#max/gp

[maxtism]

max/gp genuinely MOVES me okay like they move me. theyve been together since 2016 and both have said they would quit if the other left 🥹 gp named his dog after max and has a painting of them in his house — max straight up said he’d go if gp went 😵‍💫 they are very much a pair 🙂‍↕️💗 gp picking max up after las vegas24 is so so special to me too like :(( thats his boy‼️‼️‼️ thats his boy‼️‼️‼️

[maxcore]

lewis inserting himself into max and gp's marital problems is high drama and hilarious. they're the type of couple to stage a fight in a restaurant as foreplay, not mean a word they say and fuck nasty in the back of the taxi on the way back home. don't get it twisted.

[maxz-b]

I could be Australian easily I could wrestle a crocodile in ways you wouldn't even believe part 40/???

[blorbocedes]

take what's mine, want what's yours

Max/GP, 15k COMPLETE, explicit, heist au, fake/pretend marriage, max is long suffering gp's child bride

Summary:

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

[emeraldscript]

more divorcee gp x max verse (catch up here)

2.3k, a lot of hurt and a lot of comfort. max is not well.

Eventually, the nagging in his brain gets too much so he huff to himself throws the blanket to the side. It smells faintly like GP's aftershave. He hasn't changed it since Max first joined Toro Rosso. Such a creature of habit, Max thinks. 

Max stomps his way down the hallway barefoot. A mistake, the UK is fucking freezing in mid-December.

He digs out his phone from the bottom of his backpack, where he shoved it after pushing the power button when he arrived back at the airport last night. Only way out is through, Max thinks to himself. 

He turns it back on and after a couple seconds his screen starts glitching with how many missed calls and messages he's received. 

43 missed calls from Evi. 5 from his mum. 2 from his sister. 2 voicemails. 

26 Whatsapp notifications from Evi alone. 

Two Instagram reels from Daniel. 

He clicks into Whatsapp, skims the chat. Evi saying she's sorry, please pick up, she can explain. Saying it's not what it looked like. That he's a nobody. That they can work through it. That it didn't mean anything. 

It meant something to Max. Having to see that with his own eyes. Images from the night before flash through his mind again and he feels sick. The bile coats the back of his tongue again. His stomach is in knots and he can't keep it down any longer. He scrambles up, runs towards where he knows the toilet is. Makes it just in time to not make a mess out of GP's bathroom.

Barely anything comes out. He's not had any food in about 18 hours and has not had much water either. It burns like a bitch and it's mostly stomach acid. It's fucking disgusting and makes Max feel even more sick. He dry heaves over the toilet bowl and feels so fucking pathetic.

He's never felt this pitiful in his entire life. He feels like a pussy and a failure. And he feels stupid for thinking that. Knows he can't control other people's actions. But he also thought that they were in a good spot. Mostly he feels blindsided by it all. Another dry heave brings up a little spot of liquid. Disgusting.

He rests his cheek on the porcelain and he feels sticky all over. His hands are all clammy and so is his face. He thinks he might be shivering.

He hears water running behind him and suddenly he feels something cooling and nice on his cheek.

"Max, can you lift your head for me?" GP asks.

Max wants to shake his head no but has no energy to do so. All he hears is the toilet seat rattle on its hinges.

"It's ok, c'mon," GP instructs, grabbing his jaw and lifting Max's head to wipe his forehead with a damp towel. 

"Still feel like throwing up?" GP asks.

"Got nothing left," Max croaks out. He can barely recognise his own voice. 

"C'mere," GP says while pulling Max against his chest. He continues wiping Max's face with the towel, getting rid of the spit running down Max's chin and jaw.

"I'm sorry you have to deal with this, GP, this really is not in your job description," Max sighs into GP's chest.

"If you think for even a moment that that's what this is about, you're a fucking idiot, Max," GP says matter of factly. 

They sit like that for an age. Max feels his legs fall asleep, folded into an awkward angle. The cold is creeping up his legs.

"Are Red Bull not paying you enough, mate? Is that why the heating is off?" Max asks eventually to break the silence.

"You're a real idiot, you know that, Max Emilian," GP responds.

Eventually GP suggests that Max take a shower and join him in the kitchen afterwards.

He does just that. It does make him feel less grimy and pathetic so that's something.

When Max joins GP in the kitchen, the other is just pouring himself a coffee from his moka pot, because of course he is. 

"Feeling better?" GP asks. 

"Much, thank you. Sorry again," Max says.

GP shoots him a look as sharp as daggers but says nothing and places a plate with eggs and toast in front of him. Cut vertically and with a thin layer of butter. It makes Max smile. This is his exact breakfast order whenever he's jet legged and his body can't cope without some food. Usually he just skips his first meal, never hungry enough to be able to stomach it. 

GP puts down a carton of coconut water in front of him, too. 

"Rupert approved," GP says.

Max picks ups a piece of scramble and pops it into his mouth. It's the perfect consistency and buttery warm. 

"It's perfect, thanks GP. Didn't know you were a chef," Max says.

"Needs must," GP says with a shrug.

"Thank god for that. I can't afford the egg ick again. Rupert suffered enough last year trying to plan around it and negotiating with hospitality," Max says. 

GP snorts. "Yes, you fled the canteen for so much as catching a whiff of eggs."

"That was a rough patch for me personally, you know," Max says.

GP throws his head back and laughs open and free. It makes Max  feels all warm and fuzzy inside. He loves making other people laugh but it always feels extra nice with GP. Like he did good. Like he earned it.  

Max smiles to himself and picks up another piece from his plate.

He sees GP pull something from his pocket from the corner of his eye. He lays is down on the counter.

It's his phone. Max swallows and stares at the screen. It lights up. Another message from Evi.

Max flips the phone so it's face down on the counter.

"Do you maybe want to-," GP starts but sees Max shaking his head vehemently. 

GP pins him with a look then. The deep, imploring kind he usually only hits Max with when he thinks he’s either being unreasonable or overly combative over a non-issue. 

Max sighs to himself. "Could you text my mum for me, tell her I'm fine but that I will stay away for Christmas. I'm sorry. And tell Evi to not contact me, that I need to think,“ Max says.

GP only nods, goes to grab Max's phone off the counter and holds it up so face ID unlocks.

GP taps away for a minute and then lays the phone face-down back on the counter. 

"Done," GP says.

Max nods to himself, feels his eyes sting again and rubs them aggressively in hopes of stopping it from getting any worse.

"Do you, eh, maybe want to play padel at the factory today? I had a session booked in with some of the engineers," GP asks.

"When I can get my fucking eyes to stop leaking, I would be delighted," Max croaks wetly, sounding all nasally. 

"Perfect, c'mon I can sort out one of my bikes for you," GP says.

"Oh yes, the infamous cycling habit," Max says. 

"You should feel right at home then, Dutchie," GP returns, clapping a warm hand on Max's shoulder and squeezing his tendon. 

Max lets out a wet laugh at that. 

After changing into some workout gear, fighting GP about putting a helmet on (No, GP absolutely not! I will not have the entirety of the Netherlands laugh at me!), they eventually make it to the factory. 

Max keeps his head low. People didn't expect him and the few that do see him pat him on the shoulder, congratulate him on his 6th and wish him a Merry Christmas. 

Max and GP pair up against James and Tommy from data. They lose marginally. Max knows he's the one that blew it, lost in thought and completely missing Tommy's serve. He tried to save it but it was too late. 

GP loudly proclaims that he himself lost them the match by missing a serve that was clearly his side of the court not Max's. Max's chest feels all warm at that admission and he smiles to himself. 

The guys invite them along to the pub down the road, so they go. They have a good laugh, talk about the season, the next, the car, Tommy's fourth failed date of the month. They're onto pint five when Max's eyelids start dropping and GP puts a heavy arm around his shoulder. Max leans into the touch, draping himself along the other's side.

"I'm not so young anymore GP, I will regret this tomorrow," he says. He thinks he gets it out okay but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He can definitely hear a heavy Dutch lilt in it even through the fog.

"Alright, mate. Time to take you home, hm," he hears GP say.

"He's staying at yours?" Either Tommy or James asks.

"Yeah, for now," GP answers, as he drags Max up by his arm pits.

"Yeah, Tchi Pi is the best. And don't let anyone else tell you different. If I was his wife I would never ever leave him and I wouldn't cheat on him either because he does not deserve that," Max says, wagging his fingers at the pair opposite. 

"Okay, Max," GP says through a chuckle, slow-walking him between a few other rowdy tables. 

"Oh, shit! Is that Max Verstappen?" one of the other patrons asks.

"He's off duty right now, sorry lads," Max hears GP say.

"He looks it! Still celebrating his championship, huh!" another cackles. 

The table erupts into laughter. It feels like it's happening behind a glass wall to Max. He just lets himself feel GP's warm hand on his shoulder and on his waist, maneuvering him to the exit. 

"Let's call a taxi, don't want you to cycle like this, mate," GP says, detaching himself from Max and pulling out his phone. 

Max feels the loss of contact acutely. He doesn't like it but he knows exactly how to remedy that, walking behind GP and draping himself along his back and smushing his face between GP's shoulder blades. Much better, he thinks. He snakes his arms around GP's middle, squeezing the slight squish there. Max doesn't even feel the cold anymore. 

"You good, Max?" GP asks.

Max hum loudly into GP's shirt. GP smells nice, perfume mixing with that familiar warm scent he's come to associate with him. 

"You smell like sweat, GP," Max says, making a show of sniffing him very loudly. 

Max thinks he hears GP mumble something about freaks but he can't be too sure, too busy revelling in the comforting contrast between GP's warm body against his front  and the crisp cold air everywhere else.

A car eventually pulls up in front of them and GP snakes an arm around Max's waist to guide him into the taxi. 

"Watch out for your head, Max," GP says, putting a hand on top of his head and pushing him further down, cradling his jaw with the other. It makes something swoop in Max's stomach.

Max watches as GP climbs into the backseat with him and Max lets his head fall onto GP shoulder the second he has settled in next to Max. 

The driver looks through the little peekhole at them and Max flashes him a big smile before burrowing his head further into GP's shoulder. 

"Where're we goin', lovebirds?" the taxi driver asks.

"We're not-" GP starts but cuts himself off and gives the driver his address.

"Big night?" the driver asks GP.

"Not particularly no, just hanging out with some mates," GP says.

"Time for it, I suppose before it's all about family at Christmas. You lot from around here?" the driver asks.

"Kind of, I work around here. So does he, well sometimes," GP says.

"Yeah, whereabouts?" he asks.

"The Red Bull factory," GP explains.

"Yeah? Big old thing that. More of a footie man myself. But heard that you guys win a lot. You ever met that Dutch guy?" the cabbie asks.

"Yeah, mate. He's nice but quite a handful," GP says, shoulder shaking against Max's cheek.

"What about you, mate? You guys meet at work, then?" the driver asks, meeting Max's blurry gaze in the mirror. 

"Yeah, work there as well. I personally think that guy's a bit of a cunt," Max slurs out. 

"Well, kind of expected. Living in Monaco, driving fast cars and fucking models. Reckon that would turn anybody into a bit of a twat," the cabbie says with a laugh.

"Yeah," Max says, hiding his giggles in GP's neck. 

He tunes the conversation out then, listens to GP's calming timbre as he chats with the driver. He must fall asleep at some point because the next thing he feels is GP shaking him awake.

"C'mon champ, time to get out," GP says.

"Nice meeting you, Dave. Have a good night, man," he hears GP say as he drags Max out onto the curb in front of his terraced house. 

Everything sways a bit and he grabs onto GP's upper arm for balance. 

"And you. Watch out for that one, yeah?" the cabbie says to GP.

"Always do," GP responds with a wave before the taxi zooms down the road and into the night.

"Well he definitely thought you were my little boytoy," GP snorts. 

"Hm, I would make a brilliant trophy husband for the deputy team principle of Red Bull racing. I even have my own sporting career," Max slurs through giddy giggles.

"You're incorrigible," GP says, steering Max to his front door. 

"Don't say that, babe! You know you love it. That and my toned body," Max says, making kissy-faces at GP.

Max can't see much of GP as he fumbles for his house key but the back of his neck looks flushed, even under the dim front door light.

[lost-in-fandoms]

GP is a King and he has a very good Blade. About 1.2k. cw: mentions of blood and death (slightly-but-not-really graphic).

Gianpiero is in the middle of the new tax legislation discussion when one of the nobles falls to the ground with a blade between his ribs.

He isn't expecting it, but he still doesn't flinch, while many of the other nobles jump back with various degrees of surprised or horrified exclamations. One of them goes as far as tripping on his own feet, almost falling to the floor too which, in Gianpiero's opinion, is honestly quite an over-exaggeration.

He ignores them, grabbing another one of the papers on the table and clearing is throat over the sounds of the man choking on his own blood.

He would be quite happy to go back to the negotiations, eager to get this done as soon as possible, but he's obviously not that lucky today.

"Your Majesty!" one of the other nobles calls, sounding outraged.

When Gianpiero looks at him, there's the same degree of outrage on his face too, turned up to the max probably to hide the fear underneath. It's admirable, really, or at least more so than the openly confused and shocked faces of everyone else.

"Yes?" he prompts, when the noble doesn't continue.

"Your Majesty, Count Wimark...."

"Count Wimark is guilty of crimes against the crown," Gianpiero interrupts, steely. He doesn't exactly knows what those crimes are, but the nobles don't need to know that, and those daggers have never found an innocent victim. As soon as he had seen the blue and golden hilt, he had known it was treason.

The noble opens his mouth as if to speak again, which is an impressive show of determination that, in other circumstances, Gianpiero would allow. But as he's wanting to get this finished before dinner, he cuts him off again.

"Do you think knives fly around my halls without my knowledge, or permission?" he presses, before gesturing towards the guards around the room with a sweeping motion. "Or that my guards would be standing there doing nothing?"

"Of course not, Your Majesty, but..."

The man on the floor stops choking, and as he falls silent the other men around the table bring their fingers to their heart, and then to the sky, hopefully guiding his soul upwards. Gianpiero doesn't move.

"Count Wilmark was guilty, and he met his punishment," he reiterates firmly. "Does anyone want to argue with that?"

He looks around the room, giving the nobles a chance to speak, even if he knows nobody will. If anyone knows something, talking would make them guilty too, and if they don't, they can't protest either.

When a minute has passed, Gianpiero turns toward a guard, gesturing to the corpse on the floor.

"Take the body away, and get somebody to clean up, please."

He has to hold back a smirk when the nobles look at the positions of the guards and of the body being dragged away, and realise they have no idea where the dagger came from.

Uneasiness blankets the room for the rest of the negotiations which, much to Gianpiero's satisfaction, end before dinner.

--

Gianpiero closes the door of his chambers behind himself, shutting his servants out, and takes two steps into the rooms before unclasping his cloak with a sigh, letting it fall from his shoulders.

He's already going for the first button of his doublet when he realises he never heard the cloak touch the floor.

He turns around just in time to see Max gently placing it on the chest next to the door, not making a single sound.

Any other ruler would be concerned and terrified upon finding a man between their unarmed selves and the door, with no knowledge of how or when he got there, but Gianpiero isn't any other ruler, and Max isn't any other man.

"So, what had he done?" he asks, skipping any pleasantries, fingers going back to his buttons.

"Doubting me?" Max counters, eyes icy for a second, before they crinkle in a smile when Gianpiero rolls his.

"Just curious."

He hands his doublet to Max, who lays it down on the chest on top of the cloak, but doesn't start on the shirt's strings.

"He stole wheat destined for the castle, overcharged his people, and tried to convince the neighboring Lord to marry his twelve years old daughter to him to merge their counties," Max lists.

Gianpiero raises an eyebrow.

"That's not pleasant, but I didn't know we were punishing tax fraud and being power hungry with death."

Max glares at him, before offering him his hand, a small velvet pouch in his palm.

"I am not stupid," he remarks. Unnecessarily so, since Gianpiero knows better than anyone else just how smart he is.

He doesn't comment on it though, taking the pouch instead and opening it slowly.

"Be careful," Max says softly, offering his palm again for Gianpiero to dump the contents of the small bag in it.

A brooch comes tumbling out, delicate gold wrapping itself around three sparkling blue gems. It's not Gianpiero's style, but it's rather pretty.

"Are we declaring war on accessories?"

Max doesn't deign him of an answer, carefully opening the jewel and tilting it slightly, light catching on the pin. It shines green.

"Ah," Gianpiero breathes out, impressed again, both by the ingenuity of the noble, whom he had believed quite empty-headed before today, and by Max's intelligence. "Poisoned?"

"Cursed," Max says curtly. "He was planning on giving it to you at dinner. Your cloak would have choked you to death."

Gianpiero nods, watching as Max puts the brooch away and makes it disappear somewhere in his pockets. He doesn't fully know what the plan following his death would have been, but he does understand the Count's death better now.

He knows that, if Max had wanted, the Count would have been dead before touching the ground. Piercing his lungs and making him choke in his own blood had been a choice.

He reaches forward, cupping Max's cheek, and watching in amazement as he closes his eyes, leaning into it. The most dangerous and deadly man Gianpiero has ever met, in the palm of his hand. His very own human Blade.

"You did good," he murmurs, and something loosens in Max's shoulders.

No matter how many men Max kills for him, how many secrets he finds, how many times Gianpiero tells him he's his most precious, his most trusted, there's always a part of Max who expects to receive back the same violence he brings to others.

It's that, and the love Gianpiero has for him, that makes him want to be extra gentle with him.

"Come on, let's go to bed."

Max nods, opening his eyes again, already reaching forward to help Gianpiero with his clothes.

The water in the bath has cooled down from the scalding temperature it had been when the servants had left, and they both sink into it gratefully, letting its warmth wash away the tension of the day.

Their skin is still damp when they get under the covers, and they stick together as Gianpiero drags Max over his chest, pressing a kiss in his hair.

"Thank you," he tells him, not because he has to, but because he can.

"Always, my King," Max replies, already sounding half asleep.

Like for all of Max's promises, Gianpiero knows there is no breaking this one either, and he falls asleep easily, sure that his Blade will keep him safe.

[hulknussen]

“You good?” Gianpiero finally asks.

Some of the anger that’s been brewing in Max gets washed away by those words. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, Dad.”

or: gp/max fauxcest written for @f1raceengineerfest. explicit oneshot, 1.6k words. full tags on ao3

[fast-burn]

aliens with any pairing but maybe... max/GP and max is an alien?! or vice versa?

this makes me sooooo so happy, xeno stuff is my happy place 🥰🥰🥰 science fiction + erotica my beloved

in fact this made me so happy that it's 4.4k long, so you can read the fic here if you prefer it on ao3 😵‍💫

kink list here

XXX

Mx.V.33-1 was their longest-lasting subject at RB Research Labs Milton Keynes. He had large, wide set eyes and a plush mouth, a neat row of pointy teeth, webbed fingers tipped with tiny talons, and gills along the side of his neck. He had grayish skin that was blue in the right light; it was soft to the touch. When extremely inebriated, GP could be pressed into admitting that he found Mx.V.33-1 somewhat cute, though it was certainly his bias as the lead scientist on the project. He called Mx.V.33-1 Max, for short, and it had stuck with everyone else in the lab.

Because he was extremely sapient—had mastered four languages and was working on Latin, was good at chess, even better at FIFA, loathed coursework but put up with it for the sake of science—Max had free reign of the RB compound. It wasn't safe to let him wander far alone, but he could spend hours out of his deep, salt-water tank. He liked wearing white t-shirts and jeans. He liked going for rides around the countryside in GP's Mini, and more often than not got his way when he asked to get behind the wheel and turn donuts in farmers' fields. He liked dogs and cats equally. He liked raw beef, and chocolate, and tomato soup. For the most part, he liked the research team.

GP was fully aware that his reciprocal fondness for Max was far from professional, but it didn't stop him from feeling that way. In his heart, Max was his ward, not an experiment. That's why he was at the lab on a Saturday, happily covering for a junior assistant who wanted to go visit her mum in hospital.

He'd brought a whole tray of Kinder Eggs for Max, hoping they could while away some of the day by combining the toy parts to make some new mechanical monstrosity. Max's creativity was endlessly fascinating. GP could put the results in the daily report, but mostly he just wanted to watch Max have some fun, and make chocolate disappear faster than GP could unwrap the foil.

The lights were already on when GP beeped past the locked double-doors, set on a timer to mimic the sunrise and set outside. Max was nowhere to be seen from this side of the tank.

"You are not supposed to be here," Max's voice crackled through the lab speakers—a clever bit of engineering that could parse speech through the water. "You don't come on weekends."

"Well spotted, Max," GP said, rolling his eyes as he took off his sodden coat. It was raining to beat the band out there, but that was England for you.

"Why are you here?"

GP shuffled the computer mouse to wake up the screen, and started typing in his epic-length password. "Don't you want to see the present I've brought you?"

Max swam out of his privacy enclosure and up to the front of the tank. "Yes please," he said.

Something was very wrong.

"You're pink," GP remarked. Mostly pink, but in some places purple, and in others a coral-orange. He glanced at Max's basic vitals on the computer screen. His dual heartbeat was elevated, though nothing beyond standard range. "Do you feel alright?"

"Fine," Max said, except he shrank back from GP a fraction, body curling in on itself. "Don't worry."

If Max was just another alien plant or sponge or fungus in the lab, GP would be merely curious, or maybe downright intrigued, but Max meant so much more than that. Of course GP was worried. "I'll need to take a fluid sample."

Max grimaced. "Ugh, no. It's okay, this is normal."

"You have an established normal. It doesn't include pink."

"It's just...my time," Max said, cheeks blooming spotty shades of purple. He was embarrassed. Several things clicked for GP at once.

"You're in estrus," GP concluded, and Max retreated from the front of the tank entirely in a flurry of bubbles.

They hadn't done much experimentation into Max's reproductive system. Obviously Max had one, but all his gonads were internal and seemed somewhat inert, and so they didn't poke at it much. They were far more interested in Max's DNA and its ability to adapt, crucial data being generated in stem cell research. And there was, of course, the opportunity to observe a humanoid member of an alien species learn to communicate, and thrive.

Max always glommed on to the profane and inappropriate first in any language he learned, and was a delightfully naughty encyclopedia for dirty jokes—something that especially pleased the linguists in the lab. Other than that, Max hadn't displayed much in the way of reproductive attributes. He didn't even use his computer login to look at pornography, just watched a lot of late night Twitch streams. They each had their theories about it: lack of an appropriate partner, or impracticality of breeding in capture, or complex and ephemeral alien sexuality. It hadn’t really been relevant, and now GP was floundering.

"You're not supposed to be here," Max whined again, voice just as clear from wherever he'd hidden himself.

"Well, I am," GP replied. "Let's just get you sorted out. What can I do to make you comfortable?"

"Nothing," said Max, but he was a bad liar, tone going suspiciously flat. "You can go home."

"I'd appreciate it if you came out to the auxiliary tank and I could give you a check-up. After that, if you want me to leave, I will." GP sat down at the desk and loaded up the daily report. He typed the date. Mx.V.33-1 showing signs of he started, but then paused. He minimized the window.

When Max had been brought to RB, nearly a decade ago, Dr. Marko had rolled him into the lab in a tangled fishing net, with several hunks of debris trapped alongside him. Max was frightened, skin flaking and eyes darting about. Where there's one, there's a pair, Marko had said, and Horner next to him had actually rubbed his hands together with glee.

Maybe it was better if GP consulted his team on Monday, in person. He opened the software for the lab's cameras, and changed the settings to encrypt the day's recording to his thumbprint.

Max was a beautiful creature. This was far too private for the likes of the RB upper brass. 

GP heard the telltale thumping as Max swam into the smaller side tank. It was wide enough to hold four Maxes, but only as deep as a bathtub, designed to be comfortable for both subject and scientist. He grabbed the med kit and a laptop from the storage trolley, and rolled his chair over.

"I am only putting up with this so you'll leave," Max said, arms folded on the edge of the tub, his hair slicked back from his forehead and sticking up at all angles. His voice was softer in the open air, rather than the tinny recreation of the speaker. He smelled different than usual, too. More musky, but also more sweet, like burnt sugar. "Go ahead and run your experiments, if you must."

"Fuck the experiments," GP said with more feeling than he intended, and the expletive made Max quirk a smile.

Max unfolded one of his arms, and GP started attaching sensors. He was a dusty-rose colour all over, slippery because of the salt and the protective film Max's body started generating if he hadn't been out of the tank for a couple days. GP had to use special wipes so that the sensors would actually hold. Usually, Max was a very good sport and held perfectly still. Now when GP touched him, he jolted, just slightly.

"Tell me about what you're feeling," GP asked as the data started rolling in on the laptop.

Max's gills finally sealed shut and he started breathing through his nose. "Restless. Irritated. Sensitive, also."

GP looked up at Max, blushing purple again. "Sensitive where?"

"You know," Max said as he squirmed. GP had no idea where. He could make an educated guess, but that only went as far as extrapolating from human experience. Unless, of course, he could touch Max and find out that way.

He changed tactics. "Is this the first you've had your—your time?"

Max snorted. "I have of course been alive for many years. This is my fourth," he said, "but I have not had one for a while."

"When was the last time?"

"Right before I was," Max looked down, and then at the wall. "Before I came here."

Ah. That told GP a lot. Max ordinarily went into an estrus phase more frequently than every eight years, and it made him very vulnerable, especially as he was recovering. He should be in his sexual prime, but something about being at the lab prevented that. And, just as notably, something recently had pushed him back into his regular hormonal cycle. GP didn't know how far in the data he had to review, but he made a mental note to look back three months, at least.

He broke a fresh tab out of its package and held the receptive end up to Max. "Lick, please," he said, and Max's tongue flashed out dutifully to wet it with his saliva. GP placed it into the scanner which whirred to life as it started calculating hormone levels. "Do you usually spend your time with a group, or a partner, or alone?"

Max scowled, and his heart rate ticked up on the laptop screen. "Are you asking if I have wild orgies or if I just jerk off by myself?"

"Something like that," GP said. He knew Max preferred him to be straight-forward with his questions, but it didn't stop Max from giving rude answers. "If you like, you can just tell me the standard. I don't have to know your personal sexual history."

"My personal—" Max balked and sank deeper into the water. "It is supposed to be with a partner."

"Sorry I can't help with that," GP said, thinking of how little interest Max had shown to anyone else in the lab, at least in that sense. It would be an incredible breach in decorum to ask anyone to help Max through estrus, but he knew any of them would still be happy to help.

Max's plum flush spread to the seashell curves of his ears. "I did not expect you to."

GP changed the subject. "Can we go back to the sensitivity?"

"I'd rather you just guess."

"Well," GP went on, "for example with the human species, we tend to feel—"

"Yes, I know all about it," Max snapped, popping back up with a soft splash. "It is the same for me, but slightly different. Go on and write it in the report. That's all you need to say."

"I'm not making a report," GP said slowly.

Max looked at the laptop screen for the first time. "You're not? But you're asking me questions like you are."

"That's because I want to help you. Max," he said, holding back the urge to make him look GP in the eyes, "fuck the experiments."

Finally, Max seemed to relax. He tugged at his ear, rubbed his thumb across his lips, the beauty mark there. "Okay, well if it's just you who wants to know, maybe it is better if I show you."

Max tugged on the zippered front of his navy wetsuit—clothing he insisted upon more for cultural adaptation than any real modesty. The base of his throat was pinker than his arms, legs, and face. His chest was a little swollen. And then Max tugged the zip over a bulge on his abdomen.

It was convex, like a wide bowl, or...like a baby bump, such a pale pink that it was almost white, the skin stretched taut over Max's distended stomach. GP refrained from reaching out; they had assured Max that he was welcome to scratch up anyone who didn't get permission to touch. But he wanted to , so desperately. He wanted to palpate it and soothe the ache, or maybe make it worse. The desire was so sudden and unexpected that GP was nauseous.

He sat with his fists curled on his knees, lips pressed together, and watched as Max leaned back and kept unzipping his suit.

The slit between Max's legs was gently parted and swollen, the tip of something bright pink peeking out from inside. That had to be Max's penis, or some kind of clitoral tissue. Maybe an ovipositor. It was hard to tell with the distortion of the water.

"This is where I am most sensitive," Max said, hands going to frame his slit, and spreading—

A blip came from the laptop, and GP turned his head instinctively to see the hormonal report load on screen. They had it set to display the standards along with new results so that they could see the differences, and a gradient map to show extremes. Several bars were deep red.

"GP."

He looked back at Max.

"You're not paying attention," he complained. "This is very intimate, and you are looking at the computer."

"Intimate?" GP choked.

Max grasped GP's wrist and dragged him forward. "Here," he said as GP's fingers splayed over Max's belly. "Feel how full. Push down on it."

The skin was coolish compared to the tight grip of Max's hand. GP pushed gently, and Max groaned, an uninhibited sound bouncing off every surface in the room. There was a shift in Max's abdomen, and something squirted out of Max's slit. "Max—"

"Oh, yes," Max sighed, eyes fluttering. "Yes, thank you, GP."

GP looked down and pushed again, and watched a bright orange object shoot out of Max. It was slightly bigger than a marble.

"Is that an egg?" he asked, tongue buzzing in his mouth.

Max nodded and let go of GP. "I have more than usual. It is supposed to be less than twelve. You can't even see them from the outside, normally, but it has been so long."

The two eggs that Max had released rested on the bottom of the tub. "So you're a...carrier, then?"

"I can do both," Max said. "When I have my time, I produce the eggs of course, but I can be the other half whenever. It is very lucky, for us. Not everyone can be two in one."

Max was special; GP could have told anyone that. "That's wonderful. Well done," he said, and Max practically glowed with the compliment.

"Will you help me lay them?"

GP's fingers twitched on Max's stomach. "I can keep pushing."

"No," Max said. "There's a better way."

Desire stirred in GP, making his cock swell in his pants. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

Max pulled off his suit and tossed it on the edge of the tub with a wet slap. "I want you to fuck me."

GP swallowed. He'd never—he wouldn't. Max was his responsibility to care for. There were whole documents on ensuring that Max wasn't ever abused in his capture, and it all came down to what Max wanted. If what Max felt like doing all day was to play video games, that's exactly what happened. If Max stayed in his privacy enclosure for a week, they didn't drag him out.

Palpating Max's abdomen to induce spawning was one thing, but fucking him was—

Max pushed up against the edge of the tub and pressed his mouth to GP’s.

"What," GP started to say against Max's lips, but Max just kissed him harder. He was firm, and his nose dug into GP’s cheekbone.

"That's how humans start when they want to fuck, right?" Max said when he released him a moment later. "I saw two of them doing it in the corner over there when they thought no one was looking."

Part of GP wanted to ask which two because he had about a hundred quid on various office romance pools. "That's similar to what we do, for sure."

Max groaned, fisting his talons in GP's lab coat. "Then show me how."

GP tilted his head and kissed Max properly. Max's mouth was salty, of course, but also slick and soft. He learned quickly, like he did everything else, lapping at GP's tongue and then sucking on it. He nibbled on GP's lower lip with his triangular teeth, little blades that he was so, so careful with.

"That is weird," Max proclaimed when he pulled away, "but nice. Can we fuck now? You are wearing too many clothes."

"This isn't the most precious place for it," GP admitted. He couldn't easily take Max to bed, though the thought of having Max under him at his flat was deliciously tempting. Max, home with GP on the weekends, raiding his fridge and demanding sex at all hours of the day. Insatiable, bratty, gorgeous Max.

"It doesn't matter," said Max, climbing out of the tub. "Just get naked."

"Don't the eggs have to be in water?"

Max rolled his eyes and started tugging on GP's clothes, clearly annoyed at how GP wasn't dropping trou fast enough. "They are of course not fertilized. I just want them out."

GP's lab coat was a lost cause, huge holes shredded through the fabric already, so he took over for his jumper before Max could attack that too. Max sat back against the lip of the tub, apparently pleased to watch now. It was just after Christmas and GP wasn't too thrilled with his physique after gobbling down a whole roast he'd bought just for himself, but he did alright at the company gym. Max's body was sleek and chubby in places, like a seal, to keep warm in the water.

As soon as GP shucked his trousers to his ankles, Max was in his lap. The chair squeaked dangerously beneath them.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Max asked. That was another part of the care-and-keeping of Max: he had a right to his own internal life. If Max wanted to tell any of them a secret, it would stay between just those two.

"Of course you can," GP replied.

Max rocked in his lap, leaving a puddle of tank water and protective fluid. "I was thinking about you," he said, grinding his wet slit against GP's briefs and his erection. "Like this. I wanted to have you just like this. That's why all the eggs came." He leaned forward and spoke right in GP's ear, a soft murmur that none of the microphones around the lab would catch, "You knocked me up."

GP groaned, dizzy from the rush of blood down south. He clutched Max's hips without asking, but Max just pressed himself deeper into GP's lap. His pregnant little belly pressed against GP's stomach and a fresh splurt of wetness soaked them both.

He wrestled his dick out, hand already slippery from whatever secretion Max's slit was producing. "Put it where you want it," GP said, because he didn't know where Max's vaginal entrance was mapped compared to a human's.

Max wrapped his hot, webbed hand around GP's length and guided it until the tip was in the right place. Then he sank down on it, a perfect slick slide. The muscles he had inside rippled around GP's cock. "Fuck, fuck, that feels so good," Max said, swiveling his hips, getting used to the space. "Oh, GP, you're so big, you're so warm. And hard."

"What do you—" GP started to say, and Max took GP's hand to guide it to the front of his slit.

"Here, feel," he said, making GP press against the pink flushed member that GP had only glimpsed in the tub. It was slim, maybe five or six centimeters long, tapered at the end, coated in fluid. "Be gentle with me."

"Alright," GP agreed, stroking up and down the length with two fingers.

Max shuddered, his passage clenching around GP. "See? Very different. I'll tell you another secret: it's small."

"It's just the right size."

Max shook his head. He braced his hands against GP's shoulders, talons pricking slightly. "I am just stating the comparison. I don't have the standard length. But that is fine, because this is what I want," he said, pushing up and sliding down, riding GP's cock.

GP turned his head and kissed Max's neck, over the seal of his gills. He could feel the slight difference in texture, like a stretchmark or an old scar. Max whimpered and his passage clenched. He leaked more slick. GP rocked up into him, unable to help himself.

"Do humans kiss everywhere?" Max asked.

"Yes," GP admitted, lips moving across Max's gills again, making him pulse. "Everywhere."

Max got impossibly wetter. "Would you kiss my pussy?"

GP's mouth dropped open, shocked dumb enough that only an ugly grunt came out of him, and Max laughed.

"I am of course just messing with you. I know all about cunnilingus and oral sex," Max leaned back and smiled with his sharp teeth. "We can try it another time. Right now I need you to fuck me as hard as you can, or the eggs won't come out."

"You're really giving me a rough time, teasing me like that," GP said, and snapped his hips up.

Max moaned, liquid around him for a moment before he squeezed. "Is it working?"

GP thrust in again, using his hands on Max's hips to bring their bodies together.

"Harder than that, come on," said Max, and GP did. "Harder. Really hard, I won't break. Can't you feel how wet I am for you?"

It was a challenge in the rolling chair, but GP spread his knees for leverage and really thrust—a pace that he would have considered brutal otherwise, but Max just gasped and grinned. So GP kept going, a mindless, animalistic fuck, surely bruising. Max moaned like a pornstar, high and whining.

"Feel so good," GP said.

"Tell me," gasped Max. "I want it. Tell me a secret, tell me, tell me."

"Wet, slutty little cunt," he grunted, dragging up the nastiest parts of himself as he fucked into Max. "Gonna make you heat all the time. Look at you, you're so desperate. Can't do anything 'cause you just want my cock so deep in you, making you take it."

Max's belly tensed, his walls fluttering rhythmically around GP's cock. "Yes, I want that," he said. "Always."

"Tiny baby dick because you just want to be bred, don't you? That's all you're good for?"

"Please," Max whimpered. "So close. Harder, GP, please."

"Any harder and I'll fuck right through you." GP's legs were burning, back aching, but he kept going, driving himself closer to the edge. He rubbed Max's slim, short cock between his fingers. Max cried out, urgent. "That's it, go on. Come for me."

"I will, I will," Max chanted, his head tilting back and the base of his throat fuchsia, trembling with the rest of him. Suddenly, GP's cock slipped out of him on a thrust, and Max burst, eggs squirting out of him and splattering the floor as he screamed. GP pressed on Max's belly, helping it along, and felt it decompress under his palm, everything squeezing out in an orgasmic rush.

When it was done, Max's entrance drooled as he gasped, perched over GP's lap as he caught his breath. There must have been a hundred eggs on the floor, most of them orange, but a few more yellowish or more red. They were wet, and a couple rolled away, leaving shiny snail trails in their wake.

"Wow," GP said, which was an understatement. He pushed again on Max's stomach, but it was empty now, and Max just whimpered.

"If we were going to have a baby," Max panted, "you would have to come on the eggs."

GP's cock bounced, the crown smearing against Max's used hole. "I don't think it will work."

"Too bad." Max spread his slit open with his hands, just like he had earlier in the tub. "I guess you'll just have to do it on me instead."

It was only a matter of a dozen or so strokes, everything still so lubricated, absolutely sopping, and then GP aimed himself right at the soft, secret core of Max and climaxed, painting the folds with pearly release.

Max was a welcome weight in GP's lap afterward, and there was no scientific way to explain how they just rested and snuggled for the better part of ten minutes. It wasn't unusual for Max to be affectionate, but he was selective about it, and rarely did he want to endure it for long.

It was when GP's knees started shaking that Max finally got up. "I knew you would be good at that," Max said, smiling like GP was the experiment, gone perfectly to plan. "I might make eggs again, soon. This was so many at once, so I think next time will be a little different. But you will help me again." There was no room in his tone for GP to argue, but he wouldn't dream of it.

"I'm glad it won't be so messy next time." GP surveyed the general disaster zone around the chair and was already dreading the cleanup.

Max slipped back into the tub, and dove down for a moment before popping back up with the two eggs that he'd released in the water. He put one of them in his mouth and bit down, the squelch in his mouth like a cherry tomato.

GP must have given Max some sort of look, because he offered the second egg in his open palm. "Want one?"

"Absolutely not."

"They are an excellent source of nutrients. A waste if you don't eat them unfertilized, but I am not picking them up off the floor," he said. When GP still didn't take the offered egg, he shrugged and popped it in his mouth too.

GP felt his gut roll uncomfortably. "You don’t have to eat those. I brought you Kinder Eggs."

"What!" Max exclaimed. "GP, you did not say! How many? Can I have them now?"

"If you help me with mopping," he said, and Max hummed, considering.

"Just give me a minute," Max replied. "I can still feel your come on me. I should clean that first. And I want to see how it tastes."

GP sat down hard in the chair, and when it skidded backwards on the slick floor, another handful of eggs went racing jauntily away across the lab.

[maxtism]

♡ Gianpiero Lambiase lifting Max Verstappen up after they won the World Driver Championship — Las Vegas, 2024 ♡

[maxcore]

i hope we get another video of max and gp in front of some shipping containers wildly gesticulating at each soon. we need more footage to ascertain what other habits max picked up from his 10 year long relationship with his emotional support older colleague who has publicly said he will never work with another driver cause what him and max have cannot be replicated and who is known to have the memory of an elephant when it comes to people doing max wrong and is known to hold a grudge.

[noelleidle]

Max & GP being an iconic duo

[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 🧑🏻‍🦲❤️😋

[emeraldscript]

so what if my brain had been consumed by a future gpstappen double divorce scenario in which max gets cheated on, runs away to hide at gp's house, who co-incidentally is also mid-divorce and coping in the saddest way possible? and by that i mean focusing entirely on his career and max by extension. and what if it was all codependent and weirdly domestic and what if they're both idiots about it? what then?

[lost-in-fandoms]

Part 2 of this. A backstory of sorts. About 2.6k. The whole thing is now on ao3 too. cw: barely-there mentions of parental death and execution-related death.

There is a boy in the rafters.

Gianpiero doesn’t know how he got there, or how long he’s been there, or how nobody other than him seems to have noticed, but he must admit it’s all around a pretty impressive trick.

It’s not a particularly important meeting, so he doesn’t feel the need to point out the boy to his Father, or to the guards, but even if he had wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to because the next time he looks up, the boy is gone.

It puzzles him for a minute, trying to figure out how he could move without being seen, or falling, and where he even left from since the doors and windows are all closed, but then his attention gets called back to the meeting, and he relegates the mystery to a corner of his brain.

--

The boy is in the rafters again.

Gianpiero can’t be sure it’s the same boy, after all what he can see is a weird shadow perched close to the ceiling, but they either have really big rats, all the boys in the city have become incredible acrobats, or it’s the same one.

He’s not a betting man, but he would put his money on the last option.

The meeting is much more somber this time, his Father’s seat left empty in a sign of respect, and Gianpiero has more important things to think about than their little rat problem.

The next time he enters the council room it is with a crown on his head and heavier shoulders, and when he looks up in the rafters he can’t see any weird shadows.

--

It becomes an habit, to check for the boy in the rafters.

He can’t always see him, but he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s not spying in at all the councils or because he is simply hidden somewhere Gianpiero can’t easily see. He knows it’s a safety concern, not knowing who this boy is, who he works for, what he is doing there, who’s telling their secrets to, but something stops him from telling anyone every time.

His Father had always taught him to be rational, to not let his heart steer his judgment astray, but there are instincts that are stronger than his brain. And this time, they’re telling him to just wait, and see what happens.

--

There is unrest in the west.

There are whispers of treason, of a coup being organised by the three biggest west counties. They think they can take advantage of Gianpiero not having the full support of the nobles anymore, not with his policies and tax plans, that they will be able to gain enough supporters to be able to choose a new king.

They have councils almost every day, trying to find some proof more solid than smoke and rumors, something that would hold enough weight to intervene, hopefully before any blood is actually shed.

The boy, now a teenager probably, is always in the rafters.

Gianpiero doesn’t know how much he can hear, or understand, but sometimes he can see the shine of his eyes, carefully trained on the people below.

It’s stupid maybe, but before getting out of the room for lunch, he leaves a piece of paper on top of the others.

When hours later he asks a servant to go fetch his “forgotten” documents in there, the note is untouched, not a single sign under his scrawled what do you see?

--

Gianpiero doesn’t like the General.

Rationally, he knows he has reasons for it: he is too close to the western counties, he is the nephew of the rumored leader of the conspiracy, and he is too keen on shutting everything down with an iron fist.

He wonders what would happen if he did grant him the forces he asks for, if he would find the same blades at his neck not a minute later.

But more than that, his gut tells him not to trust him. Something in his eyes….

Gianpiero refuses to get the army involved once again, declaring they need more proof first, and dissolves the council for dinner amidst irritated grumbles.

He knows their time is running out, but he won’t send people to their deaths based on rumors, despite how believable they are, especially if he doesn’t trust the hand that would guide them.

He waves away the guards, telling them to wait outside, and leans back on his chair, taking off his crown and closing his eyes.

He wishes his Father was here, telling him what to do. But again, if he was then Gianpiero wouldn’t be the one having to make the decision at all.

He opens his eyes again with a deep sigh, still leaning back, and is met with the face of the boy, up in the rafters.

He is leaning more in the light than usual, and Gianpiero can see his blue eyes and a surprisingly plush and pink mouth. He looks young, maybe sixteen, his nose standing out too much over his hollow cheeks.

They look at each other for a long moment, then with slow, deliberate movements, the boy reaches into his pocket.

Gianpiero stiffens. If the boy attacks him now, he has no chance. He’s bigger, but he isn’t armed, and he sent his guards away.

But the boy doesn’t take out a knife.

What he does instead is throw something down on the table, exactly in front of the chair the General had been occupying.

Gianpiero blinks, unwilling for a second to look away from his face, but then relents.

On the table there is a little pack of letters, neatly tied together with a rough piece of string.

When Gianpiero looks up again, the boy is gone.

A week later, after four heads have rolled to the ground, Gianpiero goes back to the council room, a little satchel in his hands. Inside there’s a meat pie, still warm, and five golden coins.

--

There is a boy in his rooms.

Gianpiero was just getting ready for bed, a candle lit on his bedside table, piles of documents abandoned on his desk.

One moment he was alone and the next one he isn’t.

He reaches for the paper cutter on his desk, well aware that he had just executed four nobles that morning, and there will be plenty of people seeking revenge, but relaxes again when he sees it’s not a random boy, but his boy.

It’s the first time he sees him from eye level,and he’s taller than Gianpiero would have assumed. He seems older too, maybe closer to eighteen than he thought, all gangly limbs and sharp bones.

There’s more emotion on his face than he’d ever seen before, flaming anger, eyes blazing and cheeks blushing red. Gianpiero keeps holding the paper cutter.

“Hello,” he greets, keeping his voice level, trying to figure out what shape this meeting will take.

In answer, he gets the satchel thrown back at his feet. He can tell from the noise of it alone, that the meat pie is gone, but the coins are still in there.

“I am not a mercenary,” the boy spits.

His voice is raspy, with a weird shape to it, an underlying northern lilt accompanied by a strange mix of slums and nobility accents. Gianpiero wonders if the last one was picked up in the council room.

“I am sorry if I have offended you,” he says, placating. “I just meant to thank you for your help.”

For a second the boy bristles, almost getting ready to fight, and Gianpiero’s hold on the small blade strengthens, but then he slumps back, nodding slightly.

“You were taking too long,” he says instead.

Gianpiero knows.

From the letters, that he still doesn’t know how the boy acquired, it had become clear just how close they had been to the coup. It had worked out, since they had been able to catch the leaders with undeniable evidence, illegal supplies, arms and men gathered at one of their residences, but a few days more…

“Anything else you’d like to share?” Gianpiero asks, ignoring the voice in his head that screams how stupid he’s being, trusting a very strange boy who manages to sneak his way around the castle undetected.

“The guy with the weird beard is a creep, and your chef sells half your bread in the market.”

Gianpiero blinks.

Uh.

“Does he, now?”

He lets go of the blade, grabbing a stilus and a piece of paper instead.

The boy nods, something smug in the curl of his mouth.

“There are still people planning to kill you, one of them is your treasurer, and I would like some more food.”

Gianpiero blinks again. The treasurer?

“Lord Marish?”

The guy had been working that position since before Gianpiero was born, there was no way…

“He thinks you’re going to ruin your finances by founding the reclamation of the swamp south of the city, and also he has a very snakey mistress.”

A mistress?

The boy is now smiling openly, delighted at Gianpiero’s obvious surprise.

“Can I know your name? And what you’d like to eat?”

The boy stares at him for a second, then accepts the stool Gianpiero points at.

“Max. And something warm, but no fish.”

Gianpiero nods, heading towards his door to find someone to get them both some food.

He’s not hungry, not so soon after dinner, but he has the impression this is going to be a long night.

--

When dawn starts to light the room and Max’s speech slows down to a tired slur, their bowls of soup long empty on the desk, Gianpiero puts down his stilus and stretches, feeling both tired and more awake than he’d ever been.

He looks down at the boy, curled up on a pillow on the floor, after he had decided it was more comfortable than the stool, and decides to ask the three questions that had been circling his brain for days.

“How did you find the letters?”

Max shrugs, his blinks slow but eyes still attentive.

“I am good at finding things out. People don’t see me.”

Yeah, Gianpiero can believe that.

“Why did you never answer the messages I left for you?”

This time, Max lifts his head properly, puzzled for the first time since he had appeared in the room.

“Messages?”

“Yes,” Gianpiero nods, rifling through his documents to find one of the many pieces of papers he had left in the council room after a meeting and showing it to Max.

Max looks at it, but doesn’t reach for it. He looks slightly pained when he looks up again, cheeks blushing red.

“I can’t read it,” he admits, shame coloring his voice.

That makes sense too, Gianpiero figures, because Max is clearly from a poorer background, and it would have been more surprising if he did know how to read and write, but that also means he took the letters without knowing what was written in them. That he had delivered them with absolute certainty quite literally to Gianpiero’s table without being sure the proofs he needed were in there.

Impressive.

“I’ll teach you.”

It’s an easy offer to make, easier still when Max smiles up at him as if he had been offered yet another bowl of soup.

It makes Gianpiero want to reach out, pet his dirty hair like he would with a particularly cute and loyal dog. He still doesn’t know though, if this dog would bite.

Which is why he decides to ask the last question.

“if you don’t want to be paid, why are you helping?”

There is a simple rule that Gianpiero has always known: everyone does something to have something back. Even things that are done as a gift, often have layers of motives underneath them.

But once again, Max surprises him, and something tells him that no matter how long he’ll know Max for, he’ll never stop surprising him.

“Because you’re just, and you don’t lie.”

--

Gianpiero closes the door of his rooms, drops his cloak on the floor, and turns around, startling when he finds Max sitting on his desk, eating a piece of cheese with a self satisfied smirk on his face.

Gianpiero doesn’t know how he managed to get there, without making any noise and without being noticed, since he just shut the door behind the last servant leaving.

“I have something for you,” Max says, still grinning, still munching on his cheese.

“Did you steal that?” Gianpiero asks, bending down to pick up his cloak and dropping it on the chest near the door.

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

Max is in a good mood, Gianpiero notices. Much better than he had been at the start, and better than the last months too, when they had both been so busy trying to dismantle every tendril of the rebellious cell in the west.

He looks good like this, happy and young, with clean clothes and a little more weight on his bones.

“Will it hurt my new chef?” he asks, stopping next to the desk, putting a hand down right next to Max’s thigh where he is perched among the papers scattered there, his dislike for proper seating something Gianpiero is slowly getting used to.

“Not unless he specifically needed this for breakfast,” Max replies, cheeky, popping the last bite of cheese in his mouth with a content sigh. “So, do you want to know or do you want to talk about food?”

“I want you to get off my desk,” Gianpiero grumbles, not an ounce of seriousness behind it.

“You are very boring,” Max informs him, producing a small dagger from somewhere and starting fiddling with it.

The first time he had done it, Gianpiero had flinched back, thinking the time had finally come for Max to try and bite, but the betrayed look on Max’s face had been the only wound he had gotten that night.

Now, he doesn’t even react to it, knowing it’s just yet another Max thing.

“You are sitting on a letter from a Marquis,” he says instead, pointing at the sightly crumpled piece of paper under Max’s butt.

“He says stupid shit anyway,” Max replies while shrugging, unrepentant. “All that crap about bridges and safe waters and whatever.”

Gianpiero looks at him, slowly reaching over to wrap his hand around his wrist, stopping him from throwing the knife once again.

“You read it?”

Max blinks at him, faux nonchalance gone, a blush coloring his cheeks as he nods.

This time Gianpiero doesn’t hold himself back from ruffling his hair, earning himself an offended yelp and a crinkly eyed smile.

“Good job,” he says, pride dripping from his words.

He files the way Max relaxes at that, blush glowing brighter and eyes widening slightly, away in the very secret drawer in his brain he’s been very careful not to touch, and sits down to receive whatever new information he has for him instead.

--

There is a boy in his rafters.

He’s a man now, body filled out more, but eyes as sharp as ever, movements quieter than a whisper. Gianpiero doesn’t need to raise his head to know he’s there.

He has learned with the years just how swiftly he can bite if Gianpiero is in danger, but he has also learned how sweetly he can purr when he gets loved just right.

The blade comes out from nowhere, burying itself between the nobleman’s ribs, piercing his lungs, and Gianpiero doesn’t flinch.

He’s not worried, because his boy is in the rafters, his shiny teeth and clever ears keeping him safe.

[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.

[fast-burn]

ovuliparity 🥚

a gp/max fic (explicit, alien biology, 4.4k)

GP was fully aware that his reciprocal fondness for Max was far from professional, but it didn't stop him from feeling that way. In his heart, Max was his ward, not an experiment.