Max gulps. His dick twitches. He decides to keep quiet, but it’s not easy. His eyes are glued to the image before him. And who can blame him, really? He’s seen this exact image many times before, but that was always in his bedroom, or his bedroom, or safe enough away that no one who wasn’t supposed to hear this, could hear anything. He’s Pavlov-trained to get turned on whenever he sees this, because he’s only ever been turned on when he sees it. But no, not right now.
He’s in the cooldown room, stands in the corner farthest away from the cameras. To his side sits Lando Norris on one of the chairs, sipping from his drink and eyes glued to the screen that shows highlights of the United States Grand Prix. And in front of him… well, god. Where to start?
He’s on his knees, breathing heavy — no, he’s panting — and knocking back a bottle of water. The water slips all over his lips, his mouth, onto his race suit, drips down his chin and onto his chest. And he’s on his fucking knees, with his whole body aimed to Max. The light of the screen behind him highlights the water droplets and sweat all over his skin. He licks his lips, eyes Max, then takes another sip of his drink. He knows what he’s doing and he’s driving Max insane and he knows which makes it even worse.
Max clears his throat, tries to drag his eyes away from the picture Lewis makes. A picture he’s seen time and time already, a picture he’ll never get tired of. But usually he sees this right before or after Max has his dick inside that pretty little mouth and the sweat is from Lewis putting every bit of cardio to use to suck Max off. Usually, the water drops around Lewis’ mouth and on his chest are either tears, cum, or a mix of both. Usually, Max gets to have the liberty of cleaning Lewis up, once he’s back in his right mind, and then fuck him into the next dimension.
And all of that is not now, because now he’s at work, he’s being filmed, and he’s waiting to be called onto the podium and does it always take this goddamn long?
Max meets Lewis’ eyes again. Lewis was ready, already looking at him, waiting. His eyes are dark, Max can barely see the light brown irises, all he can see is the deep dark, light barely catching on his retinas to reflect. Lewis knows.
Lando gets called away from the room, but doesn’t head to the podium yet. Max follows his friend’s movements out of the room. Once he thinks Lando is our of ear sight, he turns back to Lewis.
“Stop doing that,” He whispers.
For a second, Lewis pretends to not hear him. But the feigned innocence is easy to spot for Max’s trained eye. Max shakes his head once, sternly. Lewis just blinks.
There’s commotion around the cooldown room again, Max thinks Lando is returning. Max also thinks the name cooldown room should be rebranded, because he’s not exactly cooling down here. And Lewis knows.
The commotion stops, Lewis smiles sweetly and says, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Then the motherfucker takes another sip from his bottle, lets the water fall beside his mouth and wet his chin. He makes a small jerking motion over the bottle, as if Max hadn’t seen the resemblance yet.
Max is nearly fully hard right now, his mind is clouding his post-race thoughts with nothing but the image of Lewis’ pretty mouth around his dick. He wants nothing more than to grab Lewis by the back of his head, drop his own race suit down to the ground and shove his dick to the very back of Lewis’ throat till he chokes on every bratty comment he might want to make.
You know what? Fine.
“Do you really want to risk it?” Max’s voice is low, it’s almost a growl. He knows he doesn’t need to specify what he means. He knows Lewis is thinking it, he knows that Lewis knows that Max is thinking it. So why the hell not? If they go down, they better go down together. There’s never been a moment where they’ve been left alone in the cooldown room, where it took this long until they’re called on the podium and definitely not a moment when there’s not a single camera live streaming this.
Lewis’ eyes are big, he’s looking up at Max like how he’d look up at a god to pray to. The water around his mouth is drying up onto his skin, but he’s still shiny all over. Max sees how Lewis’ gulps, blinks.
Then says: “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” And Max means what do you want, how far do you want to go, he really does!
But Lewis just looks at him, repeats, “Yes,” and then grows a smile that shows a bratty comment lays on his tongue, and it follows: “Sir.”
Max huffs, unimpressed, “That’s you,” he states it like the most normal thing in the world, “I am just Max.”
“Okay,” Lewis says, inches closer to Max, still on his knees. His fingers trail a soft path from Max’s ankles up to his waist. “Tell me what to do, Max.”
It’s the hottest fucking way anyone has ever uttered Max’s name. It doesn’t even feel like his own name, being said like that by Lewis. It feels like a title. It feels like an honour. And Max might just get high on it. Max might just get addicted to it.
His dick twitches again, he hasn’t forgotten. Max clears his throat, looks around the room once more, and then pushes his racing suit and underwear down to his ankles. He hisses at the sudden cold of the cooldown room, ignores it, grabs his dick and puts it on Lewis’ bottom lip.
“Show me what you’re worth.” He smiles, “Show me that it’s worth it so suck my dick where everyone can see, show me that you’re a little needy slut for it. Show me that you belong to me.”
Lewis smirks at him, a wordless sign of that I can do. He opens his mouth wide, sticks out his tongue and waits.
Max uses his free hand to cup Lewis’ cheek, run his thumb over his cheekbone. He slowly inserts his dick into Lewis’ pretty open mouth, holds it there for a second. He pushes even further, makes Lewis choke on it, wants to see those tears. Lewis’ mouth is warm and wet and Max is already so fucking close, has breathed in the tension in this small room for a second too long. The mere fact that they thought of doing this was one, to actually do it is another. Max thinks for a second about how any moment anyone can walk in and see him with his dick inside of Lewis Hamilton’s mouth. He thinks he hates it. Then his dick twitches and Lewis moans onto his dick, sending the tremors all over his skin.
He thinks he likes it.
Max looks at Lewis, really looks at Lewis. The shorter man seems much more confident than he is, more certain. And Max thinks that maybe he should copy that – if Lewis dares to do this, then so can he.
If they go down, they go down together.
He gets a handful of Lewis’ braids, ruins that ponytail to no end when he jerks Lewis’ head forward and back, fast, faster. Lewis lets go fully, his body almost limp, lithe to Max’s force. He lets himself get used like a toy and it’s so fucking hot. Max can’t believe this is happening to him. He uses Lewis the way he wants, gets himself higher and higher. The heat builds up in his belly, spreads around his veins all under his skin. He’s hot all over, he’s barely able to restrain himself. He bites his lip to hold back the moan, but Lewis is mean and nasty and lets his teeth graze just this tiny bit over his sensitive skin and it gets Max to be even more frantic, even closer. Lewis swipes his tongue all over Max’s dick, just the way he knows Max likes it. He’s doing everything in his power to draw all the pretty noises from Max’s throat and it’s working. Max can’t fucking believe himself.
He’s so fucking close.
Then loud footsteps approach, someone calls, “Lewis, podium’s there for you, where are you?”
Max stops abruptly, suddenly very aware of the very realistic idea that they will get caught. It’s a hot idea, certainly, but for it to really happen?
Lewis doesn’t seem to be affected, as Max feels him smile around his dick, then peel Max’s hand away from his head before he keeps sucking Max off like there’s no tomorrow.
“Lewis? Max?”
Lewis hollows his cheeks, looks up at Max with those sinful eyes and swirls his tongue all over Max’s dick until Max can’t help but spill all into Lewis’ mouth. The last groan is strained, but escapes his mouth regardless. He’ll die of shame later.
The footsteps come closer, Lewis licks Max clean hurriedly, before putting Max’s pants back to his hips and he scoots back to sit on the ground again, water bottle in hand like nothing happened.
Max has just enough post-nut clarity to heave his racing suit back to his hips and sit down as well. Lewis smiles kindly at him, innocently. Then he starts up a conversation as if they’ve done nothing but chat the entire time.
“There you two are!” An FIA official has stress in her eyes as she looks at the two men, “The podium’s ready for you, come on. We need you up there. Lewis, hurry on, Max, wait ten seconds. For god’s sake, did you not hear us?”
Max rises to his feet simultaneously with Lewis, then looks at Lewis and shrugs, “I did not? We were just talking about the race.”
“Do that later, come on!”
Lewis smiles politely at her, “We apologise, it won’t happen again.” And he leaves to the podium.
Later, when Max has paid Lewis back for his impeccable service, he says, “Are you sure we will not do that again?” and Lewis smiles in such a way that Max has his answer.