#max/gp

[maxybabyy]

”What?”

”Nothing, I’m just –” Gianpiero says and clears his throat.

“You are of course staring at me,” Max says, and Gianpiero knows that he is, but how could he not?

Max is soaked to the bone, hair drenched with sweat, and the thin, white shirt he had been wearing is now clinging to his chest. His face is flushed, and his breaths are fast, shallow from running himself ragged on the paddle court. He holds the seam of his shirt between long, elegant fingers and uses it to wipe his forehead, flashing the pale skin of his stomach – and even that looks a bit flushed.

“I’m just looking at you, Max,” Gianpiero says, and at least his voice sounds calm. “Is that not allowed?”

Gianpiero is always looking at Max, toMax, for Max. When it’s not his data, it’s always Max, in the car or on the sim. Two beers deep in a bar somewhere they shouldn’t have been, complaining about the car, the cats, Lando and his moods, or whatever has been stuck on his mind this week.

Gianpiero has looked at him in his bed, spread out beautifully in pale soft sheets. So utterly lovely and impossible at the same time.

Usually, Max will look back at him and smile, eyes crinkling at the corner because Max likes the attention. Of the world? Maybe. The media? Certainly not. But there’s a select few under whose eyes Max will beam with affection, like a flower blooming under the glow of the sun.

But Max doesn’t smile. His eyes don’t crinkle, and the line of his mouth goes taut.

“Don’t,” he says. “Not when –“

“I cannot look at you, Max? At my driver, at my –“

“No,” Max says, and it’s a far cry from the man who had dragged him to the paddle court in the first place, loose and happy with the weekend off. “Not when always you do nothing about it.”

“Max.”

Gianpiero doesn’t reach for him – not here, not with Robert and Calum just meters away – but his fingers twitch with the need to.

Max watches him for a second before he scoffs. He picks up his water bottle and stalks out, back tight with tension. And then, just before he leaves for the locker room, body poised not unlike a cat ready for the attack, “I owe you of course congratulations on the promotion, GP. You must be so happy, Red Bull also, no?”

It’s catty and mean, and Gianpiero is too old for this whole cat-and-mouse bit, but he goes after him anyway, gives chase until the door slams shut behind them.

“It helps to have the success of a three-times world champion behind you,” he says, and this time he does reach for Max.

He places one hand on Max’s hip, fingers slipping on sweaty skin as he bypasses where Max’s shorts sit tight. The other cups his jaw, fingers splayed wide on his throat, making Max look at him. Max doesn’t move away, but he’s always been like this: pliant under steady hands, malleable and yielding even in times where he shouldn’t.

Max swallows, and Gianpiero feels it against his hand.

“I thought –“ Max says but the words come out strangled. Voice cracking like it does sometimes in the car, loud and hilarious over the radio, reminding them both of how far he’s come since then, how far they’ve both come.

“Always we said when it is 2025, we would try,” he says with a rasp. “And then you –“

Gianpiero breathes out a heavy breath. His thumb strokes over Max’s cheek, skin slick with sweat but he doesn’t mind. A lot of their best moments have been with Max drenched in sweat.

“I don’t think it’s that easy, unfortunately,” he says softly. “The market is changing, and what teams want is –“

“Everyone wants you, GP,” Max says, blunt and a little mean. He twists out of Gianpiero’s hands to pace the space between lockers, his shoes heavy on the floor. “Fucking Vasseur trying to –“

“As I said, things change,” Gianpiero says softly. His shirt feels clammy against his skin, and he has a meeting at four, but that has to wait. “With Lewis, Bono said –“

“I do not give a fuck about Bono,” Max lashes out, head whipped around to stare at Gianpiero. “Or did he fuck Lewis also? Did he tell him he loved him and that they would of course be together and then forget about him? Did Bono do this also? Because he is then in lovely company.”

Gianpiero flinches at the words, at how they leave Max’s mouth. Pink lips pulled back in a snarl, flat teeth that he’s felt against his skin now ready for the attack.

“Max,” he says, searching for something softer, sweeter. But Max has always been Max to him, even when he wasn’t, and Gianpiero doesn’t like to think about that. “Max,” he says again and wills it to be as sweet as any other pet name.

“Did you ever think that’s why I’m doing this?” He asks. “I cannot be your race engineer and have the responsibility of putting you in the seat, fighting with you about a car that doesn’t drive like you want it to, and then come home with you to pretend everything is alright.”

“Why not?” Max asks, rudely if Gianpiero didn’t know him better.

Gianpiero knows Max has no problem separating what happens in racing from his personal life. So perhaps Max could make it work, chewing him out over the radio before crawling into bed with him, kissing him softly as he has before. But Gianpiero knows he couldn’t.

“I love you, Max, but it has to be right, and it has to make sense, for both of us,” he says.

He knows Max already has one foot out of the sport, knows if the car continues to drive like it does Max will leave. To Aston Martin or Mercedes, he doesn’t know, or perhaps even retirement. He knows Max wants him to follow, and that now only the latter is possible.

But Gianpiero isn’t ready to leave and more truthfully, isn’t ready to be in his mid-forties and live off his boyfriend’s money.

“When?” Max asks. He’s lost some of the fight, the tension in his shoulders all but gone, and he comes to Gianpiero easy, tucking his face into his throat. “When will it make sense?”

They both know the answer but neither of them wants to say it.

Even if it meant he would have Max like this, soft and lovely in his arms, he would lose the driver Max has become. And selfishly, Gianpiero isn’t ready for that either.

“Soon,” he says and pretends the words don’t taste bitter on his tongue as he leans in to kiss him.

[blorbocedes]

Why is there such intense sexual tension between gp and max

I really think the meat of the dynamic is max can trust him to be honest with him, and in turn max can be his most unfiltered honest self.

the driver and race engineer dynamic is a very intimate one. if you think of the car and the driver as the horse, the raw power that wins the races, then your race engineer is your rider -- calm and firm in guiding you to victory. f1 is a huge team production, each driver has a whole factory of people behind him making sure everything goes smoothly. but during the race the driver's only direct connection to the team is the voice in his ear, relaying strategy, warning them of other cars and track limits, encouraging them and even admonishing. this is the man you trust with your life, literally, coming out of blind spots like out of the monaco tunnel and trusting your engineer to tell you whose behind you.

with max and GP, GP's been his race engineer since 2016. that's a very long time and a very long relationship. max is obviously redbulls golden boy and literally everyone's job in the team is to keep him happy, from his tp to helmut it's all praise (and he's doing an outstanding job to get it), but GP in a way is the only person who isn't and by the function of his job can't be a yes man to max. he has to relay him the truth. you'll see GP isn't often impressed by max, and even bets against him making pole. The guy who knows your data and braking points and how you keep crossing over track limits isn't gonna be too impressed by you even if you're god's gift to racing. He makes max earn his post race praise. He's even curt, and outright direct when max is whining on radio. Likewise, max knows he can be aggressive in high pressure situations, yelling at him to not talk to him in the braking zone and that GP can take handle him. There's trust in that too. And if he feels he went too far, he will sheepishly get GP ice cream post race. Their dynamic on radio is one that makes us the viewers we're witnessing a couple having a domestic tiff. that's because GP gives back as good as he gets. He doesn't coddle max, if max makes the wrong call then GP will call him out on it. my favourite radio is when max was yapping why didn't we do etc etc and GP was straight up do you want to switch jobs? how about you do your own next lap.

this is the man you can be your worst self in high stress situations to and he will take you as you are. that's basically a marriage.

obviously despite all the headache max causes, GP loves working with him. he literally said max is the driver he wants to retire with. he has a photo with max in his living room, instead of his wife 😭 likewise, max literally has a clause in his contract that he gets GP. max is someone who is loyal to a fault and GP's been with him since his very first f1 win. that's his emotional regulator baldie.

the sexual tension comes from the fact that GP is 17 years older than him and max wants to get rawed by him 🧑🏻‍🦲❤️😋

[noelleidle]

Max & GP being an iconic duo

[lost-in-fandoms]

a loose thread on a jumper sleeve, for the fic prompts

hand picked this ship just for you <3 hope I somewhat did it justice

Max tugs on the jumper, seeking comfort more than warmth, before curling up on the couch, unlocking his phone before giving up looking for something to watch or someone to talk to even before starting the search.

He knows who he wants to see, but he also knows that he's going to have to wait a little longer before GP gets out of his last meeting and gets home.

Max sighs, unlocking his phone and locking it again. His eyes feel dry and scratchy from the long hours spent on the sim, driving the same track over and over, looking at the data and running it back.

He doesn't think that he's ever felt this discouraged before in his whole racing career.

Before becoming a world champion, he always had that objective to look forward to, everything he had been working for his whole life, and the two years after that had been a dream, wins and records making every obstacle look like nothing more than a speed bump.

But now. Now it is hard.

It isn't only not winning, even if he isn't very fond of that either, it is everything else. The unbalanced car, the team not listening to him, the people leaving, the tension at the top that sometimes manages to bleed even into his relationship with GP. It is a lot and it is exhausting and he hates it.

He closes his eyes, letting his head drop against the back of the couch, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the jumper's sleeve.

He doesn't really fall asleep, but he lets himself drift off, brain blissfully empty for what feels like the first time in days, until he hears the lock click and the door open.

He doesn't open his eyes as he listens to the sounds of a jacket being hung up, shoes being put away, keys being dropped in the little ceramic holder at the entrance that Max always forgets the existence of.

Then there are steps on the carpet, and finally the couch dips, a warm hand wrapping around Max's ankle.

"Are you okay?" GP asks, voice quiet, but not a whisper.

Max doesn't know how GP is always able to tell when he's awake or asleep, but he knows there's no point in faking.

He cracks an eye open, nodding wearily, not really feeling like talking after such a busy day. GP seems to understand that too, because he doesn't force him to answer verbally, raising his arm in invitation instead.

Max shifts around until he can tuck himself under it, throwing his legs over GP's lap and laying his cheek against his shoulder with a sigh.

"I saw your data before leaving," GP tells him, voice rumbling pleasantly under Max's ear. "You did good work today."

The praise does a better job at warming Max up than the jumper had, but he still shrugs, awkward from where he's trapped against GP's body.

"It's still shit," he mumbles. He doesn't like complaining like this, when it's not productive, but he knows that this is the only space where he's safe to do so, where he can allow himself to mope around a little and not be judged for it.

"We'll fix it," GP says, as confident as when they're on the radio. It makes it easier to believe, when it's said in the same tone Max has trained himself to not doubt for years. Sadly, he's never managed to fully do it.

He shrugs again, not really feeling like being positive at the moment. He wants to be held and to mope, and then tomorrow he'll get back to work, and the day after, and the one after that, until things will be better or something will break.

But not tonight. Tonight is for curling up tighter, fingers twisting the loose thread again, and letting GP kiss his hair with a sigh.

They stay like that for a while, listening to the ticking of GP's watch, until Max uncurls slightly, picking his head up from GP's chest to be able to look at his face.

"What's for dinner?"

It's a clear request to move forward, move away from racing for once, instead of towards it, and it's no surprise when GP accepts it, picking up his phone to let Max order take-out.

That in itself is a sign that Max isn't the only one feeling bone tired tonight, but they both manage to pick their energy up a little, bickering over restaurants and meal plans, and then over what to put on the tv, and then over who should go to the door to get the food.

Unsurprisingly, again, Max is the one who finds himself standing up with a grumble.

"If this is what I get for being in your lap, I hope you know I'll never do it again," he says, stomping towards the entrance.

"Yes you will," GP calls back, clearly smiling, "and don't think I haven't noticed that you're wearing my jumper!"

"No, I'm not!" Max is, but he is not letting GP win that too.

And if he brings it up to his nose to smell their combined scents and hide his smile, then at least nobody can see him.

[countingstars-17]

"k!ll a prey" followed by the cutest smile is the most max thing ever

[valyrfia]

btw the reason why max doesn’t drive as dirty against charles as he does against others is because he learnt at a very formative age that charles wouldn’t hesitate to literally divebomb him off the track

[tyrannosaurus-maxy]

Max and Charles' debrief about the weather and tyre sets for tomorrow :')

(isolated audio for maxplaining sessions - tagging this series #audio**)

[ef-1]

Max: is that-? Is that sonic? Ah yeah, it is sonic

Charles: why don't we have highlights of the race anymore?

Lando: [inaudible, gesturing at the screen] Red, italian, Ferrari version-

Max: because now we have to promo- ah.

IM CRYING THEY MADE THEM WATCH SONIC PROMO IN THE COOL DOWN ROOM??? AND ALL 3 OF THEM WERE BITCHY IMMEDIATELY. NOT A REAL SPORTTT

[blorbocedes]

take what's mine, want what's yours

heist au, ch: 1/3 (3.5k), max/gp

summary:

a heist that spans a weekend at the grand belayge hotel. a pretend marriage. a stolen laptop. seven million dollars.

[lestappenforever]

Lestappen teaming up against McLaren.

[f1-birb]

THE HUGS

pics by Steven Tee and Sam Bloxham

[countingstars-17]

a cooldown room that sounds more like a "cope with depression room"

[souvenir116]

Max literally refusing to move to 1st to let Charles stand there

Max laughing it off and not caring

Max being grumpy and warning Checo and Carlos even when it's not his spot that it's wrong

[maxybabyy]

oh they fucked nasty about it first. but gp is generous with his boy and hugged him to sleep after, running his fingers through his hair. max woke up the day after, having lost his voice though :/ can't have it all

(link) aaaaah, you’re so right 😩 

fucked hard and put to sleep gently. And max's poor throat the day after. GP handing him a cup of honeyed tea that max doesn’t usually drink and kissing him softly. 

“Probably shouldn’t have been so mouthy, mate,” GP says with a smirk, lips still pressed to his neck. 

Max, face flushed and still naked where he lies under the sheets, huffs. 

“Shut up, mate. You can of course next time be in the car, and I will instead get my dick sucked.” 

“Hmm, did that to yourself then, didn’t you?” 

He kisses him again, quick and impulsive. Desperate, maybe to make the moment last a little longer. But they both know he has to leave soon, their bubble of borrowed time soon to burst. 

GP looks at him from the door, Max’s face soft and open, trying to find the words that will make this easier and coming up short.

“Well, see you when you get back, yeah?” 

Max nods, smiling faintly. “Of course, GP.” 

[thearchercore]

the interaction is now unlocked from both pov's

[blorbocedes]

drunken kiss / tipsy and gpstappen ? 🫶🏽

Max has told GP he loves him every time he's won a championship.

The first one, Max probably told everyone and their grandmother and their mother's cat he loved them. He loved his team, he loved his mechanics, he loved his car. And of course, of course he loved his race engineer. Probably yelled it over a fifth consecutive rendition of 'We Are The Champions.' While crying and soaked in champagne. It's the best day of his life.

The second one, with the lacklustre touch and confusion of Suzuka and the technicality of points but made it worth it by GP marching across the paddock with the team in their two time world champion special shirts.

"I love you, man." Max is bearhugged by GP and he sinks his head in the crook of his neck, a million cameras flash. A dozen other people around them, waiting their turn. Max is bigger than GP but in that moment feels smaller in his arms. And then the world is back in focus, and he's passed around to other members of the team.

The third time. It's kind of lame to win via a sprint race, especially when the real race is the next day. Max can admit it, privately, even though the car is probably the best it's ever going to be and he can't stop winning. He knows this is historic, even if it will take time for that to really sink in.

So he goes out drinking with his team.

He lives to regret it in the morning debriefs, with his head pounding. He has to downplay it, of course he will be fine before the race. He's raced in worse conditions. Still, it makes all the details to focus on just that much harder while his brain thuds in his temple and he craves a greasy burger.

GP walks by him and hands him a milkshake and two acetaminophens.

"I fucking love you." Max mouths at him. Speaking is too headache inducing.

By the fourth, there is a feeling of urgency. A feeling this could be the last one ever and Max wants to savour it. He's earned it, even if it the rest of the world thinks it's a given.

Another shot is poured his throat and he laps it up eagerly. Four stars.

He sees GP coming to him from across the room.

"I—" He starts.

GP interrupts him, pulling him by the collar and smashing their faces together. There's a few 'ooh's and aahs' whistling from around them but these are people Max trusts with his life. GP tastes of champagne, or Max tastes of champagne and he's tasting himself on GP's tongue. He doesn't know if it's because it was a hard season, or because they're both drunk, or because it was a fucking dare. He doesn't care that much either.

"Me too." GP says, bringing their foreheads together and nodding. Max grins into him, going back for more now that their bodies are practically melded together. He holds him by the strong jaw and GP's arm almost instinctively pulls him together, wrapping him into each other. I love you, Max thinks.