug feeling bigger. His throat clicks when he swallows, his tongue heavy in his mouth. When GP speaks again, Max almost asks him to keep talking through his lap, stay close, say more. He doesn't, but only just.

"Recharge off."

Max wills himself back into full focus, but it's different than it was before. The need to go faster, to come out on top, to push the car, hit the apex, find the limit, be better coils itself around the need swirling in his gut to grind down, to shift, to put his hand inside his own fireproofs, to be good. Max wonders if the people outside can see it, all this need bleeding out, flowing around the carbon fiber, turning with the tyres, burning with the engine. His breath comes in short harsh puffs. He doesn't blink.

"And recharge on. That's P1 for now, good job."

It's harder to disentangle himself from the car this time, to undo the knotted lines of his desires. He feels like he's vibrating, doesn't know if he's shaking or if it's the car underneath him. The sun feels brighter, his skin tighter.

"Box this lap, Max. Everything okay?"

No. Yes. I don't know.

His thoughts are starting to slip, but it's too soon, there's still so long left before he's allowed to.

"Max."

If he'd ask for it, GP would find the way to make it right, even with the limited time they have. But this is right, this is what he had asked for, what they discussed.

"All good." His voice is raspy, he can almost imagine it crackling through the radio. He wonders if GP will come over to the car again, wanting to get a new visual check, knowing that Max has pushed himself further than what he was comfortable with before. He doesn't know if he hopes he does or not.

GP doesn't, but he turns to look at him while he drives past the pitwall, and Max nods, knows he'll see it.

His body feels wound tight as he waits to go out again, set in anticipation for everything after while also trying to stay in the now. He asks for his drink again, wills his hands to be steady. Forces himself to not walk out of the car to go drop on his knees next to GP's stool.

It's relief and torture to drive again, to keep his eyes open and his mind present for every meter of the circuit, knowing he can't afford to slip, not even a little.

"Currently P3 Max. Focus on the exit of turn 5 and 10. Recharge off before 13. You know the tools you have."

Max knows with unshakable certainty that if he was to say now that he needed a break, GP would give the rest of qualifying up for him. He also knows himself enough to be sure he will not need it.

It's impossible to fully disconnect from his body now, to not feel the way the car hurtling around track makes it move and shift, but he curls his needs around each other again until he's holding everything tightly in his gut. And then he drives.

"And that's P1, Max, well done, good job."

The words land in Max's mouth, heavy as if he had been the one to speak them, sweet as if GP had put them there with his own tongue. He lets himself slip just a little, taking a hand off the steering wheel between turn 9 and 10 and shutting out Christian's voice.

He digs his fingers into his own tight, hopes the other part of his brain is spitting out something coherent enough.

Almost time. His whole body thrums with the knowledge of it.

He manages to pull himself back a little, enough to not wobble as he gets out of the car, to clasp hands with Lewis and Carlos, to find words to say during his interview.

And then finally, finally, he gets to walk away, even if just for a few minutes, to go look for GP.

He finds him sitting on the small couch in his driver room, knees splayed wide, eyes focused on Max as soon as he lets himself in.

"Come here," he orders, in the same voice he uses on track.

As he always does, Max goes.

A part of him wants to drop to the floor, but GP tugs him into his lap, hands firm on his waist, mouth finding his with a certainty that makes Max's head spin.

"You did well," GP says when they separate, Max panting and whining already, grinding forward and then pushing back, looking for relief. "You deserve your reward now, right?"

Max nods, letting his head drop on GP's shoulder, mindlessly mouthing at his neck, hands useless around his shoulders.

"So good, so far gone for me already."

GP somehow manages to get his hand inside his inner layers, index finger pushing on the plug before toying with it, dragging gasps and moans from Max, making him writhe in his lap, keeping him still with the other one on his waist.

"Please, inside," he begs, feeling tears gather on his lashes, "please."

He's shaking now, all the coiled desire ready to snap, but GP shushes him, finally taking out the plug and immediately replacing it with a finger before Max has even the thought to complain.

"Two?" he asks, waiting for Max's breathless assent before pushing his index finger next to the other, pleasure and pain shooting up Max's spine in a show of sparks.

"You can come whenever you want, you have earned it."

Max closes his mouth around the collar of GP's team shirt, trying to not be too noisy, and grinds forward against his stomach, too many layers between them, feeling his fingers twist inside him.

He's so so close, he just needs...

"So good, Max," GP says, before Max can even think about stringing enough braincells together to form the whole thought. "Good boy."

Max comes with a jolt, untouched in his underwear, biting down on GP's shoulder, shaking and gasping his way through it as he tries to get somehow even deeper, closer.

He's still boneless and floating as he feels GP replace his fingers with the plug again, whines even if he knows they don't have time for him to properly fuck him now, knows it will have to wait for later. Feels a kiss being pressed onto his sweaty temple, then another on his hair.

"Breathe now," GP reminds him, still unflinchingly steady, even if Max can feel him hard underneath him. "Good boy."

Max knows he soon will have to gather himself again and go for more interviews, knows he will feel the ghost of GP's hands on him for the rest of the day until they can properly fall into a bed, reassurance and taunt wrapped into one. For now though, he lets himself be held and praised, content.

#hello smut is not my thing so be nice to meeee <3 #when is gp gonna call ME a good girl :/#gp/max #my writing #i didnt know how to end it because i wanted to write like two more scenes but they were not coming to me #so i said fuck it you go in the rejected scene corner #im also manifesting a lewis p2 sue me #i finished this before fp2 and im now sick to my stomach but also lewis and carlos up there so go me i guess #i have only reread this once so if there are typos no there aren't xx #im posting this now because i feel like it's needed after this fucking friday godspeed my child

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