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Max jumps out of his car, utterly furious. He had P1, he had it right in the palm of his hand, and it got ruthlessly and mercilessly snatched away from him by none other than George fucking Russell.
The Brit had been on the tail of his car for the past 10 laps, after spending the majority of the race shaving the seconds between them, eager to catch him off guard, but Max knew exactly where to place his car to defend. And so he did, with every attack George launched successfully defended, he thought P1 would be firmly in his hands. After a long drought of podiumless races because of how shit the car was this year, he finally did the impossible and dragged the shitbox of a tractor to the top steps, only for the battery to start running out on the very last lap, and for George to launch a last ditch effort.
George angled the car to the left of Max going into the corner, only to make a feint at the last possible second and overtake from the right instead. Going into the corner, Max nearly banged wheels with the Brit, stabilising his car before he could have sent them both into the barriers. It was undeniably a dirty and underhanded move by George, but he had successfully pulled it off. No penalty will be given out regardless of how Max argued, the FIA always favoured Brits despite being a French organisation.
Looking back, he wished he had sent them both into the barrier. Now, he watched as George leapt into the arms of his engineers and team, while he himself gave a halfhearted clap to GP and hydrated. Thankfully, the F1 TV camera was focusing on George and spared no effort to film him crushing his bottle in his hand.
Max made his way to the weighing scale, and soon, George pulled up behind him. Unable to restrain himself any further, he turned to snap at the other man.
“Nice move at corner 12, Russell,” Max snarled. At the end of a race, it was normal for adrenaline to be high, and despite the FIA regulating both Alphas and Omegas to wear scent blockers in the car, George could catch a whiff of sour Alpha pheromones in the air.
George smiled inwardly. Doesn’t feel nice to be knocked down a peg, now does it, Verstappen? He had been waiting, waiting for this opportunity to gloat at the Dutchman from the top steps of the podium for years. Now, he finally had his chance, and he could just smell how sour it made the other man.
“Thank you, Max. I took inspiration from how you used to battle Lewis,” George replied as he undid the velcro of his racesuit. His tone was polite, but his eyes betrayed it all; those blue irises were gleaming with mockery. George pulled down the collar of his fireproofs, exposing his long, pale neck. It was nearing the height of summer, right before F1 was to go on summer break. Global warming had somehow gotten even worse this year, because he was absolutely drenched in sweat. The scent patch he had stuck to the back of his neck before the race was coming soggy, and the stickiness was long gone. Some time during the race, he felt it slipping from his neck and slowly down his spine, and he was itching to pull it off.
As George stood down from the weighing scale, a staff from Mercedes handed him a change of patches along with a towel and drink. He turned to leave with his hands full, but before he could, Max grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.
They were hidden behind a screen, a new addition F1 made so that the drivers and teams had privacy when weighing themselves. The person who was in charge of noting down their weights was long gone, leaving only both men.
George’s eyes widened as Max shoved him towards the wall. When he realised, his gaze sharpened considerably, seemingly harsh enough to pierce through metal. Then he spat, “How childish, Verstappen.”
“You drove dirty,” Max shot back. His grip on the other man’s shoulder didn’t relent. Instead, he dug his nails into George’s racesuit, eager to bruise the skin underneath. George hissed in pain as Max’s thumb pressed painfully into his collarbone.
Despite being an Omega, he was certainly not a pushover.
“Isn’t ‘dirty’ how you normally drive, Verstappen?” he snarled, “Aren’t you being quite the hypocrite for getting angry?”
“That overtake was illegal, and you know it!” Max refuted. It certainly wasn’t, but at this point, he couldn’t think straight. George’s scent blocking patch had long slipped down to the middle of his back, not concealing any bit of the Omega’s pheromones. Fuelled by anger, the scent appeared to be coyingly sweet to his nose, trying to calm down the Alpha’s rage. An itch started to appear in his canines.
George snorted, “It was perfectly legal. If you have any issues, you can try bringing it to the FIA.”
George reached up to grab Max’s wrist, the hand was still gripping hard on his shoulder. It was likely going to bruise tomorrow, but at the very least it was in a location that was easy to hide.
“Let go,” George instructed.
Max didn’t move.
“We have post race interviews. Unless you want me to tell whoever is interviewing us that you were busy throwing a tantrum which is why we’re late, let go,” George gritted his teeth. Max certainly had a talent for getting on his nerves.
“Where did you learn how to drive like that?” Max asked, ignoring everything George had said.
George rolled his eyes. His temper was really flaring this time.
“Do you question everyone that overtakes you like this? What’s wrong with accepting that I managed to overtake you? Just because I beat you doesn’t mean you can throw a tantrum. Your ego is really getting to your head if you think you can throw your weight around like this,” George snarled. He gripped the hand that Max had on his shoulder and twisted it off, then shoved the man using his shoulder.
Max saw red.
He lunged at the Brit, this time attempting to grab his shoulders with both hands. He wanted George to face him, to tell him he was in the wrong. The other man’s slender and pale neck was on display, and his instincts yelled at him to bite into that tender throat.
George’s back slammed hard into the wall, and he twisted his head downwards and to the side so as to not hit his skull directly into the concrete. His hands flew to the collar of Max’s racesuit, gripping it hard and pulling the man forwards and towards him.
Max lost his balance, causing him to tilt to the side. The sharp fangs he had aimed at George’s throat was forced to find a new outlet for his frustrations.
Instead of biting the throat like he planned, Max’s teeth had sunk into the back of George’s neck. George tensed as teeth broke into the tender flesh, right before alarms started blaring in his head.
No.
Max’s teeth bit down harder, then even harder. George felt as warm liquid formed at the surface of his skin, and felt as droplets started to roll down his back. George let out a sharp cry, and he kicked Max.
Max managed to avoid the kick, and he removed his mouth from George’s neck. As if in a trance, he licked the blood that was flowing from the wound attentively, causing George to involuntarily shiver, a whine falling from his lips. He licked the wound clean, tongue pressing into the indents made by his teeth.
George couldn’t stand it anymore and pushed Max away. This time, Max stumbled backwards. George’s hand flew to the back of his neck, mapping out exactly where Max had placed his teeth.
No, no, no!
His fingers touched the broken skin, tracing over the teethmarks Max had left.
Max had bitten him on his mating gland.
The realisation was like a tsunami coming down on him, drenching his body in a cold sweat. Despite the summer heat, George felt as if he had been plunged into the arctic ocean. Gooseflesh broke out across his skin, and his eyes widened to a painful degree. His pupils shrunk until they were nothing but small dots, and he turned his head slowly towards Max.
“What the fuck,” he uttered. His voice was so soft, barely louder than a mosquito’s buzz, and each vowel that escaped his lips quivered. His own voice sounded foreign to his ears.
Max licked the remnants of blood at the corner of his lips, then brought his gaze to George. Upon making eye contact, the fog that was previously clouding his eyes cleared up in an instant.
George was trembling, looking not so different to a small animal. His eyes were fearful, and tears were brimming beneath those lovely blue pools. He was clutching the back of his neck, with his mouth hanging open. His expression was not only fearful, but mixed with disbelief.
Max reached his hands up to touch George, his mind in a similar state of panic. Before he could lay a hand on the Omega, George slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” George whispered.
Max had never seen nor heard George like this. He was left speechless. He watched as George pulled up the collar of his fireproof and tightened the velcro of his racesuit collar, pushing past and sprinting away from Max as he did.
Max continued to stand there, dumbfounded.
A staff member walked past George, looking at him curiously as he shoved past him.
“Max? Please hurry, we still have interviews to complete and the podium ceremony,” the staff informed.
Max nodded numbly. As he walked out from the dark corner and sunlight hit his face, the realisation of what he did finally hit him.
He had marked George.
He had bonded George to him.
They were a bonded pair of Alpha and Omega, and there was nothing either one of them could do to change the fact.