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Max presented late.
By then, he already had two championships under his belt. Everybody knew for sure he would present as an Alpha, no matter when he did. Even if he didn’t, anything was better than an omega. The world was still fighting for the rights of omegas in every field there was to be a part of—motorsport being one of the sports that still refused to let omegas drive, even if some of them were better than Alphas. FIA didn’t give a fuck. So, the fight kept pushing and pulling, while Max supported the movement, not as openly as others, but anybody who knew him knew that he respected Omegas and didn’t think of them as inferiors. Something that came as a surprise to… pretty much everyone.
Now he is almost at the end of 2023, only six fucking races left, with him so close to his third championship—in his hotel room, shivering, curled into his bed, as heat coils around him, suffocating him. The horror of what’s happening dawns on him after wailing in pain for an hour, and he knows that it will only get worse from now on. So he does the only sensible thing he can do in his state, rushing to dial GP, stumbling in his steps as he waits for him to pick up the call, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
“Max? Is everything okay?” There is only silence, as Max tries to compose himself enough to have a coherent conversation, “Max? Come on, you are scaring me!”
“G—GP… I—I think I am presenting…” He manages to blurt out, voice shaky and awfully small, the dread in his voice is an obvious giveaway to the possibility of what he is presenting as.
“What? Now? After all this time?” GP exclaims, “Either way, finally, huh? But why ar—Oh, is—are you—”
“Maybe—GP, it’s… I can’t—I just can’t!”
“Okay, okay, I will be there as soon as I can. Let me get everything you can possibly need, and once you are fine, I will make some arrangement to delay your plans, and—uh, I will be there in an hour or less, Max, don’t worry. We will deal with this together. You hear me? Together.”
“I don’t—I don’t think so, GP, what if—”
“Kid, I am telling you, we will get through this no matter what. For now, please just calm down and do not send yourself into overdrive. I am here for you, always.”
Then, Max spent three days in the hotel room, with GP staying right next door, making sure he survives through this so they can tackle more horror later on. It was hell. He has no idea how he managed to come alive out of whatever the fuck that happened, even with GP’s help. Somehow, they managed to keep everything under wraps, the only silver lining being that they still had a few weeks to prepare before the next race. There was no way FIA would let him race, no matter how much he had already proved himself—they didn’t want to take any chances. So, they decided to play pretend until the end of the season. The truth will eventually come out, but Max won’t let it destroy this season.
God, please, no.
Unfortunately, only a week remained until the Qatar Grand Prix, and they couldn’t find a perfect stabilizer for his pheromones and scent. The medical industry still hadn't made any serious development in the study of Omegas. But GP didn’t let up; he was hell-bent on finding the right medicines, along with a few other members of the Red Bull, whom they trusted for the time being. As much as Max was grateful for their loyalty, he couldn’t help the dread in his stomach at the possibility of everything going wrong the next race.
And then, just when Max thought it couldn’t get worse.
It did.
~
He was pacing around in his apartment, exhausted, padding barefoot as his cats followed him around—sensing his discomfort. It had been a long day. GP had delivered another set of Omegan kit to experiment with—in vain. As the day merged into night, Max decided to remove the patches and go back to bed. He had been on the Sim all day, taking out his frustration in the only way he knew—he had not set a foot outside his apartment the moment he returned to Monaco.
That’s when the bell rings, alerting him out of his haziness, already walking to the door, wondering who could be here at such an hour. Probably GP. If he had been in a clearer mind, he would have questioned—why wasn’t he asked to buzz in whoever came by the door?
He freezes at the person in front of him, a powerful scent hitting him immediately, as he unconsciously takes a step back. It’s definitely an Alpha, who doesn’t make a move, just standing straight in his doorway, in a crisp grey suit, hair perfectly styled, carrying himself with such elegance it almost made him embarrassed by his state—just a baggy shirt and worn-out shorts.
Wait, an Alpha? Shit. That’s not good.
But it can be, his Omega murmurs. He groans internally. No matter how hot this Alpha is, they are in a very serious predicament here.
He looks around, feeling a spike of fear, wanting to make sure there is nobody else around—he notices a few men in black in his periphery, and he stiffens at the realization. The Alpha, noticing his concern, raises his hand, symboling the men to leave—Max cannot help the relief he feels, which is quickly replaced with apprehension.
“Charles Leclerc,” The Alpha introduces himself, his sea green eyes taking in Max, up and down, and Max resists the urge to cover himself—something about this man makes him nervous.
“Leclerc…” His eyes widen in realization, “You’re Arthur’s brother,” He says, and snaps out of whatever state he had been in, which made him stand in front of a huge mistake, like a fucking idiot. He backs away, hand on his door, about to fling it shut when the Alpha moves instantly, his hand forces the door to stay in its place as he invites himself inside. Max grabs the baseball bat thrown near the sofa, aiming it at the Alpha, snarling in his direction—fuck, he might have just ruined his career, but he will not let anyone take advantage of him. No fucking way.
“Put it away, Max,” The Alpha says calmly, not affected by his stance, and carelessly approaching him even with Max threatening to beat the shit out of him, “I am not here to hurt you.”
“I don’t fucking care, leave, right now.” Max growls, but it’s not as aggressive anymore—fuck, for the first time in a while, he feels terrified—he had felt scared when he presented, but he accepted the consequences of everything that will follow. It was only logical. But something about this situation is so different. So intimidating. When the Alpha doesn’t stop coming towards him, Max lunges his bat at him at full speed, which the Alpha stops. With his arm. In that moment of surprise, the Alpha wrenches away the bat in his hold and throws it at the door, successfully cornering him.
“Quiet now. Don’t test me now that I am here with a deal for you.” Max bristles at the command, but his body gives up under the pheromones of a strong Alpha—burnt cocoa, almost earthy, drained and tired, as his back sinks against the shelves.
“Then you could have come to our office, like a normal person, Leclerc.” He spits out his name, with as much venom as he can muster; his body might have surrendered, but he sure won’t. “Don’t you sponsor Ferrari? Isn’t this treason?”
“Tell me, Max,” The Alpha voice lowers, his accent thick as he leans in, chuckling when Max quickly puts both of his hands on his chest to stop the distance from shrinking—but only succeeding in trapping himself even further, now that his hands are caught in between two bodies. “Once the FIA finds out about your designation, what will remain of you?”
Max gasps, how did he know? He scrambles to get away, putting more distance between them, but Charles doesn’t let up, pressing in closer, pinning his wrists against the shelves.
“I know everything. We can get to the details later. But right now, we have your championship to worry about, don’t we? Not to mention that debt your team’s been piling up, all at stake on your Third. This will destroy you, and your team too, if I read the numbers right.” Max trembles at the prediction of his future compressed in a few sentences, the rage, the disappointment, the despair—it pushes against his throat, but he swallows, he will not let this Alpha see him break. He will not.
“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, but there is no bite—he is defeated, inside out, he can barely stand on his feet, the impossibility of the situation dawning on him like heavy weights. “Did you just come here to mock me? To remove the competition?”
“Non,” The Alpha grins sharply, “As I said, I am here to make you a deal, cherie.”
“Oh? Aren’t you being so generous,” Max sneers, “A deal with the devil? Yeah, no thanks.” Max knows there is nothing free in this world, no ‘out of goodness of the heart’ without ulterior motives—this is the reality of the world. If Charles Leclerc is here, with a proposition—Max knows it’s nothing good.
How did he even know? How did he even bypass the security? What the fuck is happening?
“Fuck, you’re so feisty,” The Alpha grunts, his grin widening, “And I am being plenty generous, omega.” Max flinches at the force of that one word, backing away on instinct, but there’s no more space left to escape into.
“Fuck you, Leclerc.” Max struggles against the hold on his wrists, the bitter truth of being an omega strikes him again—to feel this powerless, in his own home, after everything he has done to survive.
“I am no monster, Max, I won’t force you,” The Alpha loosens his grip, “The deal is for you. Whether you take it or not, it is your decision.”
“A—And, what is that?” Max asks, almost a whisper, hating how weak his voice sounds in his own ears. Charles smiles at the beginning of his surrender and lets go of his hands.
“My team, not Ferrari,” He says before Max can make another traitor comment despite his shaken state, “will provide the medicines and blockers to neutralize your scent. SideQuest will sponsor Red Bull and foot the bill, clearing the debts. If you accept, I will make sure you win this championship—and continue in F1 if you desire.”
Too good to be true, his mind supplies, laughing at the incredulity of the situation. But, is there any other option? GP has yet to find a concrete solution—the blockers remove every scent, making it obvious there is something to hide. With their angle of keeping up the pretence, using such solutions will only trigger a disaster. If they don’t find a way to hide his designation, he is doomed to lose his championship. But… is it worth the bargain? Something in his guts just… knows. He might really be selling his soul.
“What’s the catch?” Max looks away, the defeat obvious in his slumped shoulders, “What do you want in exchange?”
“Be my omega.” There was a part that knew this might be the case, but hearing the blatant words still shocks him; his reality just keeps getting worse. Whatever seems to be holding him upright dissolves, his legs giving away as he tumbles down—but Charles catches him mid-fall, a hand wraps around his waist, pulling him against his body.
He is about to have a mental breakdown, Max realizes as he finds it difficult to breathe, the silence around him deafening, and the sensation in his body turns overwhelming. Before he can say anything, Charles lifts him effortlessly and places him on the couch, and—despite the panic, his eyes widen at the action.
Charles kneels in front of him, his expensive pants slide across his messy floor, and he waits.
“What are you playing at, Leclerc?” Max grits out. He is so fucking tired and resigned. Just how can life be this difficult to live?
“It’s simple. I want you to be mine.” Charles says, as if he is talking about the weather, “I will back off when it comes to racing on-track, but everything besides that is mine to steer.”
“…you want to own me,” Max murmurs with a broken realization. He is so taken aback that he cannot even muster any rage at the shameless disrespect.
“Yes,” Charles shrugs, he has no intention to hide his desires. Despite being on his knees, he has such control over the situation, looking up at him with dark eyes, the intensity of his stare is imprisoning.
“You say you are not a monster,” Max laughs, sharp and brittle, “You tell me it’s my decision. But there is no choice. Just an illusion of one.”
“Ah, mon amor, but there is a choice. You walk away. Isn’t that the consequence you were preparing for, before I came in?”
“You are too cruel, Leclerc,” Max concedes, leaning back as all the strength inside him bleeds out, the warmth around his thigh feels scorching—a cruel claim disguised as a comforting hand. He knows he has more fight in him, he knows, but it hadn’t been even a month since he presented as an Omega—he is exhausted, his body changing at a rapid pace, disorienting him entirely, his sense of smell is disarming, his Omega inside is a voice that he just cannot get used to, with the looming reality of his possible retirement.
It’s too much.
He can fight against the world, even all alone, but it turns out he cannot fight against himself.
So, it is either his championship at the expense of his freedom, or vanishing away from the motorsport world—everything he has lived for his entire life. But, he smiles helplessly, he supposes the choice has already been made. He cannot turn away from this world. It is his life, after all.
“I know, nor am I pretending to be a saint,” Charles says, his expression finally turning serious, “I am giving you a cage in place of your life. A cage that won’t open until I command it. Once you give in, there is no other escape for you. But… without me, you will never sit in that car again, or any racing car, at that. I am the only way in. You know that. So, I am willing to use your weakness to my advantage, since there is no other way to tame a lion.”
Max swallows dryly, hands balling into fists, as he looks away in terror—Charles isn’t even trying to hide his treachery, he doesn’t care to hide his true colours—in fact, he is willing to go lower, get blood on his hands, to get what he wants. There is no shame reflecting in him—only desire, only conviction. For a moment, he opens his mouth to ask—what does it entail, to be owned by Charles Leclerc? But he shakes his head. What is the point? Whatever the conditions are, he has no choice. That’s what everything boils down to. He has no choice.
Even if Charles decides to take away everything he adores, except racing, he has no choice but to surrender.
“…Okay.” So, Max gives in, unable to believe this broken voice is his as he closes his eyes, suppressing the tears threatening to spill out. Charles grins, his scent becomes clearer, bitter chocolate softened by something clean and sharp, like salt crystals by the sea—clinging to his surroundings, staking its claim.
“I will send you the contract tomorrow morning. You can inform GP about this. My team will send the official documents to Red Bull Racing soon enough.” He leans down, as his finger strokes the back of his ankle, raising his legs slightly, peppering soft kisses over his exposed knee, and the skin below, making him gasp at the unexpected action, “I will be waiting for you in Qatar, mon petit lion.”
Then Charles gets up, with one last squeeze on his thigh, his smile is gentle, but his scent is sharp, claiming. There is no mistaking his intentions. When Charles turns, something inside Max erupts, making him stand up abruptly, a question burning under his tongue—a question he doesn’t even know—as he moves to stop Charles and grabs his wrist, unable to let out his voice. He underestimated the strength in his legs as he stumbles forward, slipping past the rug, and collides against Charles, who turns back right at the point of contact, not getting any chance to stop the fall as they both tumble backwards.
“Fuck,” Max hisses, he can imagine the bruises forming on both of his knees as he sits up and freezes midway when he realizes he is sitting on top of someone. That someone is his fucked-up monster. He rushes to get up, but just as quickly, there are hands on his waist, forcing him to sit still. Oh no, Max cusses at himself, why the fuck is he sitting right on top of his dick? This day really cannot get any worse.
“What did you want to ask, chérie?” Oh, fuck him and his sexy accent. He wonders if Charles is hurt somewhere because of the fall, but quickly wishes to slap himself for having any concern for this piece of shit, who is hell-bent on owning him. But the way he talks, it’s disarming; his charming tone draws him in such perfect false security.
“W—” He clears his throat, wanting to sound neutral, “Will you hurt me?” He asks. Because he has to know. He needs to know. So, he can be prepared to be used and not let himself be fooled by anything Charles pretends to be in the outside world. He needs this clarity.
Charles also sits up at that; the imbalance results in Max ending up in his… lap. Great. Just what he needed. He quickly pulls away the hands gripping the Alpha’s shoulders pathetically, hoping to move away, but Charles’ hold on his waist remains solid.
“Oh, mon beau,” Without any warning, Charles rip away his scent patch, letting the room fill with sweet strawberries, as he noses against his throat, “Fuck, I knew you’d smell delicious—knew you would never disappoint,” He groans as he inhales deeply, taking in his scent, his face buried in his neck, as if he is trying to taste the very essence of his scent. Max moans at that, almost inaudible, the sensation of having an Alpha sniffing is doing bad, bad things to his Omegan brain. His hands move to push Charles away, but they betray him instead, tangling themselves in his hair. He almost forgets reality. The deep guttural sounds coming from Charles are filthy in a way that makes him wet. It makes him want to roll over and prese—what the fuck, no.
“Ch—Charles, what are you—ahn!” Max whimpers because Charles is licking his throat, sucking small marks on his skin! His hands feel like jelly as he attempts to stop whatever is happening at this moment. Fuck. When he tries to pull away helplessly, lowering his head, Charles grabs the back of his nape, tugging his hair, making him face upwards, and he bites. Just beside the mating gland.
The sound that pulls out of his throat is obscene, even to his ears. He hates it. He hates how unbearably good everything feels.
Then Charles pulls away, dark sea green eyes appreciating their handiwork, the reds blooming over his pale skin make him grin in satisfaction. Max scowls, glaring at him with contempt, and forgets that he is again clutching the grey coat desperately, his body barely sitting up on its own. He registers something huge and hard pressing against his ass and becomes aware of his own erection, pulsing and wet, begging for attention he has no intention to give.
“You—You…” Max starts, his voice is barely recognizable, he stammers when Charles tilts his head, waiting for his complaints, his lips wet and slightly puffy, his perfect hair messed up—the culprit being his own hands!?—Shit, why is the devil so fucking handsome? Why does it all feel so good? He doesn’t continue.
“You are not allowed to bite your lips anymore,” Charles says after a few seconds, “You don’t hide your face or your sweet little noises until I say, and you don’t hurt yourself if it’s not under my hands.” Max is ready to snap—with whatever energy is left in him—when Charles’ finger stops at his lips, tracing over the pink, smearing the wetness with his thumb, pressing at the corner of his lips. Max doesn’t even realize when he opens his mouth, letting him inside, playing with his mouth. Nor does he remember the hand splayed on his thigh sliding upwards, right under the hem of his shorts. “Are you wet, chérie?” Max whines unconsciously, his omega urging him to give in, to let go. “Let me check.” Huh, check what? He attempts to ask, but he feels weightless, too relaxed under Charles’ ministrations. When strong hand dips inside his shorts, grazing his wet hole, fingers slicked with the fluid—Max gasps out, twisting out of Charles’ hold.
“Wh—What are you doing!?” He yells, backing away, his back pressed against the couch, hoping something could come out and swallow him whole. Charles stares at him for a few seconds, his gaze is hot and heavy, there is no doubt about how much he wants to consume him. Then he smirks, still looking so fucking good, Max thinks angrily, as he licks his finger, the one coated with his slick. “Are you crazy?” He asks furiously, even if his cheeks are red with embarrassment, trying to will away the picture of Charles doing what he just did.
“Yes, mon amor,” Charles beams innocently, with his lips wet with his slick—oh my fucking god, this is just too much. “You do know your body’s mine to do as I please from now on?”
Max glares at him, stifling the moan that’s trying to claw out of his throat. Fuck his Omegan biology. His scent is mixed with arousal and want; there is not one trace of discomfort and rejection—he cannot believe the betrayal of his own body. While the thick scent of sea salt and chocolate envelopes him possessively, as if it's absorbing inside his skin.
“Alright, sweetheart.” Fuck him and his awful pet names. Charles takes out his handkerchief and wipes his hands on it, and—Max stares in disbelief—sniffs it, right in front of Max, before keeping it inside his pocket. “I will take my leave,” He comes closer to where Max has cornered himself, he kneels again, hand caressing his jaw as he kisses the corner of his lips softly, “Know that I will take care of you, my omega.”
As he stands up to leave, again, this time Max doesn’t even make one small movement—terrified it will trigger Charles into doing… things to him again. Or that if he does, Max might not find himself… willing to pull away. Max flushes deep shade of red when he notices a wet splotch on Charles’ thigh—it’s going to stain. But knowing this pervert, the Alpha might even like it.
When the Alpha finally leaves, does Max relax, taking in a deep breath of relief—and regretting instantly as the scent of rich dark chocolate fills his senses, feeling his hole leak through his shorts.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He decides he will regret and rage tomorrow—that the Dutch Lion has been reduced to such a state. For now, he needs to fuck himself to next Sunday with whatever toys are in his supply—he is too turned on at the moment to feel any remorse, and his Omega wants to get off on the thick scent left behind.
~
Charles exits the building, feeling the loss almost immediately—but it's alright, he is here for the long game. Doing what he did was not his objective at all—he had not meant to jump on the Dutch Omega, not until the contract was signed at the least, but the moment he felt that irresistible body against him, pressing at all the right places—he did lose control. That was a bit unpredictable on his part. He had no idea Max Verstappen would have such an impact on him.
As he gets inside the car, he orders the driver to get him home; he doesn’t want to lose even a little scent that he is doused in.
He wonders how Max would react if he confessed how long Charles had been following him, keeping track of his whereabouts, of the changes he has done in Max’s life, of the control he has already exercised… he chuckles—can imagine the snarl, his adorable little growl, eyes bright blue with anger as he goes off with his pretty rant. He never assumed Max would present as an omega; he was ready to take him no matter his designation—even had his team work on bitching an Alpha if it ever came to that—but no, the universe blessed him with the best gift he could ever receive.
When he learned at Suzuka, the unusual delay of Max’s return to Monaco, with GP scrambling to fetch any essentials he could find, one of them being a ‘heat kit’, and Max not leaving the hotel room for three days straight, the truth of the situation was like an antidote to his poison.
He got his team working on the exact scent Max owned before the presentation, every little plan falling into its place as he hurried to assemble the perfect contract. His investigators tear apart every document related to Red Bull Racing, Max Verstappen, and the staff members close to him, and of course, each of his family members. Whatever he could find to make sure Max stays once he gives in.
He went into the lion's den, expecting violence and bloodshed, not Max already grasping at the last seams. Some unfamiliar emotions arose once he had Max in his arms, resigned, exhausted, but he observed proudly how the fire in his eyes never extinguished.
Oh well, he has forever to uncover the enigma that is Max Verstappen. Next week couldn’t come any sooner, he grins to himself.
~
Max, all fucked out, lies back on his couch, some semblance of relief circles him—he hadn’t felt this clarity since the first heat. It might have to do with the devil’s promise that will take care of all of his worries. But regardless, he finally feels like a fucking human again. Which is embarrassing in itself. Fucking Alphas.
He had no idea Charles Leclerc would be such a pervert and a monster, too. His reputation is so clean and elegant, always ready with composed answers and a perfect smile—the man had not once lost a temper in public. Arthur had always sung his big brother's praises and how much he takes care of their family and the Ferrari team. He wonders if anyone really knows who Charles is, inside all the dozens of masks? And why the fuck is he the chosen one for such a mission? He has no idea how this will end—Charles had been clear from the start—he desired everything that is Him. Everything that revolves around Max Verstappen. Inside out.
How will Max survive the monster? He had done it once, but his Father was a hundred times easier to predict and understand than the tests ahead of him. A ring of his notification brings him out of his stupor, making him stretch for his phone at the table.
My team will bring the Scent Masker along with the Contract. Try it on and let me know if it perfectly replicates your scent.
Max stares at the message. It’s an unknown number, but he can tell who the owner is. How the fuck did he manage to get his personal number? Well, if he can get inside his apartment without batting an eye, this might be a tame operation for the man.
One second, Max goes rigid, ‘if it replicates your scent’? Why does Leclerc know how he smelled before he presented? And how the fuck does he have the Masker already in production?
He gulps, suddenly the fear crawls back in—he really has no idea who he just surrendered his soul to, does he? Not that it changes anything. In the end, presenting as an omega had sealed his fate.
“The devil that I know, or the devil I don’t, what does it matter?” Max breathes in the remnant of dark chocolate as he closes his eyes, letting himself fall into the void.