Work Text:
“Hold the door!” Max calls with barely restrained temper, storming past a few bewildered staff, heading straight to the paddock elevator. Leaving suppressed but slightly feral pheromones behind. His PR rep doesn’t even bat an eye, just follows him in a more measured pace, not even trying to keep up at this point.
It’s Saturday, just post FP3 and he has media stuff to attend, entertaining those inane questions thrown by the reporters, who act like dogs with a bone and trying to not lose his head. Right. He’d rather chew on tires on a good day, which is definitely not today.
The doors blessedly remain open for the time he needs to slip through, only to halt immediately as he registers just who he ran into. The Ferrari red instantly makes his hackles rise, losing 0.027s even on a practice run is still infuriating. “Great, just what I needed,” he mutters in sullen defeat.
Carlos regards him with his trademark calm but detached look, like he wasn’t the one who almost body checked him into the hairpin during practice. Like he’s judging him, or maybe Max is projecting too much.
There’s silence, which is almost unheard of in the race weekend craze, the Spaniard does not even deign his remark with any of his own. That’s actually even more annoying, Max’s jaw clenches and he jabs the panel with more force than strictly necessary.
The elevator whirrs to life, then groans to a sudden stop in between floors. Carlos gives him a look that could make a weaker man fold.
“Fantastic. You’ve short-circuited it with your tantrum,” is how the older driver breaks the ensued stillness, voice measured but sharp on their edges.
“How the fuck is this my fault?” Max sees red, metaphorically and literally too – power’s out, the emergency light paints everything in dark hues of it, the half undone Ferrari racing suit blends in perfectly.
“You’re the one who pressed two buttons at the same time.”
“Oh, come off it! You couldn’t even see what I was doing from behind me!”
“I can make an educated guess.”
“You don’t get to judge me. This fucking elevator is at fault for being so shitty.”
This should be a minor inconvenience, and really Max is not too keen on doing interviews anyway, but the AC is off and so is his self control. They’re stuck in a metal box surrounded by TV crews, team staff and an FIA official with a clipboard somewhere nearby – alone.
Carlos is an alpha, because of course he is, the smug bastard. Max is an omega, going through all five stages of grief and sexual tension as he realizes far too late how unusually unaccompanied they are.
Doing the math, the situation is kind of dire. They use FIA-regulated suppressants, but fuck they do after sweating through practice, now enclosed in a very limited and tight place. And he left his phone with his long suffering PR rep, opting to stalk off in frustration instead of retrieving it. Obviously.
They stand on the opposing sides of the elevator, backs to wall, heating up the cold metal with body heat. The air is already heavy and thicker by the second, scent starts to cling even more than the fireproofs to his clammy skin. The more aware Max is to their closer-than-should-be proximity the more his senses focus on every detail. His own pheromones – laden with sickening sweetness, an unintentional honey trap – permeating the air, sweat beading and rolling down his back, heartbeat in his ears, lips drying out so badly he needs to lick them repeatedly.
And, Carlos . The alpha seems outwardly composed leaning against the wall like he owns it, that awful calm before the storm, while his scent is pressing against him with dominance, laced with every unspoken desire their situation heightens to dizzying levels. Max grits his teeth, refusing to bend like his instincts urge him to do, the thought of that alone sending a jolt of arousal to his very core and he shifts a bit to play it down.
Carlos’ scent spikes and he growls lowly. “You’re scenting the whole place, Max.”
“No shit, Sherlock. You’re the one sweating like it’s a sauna in here–”
“That’s not sweat. That’s restraint.”
“Really. What’s next, you’re going to start pacing? Mark your territory, huh?”
“I’m not accepting those jokes from someone who won’t admit they’re going into pre-heat.”
“I’m not–”
And then he definitely is. Talking about it isn’t helping, neither is looking at the older driver appearing progressively disheveled while their stuck-in-the-elevator situation drags on. Max hates him.
He also hates the way Carlos’ hair curls just on the right side of messy after removing his helmet or the Ferrari branded cap, the locks winding like a dark halo even now. And that those dark eyes framed with those stupidly long lashes are trained on him, devouring him against all pretense, pupils likely blowing wide, much like his own. And how the alpha parts those annoyingly plush lips, probably breathing through his mouth to prevent inhaling their mixed pheromones as much as possible.
Now that’s just plain rude. And the pre-heat must be addling with Max’s brain for him to feel offended by it. He wants to feel something else entirely. Not just being watched like he’s data on screen. Lap deltas. Tire temps. Omega vulnerability.
He wants . And he hates himself for it. For how much he wants it and hating even more how easily Carlos seems to resist him.
“You’re fighting a losing battle too hard,” the alpha observes, and Max really wants to tear into him for stating the obvious. Again.
“What do you want me to do, then?” he snaps, body tensing up even more. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. The emergency call button is fucked too.”
Not the best word choice, talking about being fucked while in this state. Or thinking about it.
“I just meant that you should ease up a little. Don’t fight it too hard, you’ll only strain yourself.” Carlos should listen to his own advice, he didn’t even move an inch since the elevator stopped, arms crossed before him like a last line of defense. “You’re leaking through anyway.”
“Shut up, like you’re any better.”
“You reek of need and defiance and you think I’m just going to stand here and breathe it in without being affected by it?”
“Then leave. Or stop breathing. I don’t care, unless you’re offering to be actually helpful.”
“Are you sure you want that?” Carlos challenges him, gaze searching and oh so intense, voice low and edged in something darker. “I’ve seen you drive in the rain and I know you don’t care about a lot of things, yes, but you do when it comes to control. When it concerns you giving that up.”
“Fuck off.”
“Only if you say please.”
“You want me to beg for it?” Max scowls, even though his body almost gives out to do just that. “Be the omega bitch you think I am just because I’m close to heat?” Hands fisted at his sides, legs trembling and slick gathering between his cheeks – the picture perfect omega at least in this, the heat clawing its way out of his spine calling out for the alpha to indulge in him.
Carlos shakes his head, a wayward lock of hair falling onto his forehead.
“I want you to come in terms with what you want and not just assume—wrongly I might add—what I think about you.”
“I want you to shut up.”
“Make me, then.”
Max moves, fast. Always going for the gap, closing their distance in a blink and crowding the alpha against the wall, hands braced next to his head. Not touching yet, but the height advantage has him looking down slightly, panting erratically and practically tasting the alpha pheromones this close. Their eyes lock, the air is running out and so is every stubborn inch of self-denial.
“You’re shaking,” Carlos notes, gentle and knowing.
“Do something about it.” It’s not a nice way of asking, far from begging, yet the alpha obliges without a word. He leans in, removing the Red Bull cap slowly, nose brushing Max’s neck, his restraint slowly unwinding in a long exhale.
Max’s breath stutters, feels the slick going down his thighs already just from this, heart hammering and craving more. He tilts his head back – an offering, and giving permission. The air is molten now, humid with heat, static and something unmistakably carnal.
Carlos growls low in his throat, scenting the air around Max’s neck, his jaw, his pulsepoint. It’s instinctual, savage in controlled way. He crowds in, lips ghosting across the swollen mating gland – tempting and terrifying in equal measure –, heat crashing over them both like a tidal wave. Max whines, the sound bouncing off the walls closing on them. Urging, impatient. Then presses into the alpha like he’s halfway gone, hands slipping down and finding purchase on broad shoulders. He reeks of need so much it makes his own head spin – raw and ripe and utterly fucking devastating, just as the alpha said.
The elevator remains still. Their self-control does not.
“You’re dangerous like this,” Carlos whispers roughly, like it’s a fact and a praise, still trying to calm the storm burning just under his skin. Max’s having none of it, arching slightly, hips bucking forward in a dare. They both groan at the contact, the alpha seizes him with one burning hand, the other tugging at sweat slicked hair on his nape, effectively stopping his grinding. “Easy now, I will give you what you need.”
“Just do it,” Max moans without meaning to, shaking with impatience. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” He’s so wet it hurts, the emptiness in his core aching to be filled. He surges forward, clutching at Carlos’ shoulders and their mouth crash like a red-flag restart – messy, full of tongue and frustration and staggering relief it’s finally happening. Every nerve ending alights, it’s sloppy and perfect, only increasing their hunger.
Carlos looses his cool at last, pinning Max against the opposite wall – one palm on his chest, the other holding his hip in a firm grip. Max doesn’t fight, just arches into the touch, desperate and feral, scent flooding the cabin even more, like a wildfire. Head thumping back against the mirrored surface, gasping into the kiss, legs parting instinctively. The contact turns into open mouthed clash of tongues with spit and sin, Max moans like he’s ruined by this.
It’s still not enough. He clutches at the alpha desperately, hands roaming on his shoulders, back and waist, dragging him even closer, bunching up the drenched material of his fireproof shirt to find burning skin. Carlos growls like a caged beast, gently nipping on his tingling lips, just a little taste. He unzips Max’s suit halfway with one tug, shoving it down, intense but mindfully possessive.
Max whimpers, writhing as the alpha’s mouth finds his gland again, teasing it with careful teeth. Rubbing his own pheromones into Max’s overheated skin—cautious claiming. Then he leans back a bit.
“Say the word, and I’ll stop,” Carlos grits out, jaw clenched, clinging to his common sense with everything left in him. He cups Max’s face with one hand and looks straight into his eyes. Both of them are so blown by lust they’re barely holding on, yet he’s so fucking earnest Max wants him all the more for it. To wreck him properly and be a good alpha about it. “Anytime, Max.”
The reassurance hits close to home, omega instincts going wilder to prove he’s worth the effort. He just looks at the older driver for a few long panting seconds, drinks his expression in, the word ‘alpha’ on the tip of his tongue in a plea. But he’s not that over in his head to not know what Carlos needs to hear right now.
“Don’t stop. I want your scent,” Max assures, voice softening and raspy, fingers tangling into dark curls. “I want you, Carlos.”
There, the confession uttered in words, not just pheromones screaming it instead of him. A beat, waiting and gazing at each other in wonder and heated desire, then Carlos curses in Spanish, voice raw, before kissing him without restraint. Max loses track of time, his thoughts scrambling away, only the feeling and craving remain, clinging onto the alpha like he’s his anchor, that keeps him steady and whole. He’s also devouring Max slowly but surely, like they have all the time in the world for this.
Max whimpers, writhing some more as Carlos’ mouth finds his chest, tugging up his fireproof just enough but not removing it completely. He doesn’t need this much coaxing, he’s been ready to take his knot since he stepped into this damn elevator, the gesture is appreciated nonetheless. And the alpha takes it very seriously, nipping and kissing his chest until his nipples perk up, all puffy and sensitive from the attention. Max feels so close to coming, he has to yank Carlos away by his hair, who immediately looks up in concern.
“Too much–,” Max pants, breathless. Whole body on fire, coming undone before the main event. “Just–do it. I wanna come with you in me.”
Carlos looks like he’s physically in pain by hearing that, swallowing a low growl down. “Are you sure?”
Max nods, petting his hair in a reassuring way and uses his words as well, when the alpha looks like he would question it further. “I’m ready.”
It’s not a lie, he’s so ready he nearly loses his fucking mind. So slick his racing suit is drenched in it, clinging to his ass and thighs wetly. Carlos can scent it, can feel it with his wandering fingers, just to confirm and Max sees how it makes him go feral, wanting to savor it.
Carlos straightens up then, one hand between Max’s legs, and yanks his own already half undone suit down with the other. He growls and curses again, using his slicked up fingers to stroke himself to full, aching hardness, knot already starting to swell. Max lets out a wrecked moan seeing that, eyes widening slightly, pupils beyond recognition, his filthy wet thighs twitching to open up more. He’s not just panting for it, his mouth fills with saliva and his ass clenches around nothing in a dizzying rush of hunger. His flushed cock is dripping precum steadily like a broken faucet, on the precipice of coming untouched, right after that close call from moments ago.
“I want it –,” Max whines, long past being embarrassed about how he sounds. He doesn’t need pride, now. He needs, “Alpha—Carlos, now.”
Carlos lifts him in one smooth motion, pressing him hard into the wall, folding him in half and drags Max onto his cock in one long thrust, the wet glide easing the way. The position makes him go so deep Max lets out a shattered noise – part sob, part relief, part wanton abandon – as Carlos fills him up completely.
“Fuck—Carlos—!”
The older driver grits his teeth, his muscles tense, tendons in his neck bulging and he holds still, letting Max adjust instead of chasing his own pleasure. But Max is already moving, grinding down greedily, chasing every inch, every drag of friction until he feels the telltale signs of the growing knot grazing his stretched out rim.
“More—,” Max urges him on, fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair and clawing at Carlos’ still clothed shoulders, his back, moaning his name like he’ll forget it otherwise.
“Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you,” Carlos promises, one hand gripping Max’s thigh, the other his waist, securing the hold on him. The angle allows him deeper, both of them going breathless by the feeling. Then he draws back in a measured glide, only the tip of his cock remaining inside for a drawn out second, before rocking forward with brutal precision. Max keens, shuddering, fingers curling in his racing boots and lets the pre-heat madness engulf him.
Minutes pass, feeling like hours, with this give and take. They kiss some more, biting each other raw, the need to claim is close to bursting. Max’s voice cracks by the continuous moaning, raspy and choked up, teardrops clinging to his lashes, scents mingling and the squelching sounds are obscene. So is the way Carlos fills him up, knot pushing against him thick and swollen, desperate to lock them together.
Max wants him to. Wants it so bad he’s close to begging. Fuck the consequences.
The lights flicker, time seems to bend, the mirror behind them fogs up.
“We don’t have to,” Carlos pants, slamming in deeper driven by instinct, but still meaning every word. He’s a good alpha, a good person like that. “I can make you finish without it.”
“No- no,” Max holds onto him tighter, trying to maintain eye contact, while losing his ability to walk for the next hours, and that’s a generously low estimation. “It’s okay. Just– Do it. You promised.” He kisses the alpha for good measure, moaning into his mouth when Carlos’ hips buck and the teasing pressure intensifies by it.
That’s it, that’s the trigger.
Carlos gives in, thrusts one last time – hard – and knots him deep. Max loses all coherence, moans so loud it’s almost a scream, probably heard by the whole damn paddock, thousands of fans, everyone. They both come at once, Max clenching down hard, milking that knot all its worth, writhing as Carlos floods him with hot, claiming release, smearing their heaving stomachs with his own.
They lock tight, anchored together, trembling from the aftershocks. It’s neither a proper heat, nor a rut and yet the intensity and the amount of filth they spill make it seem like it is. Max’s muscles give out after coming down from the high, strength leaving him in a rush and he sags boneless in Carlos’ arms.
The alpha pants into his throat, licking over his sweaty gland. No bite mark, no bonding. Not yet. Not like this. Max nuzzles into him, close to purring in satisfaction, dark hair tickling his face and clings on with loose arms, but strong intent. Needy, in a muted and different way.
Carlos doesn’t deny him, pressing little kisses into his neck, jaw and scenting him with a satisfied growl.
“Now we wait,” the alpha murmurs, shifting so he could move them both away from the defiled wall. He gathers Max in his arms and sits down slowly on the opposing side. The careful movement still jostling their joined bodies enough to make them both groan from over-stimulation.
“Yeah, wasn’t planning to leave,” Max laughs weakly, resting his weight fully on the driver below him, burrowing close. He’s cuddly with the right person after a spectacular orgasm, sue him.
Luckily Carlos doesn’t seem to mind, he even reciprocates, going as far to rub his back and hugging him close. The perfect, caring alpha.
They sit in companionable silence for a while in each other’s arms, flushed, sticky and still knotted. Racing suits halfway on, shirts hiked up and filthy, hair a mess. Then it dawns on them, probably the same time.
“We’re going to have to do qualifying after this,” Max voices their shared thought, horrified and giddy by the hilarity of it. They haven’t been stuck inside here long enough to miss that, surely.
Carlos hums in agreement, fingers slipping down to where they’re connected.
“I tried to be gentle, but yes—Good luck.” He sounds sincere and so fucking smug Max has to smack his shoulder in retribution.
“Bastard,” he grins anyway, mirth dancing in his red rimmed eyes. “It’s Spa. Pole’s gonna be mine and you know it.”
Kissing Carlos feels no less satisfying without hormones making him weak—even if it’s initiated by the alpha for shutting him up—so Max doesn’t complain.