Chapter Text
Race was over.
Engines silent, paddock settling, adrenaline dropping and Max Verstappen felt his nerves buzzing louder than the car he had just stepped out of.
He was 17.
Scentless.
Unpresented.
And very aware that every Alpha and Beta in the grid could smell that he didn’t quite belong.
Carlos curled a hand around his wrist and tugged.
“Come on, Max. It’s fine. You’re part of the pack now.”
Max wasn’t convinced.
Carlos had presented early, at fifteen, already sure-footed as an Alpha. He walked into the pack room like he had every right to be there.
Max… didn’t.
But he followed Carlos anyway, footsteps light, stomach tight.
The pack room was warm. Loud. Claustrophobic.
The air thick with scents — Alpha dominance, Beta calm, the grounding musk of the pack’s shared den.
Everyone was there:
Lewis and Nico on one side,
Seb was rebuilding the nest and Kimi was helping him,
Daniel talking too loudly,
Perez and Hulkenberg bickering in the corner,
Grosjean laughing at something Maldonado said.
No one looked at Max.
Not really.
Lewis’ eyes flicked over him once — cool, dismissive — then went straight back to the Alpha huddle with Carlos.
Max swallowed.
He stayed at the door, unsure if he should step further in or bolt. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
He didn’t know where to stand.
What to do.
Who he was supposed to be here.
He didn’t have a scent yet, nothing to identify him. Nothing to claim a place.
Carlos was already settling into the pack nest Seb was fixing on the floor, chatting like he had been part of the pack for years.
Max took one step inside.
No one reacted.
Maybe that was good.
Maybe that meant he wasn’t a problem.
He drifted toward the corner of the room, back almost touching the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible.
That's when a warm shadow fell over him.
Max blinked, lifting his eyes in surprise.
Fernando Alonso stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable — and in one hand, he held a bar of chocolate.
He extended it toward Max wordlessly.
Max stared.
That… wasn’t meant for him, right?
That had to be a mistake.
Fernando raised a brow.
Max raised a finger and pointed at himself, confused.
Fernando snorted softly.
His deep Beta scent stayed gentle, non-threatening.
“Take it.”
Max took it, slow and hesitant, fingers brushing the wrapper like it might burn him.
Fernando tilted his head.
“What? You don’t like chocolate?”
Max shook his head quickly.
“No— I mean, yes— I mean— I do. I… I like it.”
He sounded stupid.
He could feel his ears burning.
Fernando’s expression softened — barely noticeable, but there.
“Good. Eat. You drove well today.”
Max froze.
No one had told him that.
Not here.
Not in this room.
Max opened the wrapper with shaking fingers, the smell of cocoa drifting up, oddly comforting in the thick, overwhelming scent-cloud of the pack room.
Before he could even take a bite, a presence suddenly appeared at his left.
Then another at his right.
Two Nicos.
Rosberg and Hülkenberg.
They moved like Alphas and Betas drawn by curiosity, by instinct, by something they didn’t quite understand about the quiet, scentless teenager standing alone in the corner.
Nico Rosberg leaned casually against the wall beside him, arms crossed, pretending he hadn’t just approached him on purpose.
“You made me work for it today,” Rosberg said lightly. His blue eyes sparkled with competitive fire. “I had to try really hard to keep you behind.”
Max blinked, cheeks warming.
Why were they… talking to him?
On his right, Nico Hülkenberg joined in with his usual calm smile, nudging Max lightly with his elbow.
“He’s right. You drove great today.”
Max ducked his head, voice small. “…thank you.” He held up the chocolate uncertainly. “Um… do you want it?”
Hülkenberg perked up instantly.
Rosberg too — suddenly very interested in the offered sweet.
But before either could reach—
A sharp voice cut through.
“Do not steal candy from a pup, Nico.”
Fernando didn’t even look up from where he was rearranging a toolkit on the table. His tone was dry, unimpressed, but laced with protectiveness that surprised Max.
Rosberg’s mouth fell open.
“I wasn’t going to steal it!”
Hülkenberg snorted. “Sure you weren’t.”
Rosberg glared at him, then at Alonso.
Alonso didn’t break eye contact with the wrench in his hand.
“The kid needs it more than you do.”
Max stared down at the chocolate, fingers tightening around it.
No one had ever acted protective of him in the pack room before.
He mumbled.
“…I can share.”
Hülkenberg smiled warmly.
Rosberg huffed but softened, tilting his head like he couldn’t quite stop himself from finding the gesture endearing.
But Alonso, without looking up, shut that down immediately.
“Eat. Your. Chocolate.”
Max obeyed.
He broke off a small square of chocolate and placed it in his mouth, the sweetness melting instantly on his tongue, grounding him in a way nothing else in the pack room ever had.
Before he could take another bite, a warm hand landed on top of his head.
Max stiffened—then relaxed when he realized who it was.
Fernando Alonso ruffled his hair with the casual confidence of someone who’d already decided the kid was under his wing. His voice was dry, amused “Do not let these guys have chocolate.”
Rosberg and Hülkenberg both snapped their heads toward him, offended.
Alonso continued. “Once you give it to them, they won’t stop asking for it.”
Rosberg sputtered.
Hülkenberg looked personally attacked.
Max blinked up at Fernando… and giggled.
An actual giggle.
Soft, shy, startled — the kind he almost never allowed himself to make around the other drivers.
Rosberg pointed at Max as if betrayed. “You are corrupting him, Fernando!”
“I am protecting him,” Alonso corrected, ruffling Max’s hair again.
Hülkenberg crossed his arms. “We are not chocolate thieves.”
Alonso lifted a brow, still not looking at them. “You stole my energy bar.”
“That was one time!”
“You stole my almonds in Austria.”
“They were on the counter!”
Max bit back another laugh, shoulders shaking.
For a moment — a brief, fragile, precious moment — he felt like he was part of something.
Like he wasn’t the outsider.
Like he wasn’t the scentless kid standing on the edge of the room, unsure where to breathe.
Rosberg leaned in slightly.
“Max, if you do want to share—”
Alonso cut him a glare sharp enough to slice carbon fiber.
Rosberg shut up instantly.
Max smiled, tiny but real.
For once, the pack room didn’t feel like a threat.
But across the room… someone else had noticed.
Lewis Hamilton’s gaze had lifted from the nest, locked onto Max.
Lewis stood up.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
Like an Alpha who didn’t appreciate not being the center of gravity in his own pack room.
Conversation around the room dipped just enough for tension to coil in the air.
Max felt it instantly.
His spine straightened, muscles tightening, breath hitching.
Lewis walked toward him — each step heavier, commanding, confidence radiating like heat.
Max didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
His fingers clenched around the chocolate wrapper.
When Lewis got close enough, Max’s breath stuttered.
His instinct — the one he wasn’t supposed to have yet — screamed submit.
Before Lewis could say a word, a hand shot out.
Nico Rosberg smacked Lewis on the shoulder. Hard.
Lewis blinked, annoyed.
Rosberg muttered “Relax. You’re scaring the pup.”
Max’s cheeks flamed.
He wasn’t supposed to be a pup.
He wasn’t even supposed to feel like one.
Lewis huffed, annoyed but reigning himself in.
He turned fully toward Max, posture softening just a degree. “Max.”
Max swallowed. “…Lewis.”
Lewis exhaled, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome to the pack.”
Max nodded quickly. “Thank you.”
Lewis continued, voice smooth, authoritative: “There are a few rules here. I hope you’ll follow them.”
Max nodded again, smaller this time. “I—I will.”
Lewis opened his mouth to continue—probably ready to lecture about hierarchy, respect, pack structure, whatever mattered to an Alpha leader—
But Alonso cut in immediately.
Loud. Sharp. Unapologetic. “Lewis.”
Lewis froze.
Fernando’s eyes narrowed. “Back down.”
Lewis raised a brow. “What?”
Alonso stepped slightly in front of Max — not enough to be obvious, but enough that Lewis noticed. “Let the pup breathe.”
A ripple of shock passed through Rosberg, Hülkenberg, even Daniel across the room who pretended not to eavesdrop.
Lewis stared at Alonso like he had grown a second head.
“I’m not doing anything,” he snapped.
Alonso didn’t flinch.
“You’re crowding him.”
Max felt heat gather in his chest — embarrassment, gratitude, confusion all tangled.
Lewis scoffed and leaned back a step, bristling but unwilling to start a scene. “Fine.”
Alonso didn’t break eye contact until Lewis fully stepped away.
Only then did the Beta put a calming hand on Max’s shoulder.
Soft. Grounding. “Breathe, chaval.”
Max obeyed.
And once again — for a fleeting heartbeat — he felt safe.
Until warmth and a sudden weight pressed against his back.
“Hey!” Max froze.
A familiar voice, loud and mischievous, whispered in his ear:
“Did old man Alonso give you chocolate, Maxie?”
It was Daniel Ricciardo. Arms wrapped around him in a quick, teasing hug from behind.
Max’s cheeks flamed. He wriggled slightly, unsure how to react.
“…Y-Yeah,” he admitted.
Then, in a rare burst of courage, he turned slightly and held up the chocolate. “Do you… want a bite?”
Daniel’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “Mate, you don’t have to share. I’ll survive. I’ll get my own!”
Fernando, still standing nearby, exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Max, I gave it to you. You don’t have to share it with anyone.”
“S-Sorry…” Max muttered, fiddling with the wrapper.
Rosberg chuckled softly beside him, the blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
Hülkenberg’s laugh was quieter, but warm, approving.
Daniel, still grinning, patted Max on the shoulder.
“It’s okay, mate. Eat it. I’ll bring your favorite snacks when we get to the hotel, alright?”
Max felt a strange warmth spread through him, chest tightening in a way he didn’t understand.
He took a small bite, savoring it slowly, the chocolate rich and comforting.
For once, the pack room didn’t feel threatening. It didn’t feel like a battlefield.
It felt… almost like home.
Almost.
++++++
Max was young. Just seventeen. And when he was on track, he was aggressive, reckless by any standard, fearless in a way that scared even the most seasoned drivers. His overtakes were sharp, daring, sometimes dangerously close. He pushed the limits not just of his car, but of the laws of physics, of safety, of patience.
The media didn’t hold back. Journalists called him a “reckless teenager,” “dangerously unpredictable,” “the kid who didn’t respect the grid.” "Mad Max" Clips of his daring moves flooded social media, pundits debated whether he was a prodigy or a liability, and the other drivers didn’t mince words either.
In interviews, even Nico Rosberg — usually composed and measured — didn’t hide his disbelief.
“Max… his driving is crazy,” he told reporters after one chaotic Grand Prix. “He’s talented, sure, but sometimes it looks like he doesn’t even care if he lives to the next corner.”
Sebastian Vettel, ever the blunt one, wasn’t subtle either. “That kid is fearless… or stupid. Probably both,” he said in a live interview, smirking at the camera.
Lewis Hamilton, Kimi Räikkönen — all had their barbed remarks, carefully worded but stinging nonetheless.
And yet, behind the cameras, behind the media circus, things were different.
Immediately after the press scrums and the adrenaline had finally settled, Nico would find Max.
“Hey,” he’d call gently, approaching the corner where Max usually lingered, shoulders stiff.
Max would tense automatically, ready for another lecture — or worse, another scolding.
“Let’s go over the lap,” Nico would start. Calm, firm, but never harsh.
He’d point out the mistakes: braking points, apex entries, wheel control, throttle modulation — everything Max had gotten wrong in that last push. He’d scold Max, yes, telling him that driving as if he didn’t care about his own life was unacceptable.
And Max… Max would pout. Full lips pressed together, arms crossed, a slight huff escaping him. “I was fine!” he’d mutter.
“You almost didn’t make it, Max,” Nico would reply, voice softening, but unwavering. “You have talent. Don’t throw it away on recklessness.”
By the end of these sessions, Nico would do something unexpected he’d take Max to the little comforts he liked: a café, a bakery, the hotel’s snack bar, anywhere that smelled like warm bread or chocolate or caramel frappes.
Max would sigh, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding him. Nico would nudge him, teasing, sometimes ruffling his hair like Alonso did, sometimes letting a rare smile slip.
And Max would eat, sip, breathe, and by the time they returned, he’d be himself again at least as much as the pack room would let him be.
Fernando Alonso never missed a chance to support Max. The veteran’s ways were subtle but constant.
A reassuring hand on the shoulder. An approving nod after a tricky maneuver. Chocolate or snacks smuggled to Max after long press conferences. Quietly telling the media to ease up when they cornered the teenager.
Alonso’s support acted like a shield. It didn’t erase the sting of criticism, but it made the harsh words from others a little less sharp.
And then there was Daniel Ricciardo.
Daniel was chaos wrapped in grins, a Beta who leaned hard on Max, who teased relentlessly, but whose loyalty was absolute.
After every lap, every scolding, every harsh word from the rest of the grid, Daniel was there.
“Mate, you’re amazing.” “I’ll bring snacks, chocolate, candy—whatever you want.” “Forget them. You’re faster than all of them anyway.”
He’d pull Max into hugs, high-fives, joking pats on the back — a constant reassurance that someone in the pack truly had his back.
Nico Hülkenberg, too, was often there. Quiet, calm, observant.
“Don’t let the noise get to you,” he’d advise. “They’re all loud mouths. You’re not here to prove them right.”
Even when Max was tense and snappy, Hülkenberg’s steady Beta presence reminded him to breathe, to keep a grip on his emotions, and to focus on what mattered: the car, the track, his instincts.
But not everyone was so forgiving.
Sebastian, when he glared at Max, made no effort to hide his disdain. He’d cross his arms, lean in, and scowl as if daring Max to challenge him. “You’re driving like you’ve got no respect for the craft,” he’d snap in the pack room, loud enough for cameras to catch if they weren’t careful.
Lewis and others were equally unforgiving. “Do you even know what cornering limits are?” Lewis would hiss.
“Control your car before it controls you,” Räikkönen would grumble.
And none of them ever apologized — not for scolding him, not for their barbed comments, not for their public digs.
The pack room was a battlefield: a place of competition, of teaching, of Alpha dominance — and Max was thrown in raw, forced to navigate every subtle and overt attack.
It became routine for Max.
Media chaos.
Harsh criticism from other drivers.
Private lessons from Nico.
Support from Daniel, Alonso, Hülkenberg.
Pouting, giggling, and chocolate.
Max grew colder on the surface, sharper, more cautious. But underneath, he was learning — absorbing, adjusting, surviving.
By the end of each weekend, despite the bruised ego, despite the public and private criticism, Max would find a small bubble of warmth — the chocolate, the jokes, the quiet support — enough to keep him coming back to the track, ready to fight again.
Even as the world called him reckless, even as the pack whispered “crazy,” even as Lewis and Seb and the others refused any apologies… Max learned one truth early:
The pack could be harsh. But there were pockets of loyalty, and those were worth everything.
+++++
The news hit like a lightning strike.
Max Verstappen, eighteen, was promoted from Scuderia Toro Rosso to the main Red Bull Racing team.
The paddock buzzed instantly. Cameras, reporters, fans — everyone wanted a piece of the sensation. Headlines screamed about the teenager who dared, who risked, who thrived where seasoned drivers hesitated.
And inside Red Bull?
The reception was different entirely.
Helmut Marko was ecstatic.
Christian Horner, the team principal, couldn’t contain himself. “Max! Welcome! This is it!” he practically beamed, clapping him on the shoulder like the kid had just won the world championship rather than a promotion. “I’ve been waiting to see you in this seat. The team is ready, the car is ready — you’re ready. Let’s make history.”
Max blinked, chest tight, heart hammering. He hadn’t expected such an overwhelming, warm welcome. His past weeks of battling both media and pack room scorn made him wary of praise.
And yet, here it was — genuine, unconditional, and his.
He turned, and there was Daniel Ricciardo.
Grinning, arm already extended “Mate! Finally. The big team. Can you believe it?”
Max laughed nervously, shaking the hand firmly. “Feels… unreal,” he admitted.
Daniel’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ll help you settle in. Don’t worry — we’ll make a good team. You and me, mate.”
Max nodded. There was comfort in that familiar presence — someone who had been by his side through chaos and press storms.
Then he was introduced to Gianpiero Lambiase, his new race engineer.
Tall, composed, and radiating authority, GP Max offered a firm handshake.
“Welcome, Max. I’ve read all your telemetry. You’re fast — and aggressive. I think we’ll make a good combination.”
Max’s stomach did a little flip. Aggressive? That was an understatement.
He opened his mouth, but GP Max continued, smile faint but confident. “We’ll work together, understand the car, understand your style. I know how to keep you safe — but fast. Trust me, and we’ll push limits.”
Max nodded.
Everywhere he went in the factory and the garage, Max felt the energy of the top team. Mechanics waved, engineers called his name, the pit crew cheered him.
Helmut leaned in, whispering with pride. “Keep your head, Max. But don’t hold back. Red Bull believes in you.”
Max’s smile was small, nervous, but genuine. He had imagined this day countless times — stepping up to a top team, finally showing the world what he could do — but now it was real.
The first days were intense.
Briefings, simulations, track walks, strategy talks — everything was on a bigger scale, faster pace.
But Max had allies. Daniel cheering, laughing, giving the rookie insider tips. GP Max helping him understand the car, the data, and the aggressive yet controlled driving style required. Alonso’s lessons and Nico’s guidance still lingering in the back of his mind, giving him a quiet confidence he didn’t let others see.
The other drivers? They noticed. Some respected him more. Some whispered behind his back about his youth and recklessness. But in Red Bull, Max felt a strange… belonging.
He was still the youngest, still the risk-taker, still the one who raised eyebrows on the grid.
For the first time in F1, Max Verstappen wasn’t just a prodigy, or the reckless teenager everyone whispered about, or the outsider in the pack room.
He was part of a top team.
He was trusted.
He was supported.
And for Max, that meant one thing: it was finally his turn to show the world what he was really capable of.
+++++
The 2016 season climaxed in a showdown between Nico Rosberg and Lewis Hamilton that tore through every expectation, every strategy, every friendship. Cutthroat moves on track, fiery words off it — the two Alphas clashed like titans. By the final race, Nico had emerged victorious, claiming the championship in a way that shocked the paddock and delighted his team.
But the victory came at a cost.
The one-time close friendship between Nico and Lewis lay in ruins. The smiles, the joking banter, the shared victories — all gone. Only cold respect remained, and maybe a hint of bitterness in every handshake.
The next day, Nico made the decision official. Retirement. The announcement reverberated across F1 like a bombshell.
And as usual, Max was with him.
The room was quiet, warm with the soft hum of city life below, and the glow of a small lamp on the table. Dessert had arrived — Nico, in his meticulous way, had ordered Max’s favorite treats without being asked. Chocolate tart, caramel cream, the works.
Max picked at the tart, his nerves twisting in his stomach more than hunger did.
“…Nico… why are you retiring?” he asked, voice small, almost hesitant. “Please… stay. I want to fight you for the championship too. Don’t leave the grid yet.”
Nico chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating softly in the room.
He leaned over and ruffled Max’s hair, a gesture that had always made Max tense.
“Stop doing that,” Max pouted, scowling. “I’m not a kid.”
Nico smiled wryly. “Sure you aren’t,” he teased.Then his expression softened, the humor fading. He looked Max squarely in the eyes. “Lewis… can be cruel. But he is not bad, Max.”
Max blinked, confused. “Why… why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m leaving the grid,” Nico said quietly. “I know Alonso, Daniel, and Hülkenberg will be there to protect you. But still…”
Max’s stomach tightened. He felt a nervous weight settling over him. Nico’s gaze was calm, but piercing — like he could see straight through the carefully constructed armor Max had built over the years.
“And… you’re using those suppressants,” Nico continued, voice low. “It will harm your body, Max. I know the sport isn’t welcoming to you, not really… but please. Take care of yourself.”
Max felt the words sink in, layered with concern Nico didn’t voice outright. He understood — Nico knew. Knew what Max was hiding, even if he didn’t say it. He was giving Max the chance to speak, to reveal the truth on his own terms.
Max’s throat felt dry. Heart pounding. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to the dessert he hadn’t touched.
The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“…I… I am an omega,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I… presented… a few months after I signed with Red Bull.”
Nico’s lips curved into a faint, approving smile. Not mocking. Not shocked. Just… understanding.
“Take care of yourself,” Nico murmured, ruffling Max’s hair again, softer this time, almost tenderly.
Max hesitated, then finally asked, his voice small, nervous:
“Are… are you going to tell the others… that I’m an omega?”
Nico shook his head firmly. “I would never,” he said, eyes steady, unwavering. “I know you love racing. And if they knew you were an omega… they wouldn’t let you. They’d try to protect you, control you. You wouldn’t be free out there on the track.”
Max’s stomach knotted. His fingers twisted around the edge of the table. “I… I don’t want them to know,” he admitted quietly.
Nico gave him a faint, understanding smile. “Then it stays our secret. I’ll keep it. Always.”
Max’s eyes widened slightly. Relief, anxiety, and a strange flutter of trust mingled in his chest.
Nico leaned closer, voice soft but firm. “In return… I want you to keep me updated. Every now and then. Text me. Tell me how you’re doing. How you’re feeling. Even the little things. I need to know you’re okay.
Max swallowed hard, heart hammering in his chest. “I… I will,” he whispered.
Nico placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “And remember,” he added, voice low but carrying the weight of authority, care, and experience, “you can always text me whenever you need. Don’t hide things, Max. Not from me.”
Max nodded, cheeks still burning, but a small warmth spread through him — the kind that had nothing to do with chocolate or victory, and everything to do with being seen, understood, and trusted.
For the first time, Max felt like someone in the world truly had his back — someone who knew him, really knew him, and would protect him without question.
And for Max, that promise… meant everything.
+++++
The 2017 season brought a fresh face to the F1 grid: Charles Leclerc, driving for Sauber Ferrari.
For most of the paddock, he was just another promising young Alpha — confident, fast, and ambitious. But for Max, it was different.
He knew this one.
They had crossed paths long before Formula 1, back in karting days. The rivalry had been fierce, unrelenting, and unforgettable. Every corner, every overtake, every tiny mistake had been catalogued, remembered, and turned into inside jokes and long-standing grudges.
And yes — that infamous meme:
"Nothing. Just an incident on the race."
It had gone viral among karting circles and, later, F1 fans. Max and Charles had never really gotten along, but neither had ever let the rivalry turn malicious. It was competitive, sharp, teasing — the kind of rivalry only the best young drivers could sustain.
When Charles walked into the paddock as Sauber’s new driver, Max’s eyes immediately picked him out.
“Well, if it isn’t little Charles,” Max muttered under his breath with a smirk.
Charles spotted him too, walking over with that familiar, confident gait, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Max Verstappen,” he said smoothly, leaning slightly on the pit wall. “Back in the big league, huh?”
Max shrugged, casual, but the competitive spark in his eyes flared.
“You finally caught up to me,” Max teased, recalling their karting days when Charles had always been a step behind, and their countless arguments over “nothing” incidents on track.
Charles chuckled. “Step by step. But I always catch up eventually.”
Their banter was sharp, light, and perfectly balanced between rivalry and mutual respect.
Despite the teasing and competitive jabs, there was an unspoken history there. Max and Charles had grown up racing together, pushing each other, learning from each other, and occasionally driving each other mad.
It wasn’t friendship — not yet. Not fully.
But it was a connection, a shared understanding only two lifelong rivals could have.
Max felt it immediately when Charles smiled after one of his jabs, the familiar Alpha scent subtly dominant, confident, teasing. And Max responded in kind, the tension between them sparking something both exhilarating and dangerous.
For now, they were rivals from childhood, now colliding in Formula 1, aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses, circling like two Alphas testing the waters — each wondering if the other had changed, and how far they would push each other on the grid.
They spoke in paddock corners, during briefings, and on track. Nothing formal, nothing official — just competitive banter, mutual jabs, and occasional grudging compliments.
“That’s an aggressive move, Verstappen,” Charles said once after a daring overtake in pre-season testing.
“I learned from the best, Leclerc,” Max shot back, smirking.
And so it began — the new chapter. Max had allies in Red Bull, a hidden secret no one knew, and now a rival Alpha from childhood entering the grid to challenge him in ways he didn’t fully expect.
The game was on.
+++++
The 2018 Azerbaijan Grand Prix had been nothing short of chaotic from the moment the lights went out. The streets of Baku were unforgiving: tight corners, narrow lanes, and unforgiving barriers. Every lap demanded razor-sharp focus, but for Max, the pressure had compounded.
Then came the crash.
It was spectacular, violent, and unavoidable in the heat of the moment. Tires squealed, brakes screamed, metal scraped metal, sparks flew, and the echo of impact reverberated down the pit lane. The cameras didn’t blink; the world watched in horrified fascination. Max’s Red Bull and Daniel’s car collided in a dance of fury and miscalculation — two teammates, two drivers who knew each other better than most, caught in a split-second disaster.
In the cockpit, adrenaline surged, heart hammering, hands trembling. Max slammed the wheel, narrowly avoiding further disaster. Daniel shouted over the radio, sharp, frustrated, his voice slicing through Max’s earphones:
“What the hell are you doing out there?!”
Max could barely respond. His jaw tightened. Words failed him in the moment, buried under the roaring engines, the warning alarms, and the searing heat of his own panic.
When the race ended, the pit lane erupted into controlled chaos. Crew members rushed toward the cars, signaling, shouting, waving flags. Engineers and mechanics shouted telemetry numbers, tire pressures, and urgent instructions. Yet all Max could focus on was the look on Daniel’s face.
His teammate — normally an unshakable ball of energy and laughter — was furious. Eyes blazing, arms flailing, his voice sharp and cutting:
“Max! Are you insane? Do you even think before you drive?”
Max froze. The words were so different from the usual playful ribbing or gentle encouragement Daniel was known for. Usually, Daniel would grin, make a joke about Max’s aggressiveness, and cheer him on after a tricky move. Not now. This was anger, raw and directed entirely at him.
Max didn’t know what to do. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words stumbled over themselves and dissolved into silence. The pit crew and engineers glanced nervously between the two Red Bulls, sensing the tension but wisely keeping their distance.
Max’s chest tightened, his heart thudding painfully. Daniel Ricciardo — the teammate who had been his constant cheerleader, his partner in banter, his anchor in the chaos of F1 — was angry at him. Truly angry. And Max had no clue how to fix it.
Walking back to the garage entrance, Max’s mind spun. He had never seen Daniel like this — and part of him was terrified that this could break something fundamental in their relationship. Their friendship, their trust, the safe bubble he always relied on… what if it was gone?
Adrenaline still raced through his veins, but now it was accompanied by fear. Fear of Daniel’s disappointment, fear of letting down someone who had always been there for him, fear of his own inability to navigate the mess he’d created.
He knew one thing: he couldn’t just shrug it off. This wasn’t a regular race incident he could laugh away, or a press conference he could spin into a joke. This was personal — and Max felt the weight of it crushing him from the inside out.
As he glanced at Daniel’s retreating back, the playful, teasing side of him wanted to hide, to retreat to his nest, to escape into something familiar and safe. But he also knew: he had to face him.
And so, when night fell and the paddock lights dimmed, Max found himself at Daniel’s hotel door, trembling, unsure, but ready — or at least trying to be — to confront the fallout.
The hallway outside Daniel’s hotel room felt impossibly long to Max. Each step echoed in his chest, every breath trembling with nerves. He had never seen Daniel truly angry like this, not even after collisions in the past. Normally, Daniel would laugh it off, tease him about a bold move, or cheer him up with a snack or a ridiculous story.
Not today.
Max hesitated at the door, fingers hovering over the handle. He took a deep breath and knocked softly. The sound felt loud in the quiet corridor.
The door opened almost immediately. Daniel stood there, arms crossed, expression tight. His usual bright, mischievous eyes were clouded with frustration.
“Max… you really messed up today,” he said, voice low but sharp.
Max’s stomach twisted. “…I know,” he whispered. His own voice sounded small, unfamiliar even to him.
Daniel stepped aside, letting him in. He didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He just waited, watching Max’s every move, the tension radiating off him like heat.
As Max stepped inside, Daniel’s gaze softened — but then he noticed it. Something subtle, different from the usual Alpha energy of the paddock. A soft, lingering scent, delicate and distinct.
His brow furrowed. He had never smelled this from Max before. Not in all the races, all the chaos, all the adrenaline.
“…Max?” Daniel asked gently. "Are you...."
Max stiffened instantly. His chest tightened, and a cold wave of panic hit him. He had forgotten his scent patches.
Realization dawned too late: Daniel had noticed.
Without thinking, Max bolted — heart pounding, tears threatening. The door slammed behind him as he ran, feet echoing down the corridor.
Daniel didn’t hesitate. He followed, careful not to scare him further, but determined not to lose him in panic. “Max! Wait! Please, just stop!” he called.
Max ignored him, running until he reached the sanctuary of his hotel room. He slammed the door and pressed his back against it, shaking, trying to control the storm of fear and embarrassment inside him.
Daniel paused outside for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then, softly, he knocked. “Max… can I come in?. I promise you I wont do anything. please let me in Maxie”
A shaky voice finally answered from within: “…Okay. You can come in”
Daniel entered slowly, eyes immediately finding Max, who was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, trembling. Tears streaked his cheeks. His usual fire, his usual confidence — all gone.
Daniel crouched in front of him, voice calm, steady, warm “Max… it’s okay. I overreacted in the garage. I shouldn’t have said the things I did. I’m sorry.”
Max hiccupped, trying to find words, but all that came out were fragments: “…I… I’m sorry too… I didn’t mean…”
Daniel shook his head gently. “No, it’s not just that. You scared me today. You’re… you’re different out there, aggressive, and I wasn’t ready for it. But I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” He paused, leaning slightly closer, eyes softening. “…And I won’t tell anyone. Your… your second gender — it stays between us. I promise.”
Max’s chest tightened, relief mixing with vulnerability. He nodded, trembling. “…Thank you…”
After a long moment, Max hesitated, then whispered: “…Can… can you stay? In my nest?”
Daniel’s eyes lit up, heart swelling. “Of course, mate. Only if you want me to.”
Max nodded faintly, letting Daniel help him inside. The nest — his sanctuary of pillows, blankets, and little comforts — smelled faintly of him, safe and warm. Daniel’s gaze swept over it, impressed.
“Mate… this is beautiful. You did all this?”
Max gave a small, shaky smile. “…Yeah…”
Daniel helped him settle among the cushions, wrapping an arm around him gently. Words weren’t needed — just the closeness, the warmth, the reassurance.
Hours passed in quiet conversation, soft laughter, and whispered apologies. Eventually, exhaustion took over. Max drifted into sleep against Daniel, the tension of the day melting away in the safety of his nest.
Daniel stayed awake a little longer, watching him. Heart swelling, he whispered to himself:
“No matter what happens… I will always protect you, Max. Always.”
And for the first time that day, Max felt truly safe.
+++++
The 2019 Austrian Grand Prix had already made waves before the drivers even stepped onto the podium. Fernando Alonso had stepped away from F1 for the season, leaving a notable gap in the grid. Charles Leclerc, now a Ferrari driver, was expected to take his first win — a moment he had been building toward with relentless focus.
But fate, and Max Verstappen, had other plans.
In a thrilling, chaotic race, Max seized the win, crossing the line first and claiming victory that many had expected for Charles. Both drivers maintained their composure in front of the media — polite smiles, careful words, measured congratulations. But behind the cameras, the tension was palpable.
Before Max could return to Red Bull, Charles intercepted him, dragging him into the pack room.
“This isn’t over, Max!” Charles snapped, eyes flashing. “You stole my win!”
Max’s pride flared instantly. “I did what I had to do, Charles! Maybe you should drive better!”
Voices raised, anger spilling over in the confined space. The other members of the pack were present, feeling the discomfort of the escalating clash. Drivers shifted uneasily, glancing at each other, uncertain how to intervene.
The room was tense:
Lewis Hamilton entered, having seen the commotion through the media coverage. Without thinking, he raised his voice. “Enough! Both of you, shut up!”
For a brief moment, it worked. Both Max and Charles paused, scowling at each other. But the reprieve was temporary. Minutes later, they were at it again, voices sharp, gestures animated, drawing the attention — and the discomfort — of everyone around.
Lewis’ patience, already worn thin from the media frenzy and the chaos, snapped. Acting on impulse, he barked at Max. “Max… get out of the pack room!”
The room erupted.
Daniel had protested immediately. “No, Lewis! Tell Charles to leave instead!”
Other drivers argued, the tension multiplying. Asked Pierre. “Why the hell should Charles leave? Max has been here longer!”
But Lewis didn’t care. In his mind, he was doing what made sense — Max wasn’t an omega, after all. He was a veteran of the grid, long established, and a temporary exit wouldn’t change that. Besides, he thought, letting Max leave would calm the situation without any other problem.
Max, burning with pride, didn’t argue. He didn’t sulk. He didn’t look back.
He simply left the pack room, his chest tight, his jaw set, eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and wounded pride. He threw one last glare at Charles and Lewis, sharp enough to leave a mark.
The pack expected him to return after a cooling-off period, as Alphas often did.
But Max had made a decision.
He wouldn’t return.
Not that day. Not ever again — at least, not to the pack room.
By the time Max staggered back into the safety of his Red Bull driver’s room, the first waves of panic hit him. He was in stressed heat, his body betraying him at the worst possible moment. His breathing quickened, pulses of warmth flooding him, and the familiar anxiety clawed at his chest.
But to his surprise, he wasn’t alone.
GP, his team engineers, had come in to check on him. The moment he stepped inside, he caught it — the subtle, unmistakable omega scent emanating from Max.
Max froze. Panic surged. His mind was already talking. “They won’t let me drive… they’ll bench me… they’ll make me leave the team…”
But GP simply looked at him and nodded. Calmly. Understanding.
And then Max realized — Red Bull wasn’t going to punish him. They were going to protect him.
GP had already contacted their team principal about max.
Christian Horner was on move the moment he got the call. Orders were given. The garage was shut down. No one in or out without explicit permission. Team members stood guard, a silent wall around the gagrage. NDA agreements were signed by every person in the team. Max’s secret — his omega status — was completely safe.
GP brought a set of scented clothes from the team, garments that would help Max get through the heat without being overwhelmed. Soft fabrics, lightly infused with team scents — comforting, grounding, and familiar.
Max’s chest tightened as he realized the lengths they had gone to — the care, the planning, the protection. It was overwhelming, humbling, and for the first time in a long while, he felt safe.
After that day every thing at Red bull changed.
The small, cramped driver’s room Max had grown accustomed to was transformed. Spacious enough for him to build his nest without feeling trapped. Soft blankets, plush pillows, and warm, comforting layers everywhere. Everything an omega could need to feel secure and at home.
Trainers and team members were always by his side, ensuring he was safe, comfortable, and never alone during race days. No one — not a single outsider — was allowed in the garage except for Daniel Ricciardo and Nico Rosberg, the two people Max trusted completely.
Red Bull had made one thing perfectly clear: their star driver’s safety and comfort came first, always.
From that day on, everything about Max had also changed. He was now Ruthless. Max became sharper, more calculating on track. Cutthroat. He took no shit from others, drove with precision, aggression, and an unrelenting hunger for victory. Untouchable. Behind the scenes, a team always had his back, guarding him from threats, protecting his secret, and ensuring he could operate at full strength without compromise.
The world outside saw a villain — the F1 driver who wouldn’t back down, who challenged everyone, who made enemies across the grid.
But inside Red bull garage, Max was protected, cared for, and safe in the nest of his own making, under the watchful eyes of those who would go to any length to keep him secure.
And from that day forward, the legend the villainous, unstoppable, untouchable Max Verstappen was born.
+++++
Ever since that day onward, Max never set foot in the pack room again.
Lando had tried, countless times, to coax him back — casual jokes, invitations, even the promise of late-night snacks — but Max never budged. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, gave a single message: I won’t come back.
Daniel, ever patient, had made a single attempt to lure him. It had ended in defeat. Max had shot him a look — a mixture of challenge and warning — and Daniel had quietly given up. Instead, he had taken Max elsewhere: to get whatever sweet dessert he wanted, as a peace offering. Which max took it with out any problem.
Max had kept his promise to Nico Rosberg, keeping him updated after every race. Texts about the race, overtakes, car handling, and even small personal things — everything — ensured Nico that he was fine. Whenever Nico had to come to interviews or the paddock, he would make it a point to visit Max, spending hours talking, laughing, and quietly checking in on him.
Life in the paddock remained awkward. The other drivers talked to him, exchanged pleasantries, and maintained professional interactions, but there was always distance. Some of them whispered about him; others respected the invisible line Max had drawn.
Even at hospitality events or press conferences, there was a subtle tension — a mixture of awe, curiosity, and mild unease. Max, for his part, never flinched. His nest, his team, and his small circle of trusted allies were enough. He didn’t need the approval of the rest of the pack.
And then there was Charles Leclerc.
Outwardly, Charles kept his distance. He avoided looking at Max, kept interactions minimal, and publicly ignored him whenever possible. But internally? the quiet defiance, the laughter with Daniel, Nico, and even Lando — it gnawed at him.
He hated Max.
Or at least, that’s what he told himself.
He hated the way Max’s laugh carried across the paddock, bright and teasing, echoing after something Daniel had said. He hated the subtle smile Max gave Nico when they talked, the private jokes and quiet understanding between them. He hated the carefree moments with Lando, when Max would laugh at Lando’s dumb antics or playful chaos.
Every glance at Max was a reminder: he couldn’t ignore him, couldn’t shake the pull of his attention. Charles found himself watching Max from a distance, irritated, infuriated, but unable to focus elsewhere. His hatred was growing — but with it, an uncomfortable, undeniable fixation.
Max, oblivious to the storm Charles felt, continued on as usual: protected, confident, ruthless on track, and entirely unbothered by the drama he inspired.
+++++
Charles had always prided himself on control. On precision. On focus. Every lap, every pit stop, every media interaction — meticulously calculated. And yet, Max Verstappen was slowly unraveling him.
He didn’t understand why.
Max was ruthless, cold, untouchable in the paddock. He laughed freely with Daniel, joked with Lando, and shared quiet moments with Nico — yet with Charles? Max never looked back. Never smiled at him. Never acknowledged him in a way that Charles could grasp.
And it drove him insane.
Every comment Max made — even those not directed at him — cut deeper than it should have. A passing joke about strategy, a casual remark about tire management, a fleeting grin while talking to someone else — all of it ignited something inside Charles. Something he didn’t understand.
“Why does he affect me like this?” Charles muttered under his breath one evening, alone in the Ferrari motorhome. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, irritated. He hated the feeling. Hated the way his chest tightened. Hated the way his thoughts spiraled back to Max every time he tried to focus on telemetry or race strategy.
It wasn’t logical. Max was seemingly untouchable in his detachment. He didn’t seek Charles’ attention, didn’t need validation. That cold confidence, that unyielding pride, drew Charles in like a magnet.
He hated it.
And yet, he found himself watching Max from a distance at the paddock, tracking him through interviews, laughing at the way Daniel cheered him on, noticing how Nico quietly checked in on him.
Every detail — every soft movement, every subtle smirk, every little sign of comfort in his nest — made Charles’ obsession worse.
He hated how powerless he felt, how Max seemed to exist entirely outside his influence. Charles, the Alpha of his, found himself unable to control this fixation. He didn’t even know what it was, but he couldn’t let it go.
Meanwhile, Max remained entirely unaware — or rather, unconcerned. His focus was on racing, on his team, on his sanctuary. He didn’t seek confrontation, didn’t crave attention, and certainly didn’t notice Charles’ internal struggle.
The contrast was maddening for Charles. the more Max ignored him, the more he fixated. The more Max laughed with Daniel or Nico, the more Charles’ chest tightened with a mix of frustration, jealousy, and confusion.
He hated it. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Max.
+++++
The 2021 season had been brutal.
Not just Lewis Hamilton vs Max Verstappen, but Red Bull vs Mercedes — a war waged not only on the track, but in every garage, every strategy meeting, every press conference. The tension was palpable. Tires were scrutinized, fuel loads debated, DRS zones calculated to the millisecond. Pit walls buzzed with constant communication, every team member ready to execute perfection or fail spectacularly.
Every race felt like a battle for supremacy, every lap a chess move with lives and reputations at stake. And now, Abu Dhabi — the final race, the decider.
The checkered flag fell, and with it, Max crossed the line ahead of Lewis, claiming the championship for the very first time. A roar erupted in the Red Bull garage, and Max no longer the boy who had been pushed aside, mocked, or underestimated — stood victorious.
He was no longer the Max they thought they knew. Cold. Ruthless. Calculating. Untouchable. Now he was Max Verstappen, Formula One World Champion.
The team went wild. Hands slapped shoulders, helmets were thrown, and shouts echoed through the paddock. The entire Red Bull crew surrounded him, lifting him into the air, celebrating their star driver’s hard-fought victory.
And then there was Charles.
He had watched from a distance, the fire in his chest roaring hotter than ever. Every cheer, every embrace, every touch of a congratulatory hand felt like a knife. Max didn’t even notice him — or maybe he did, and chose to ignore. Either way, it drove Charles insane.
He saw Max laughing with his team, joking with Nico, high-fiving the team. He watched him jump into the arms of his mechanics and trainers, all the while radiating confidence, dominance, and untouchable charm.
Charles clenched his fists. His chest tightened.
“I want him all to myself,” he admitted under his breath, voice low and trembling. “I hate that they’re touching him… that he’s laughing… that he’s theirs.”
And he knew it. He was crazy. Utterly obsessed.
He hated it. But he couldn’t stop it.
Every movement Max made, every carefree laugh, every victorious cheer, pulled at him in a way he couldn’t understand. Logic, reason, strategy — all meaningless. Charles’ mind was consumed with one thing: Max.
He hated that he wanted him. He hated that he craved him. He hated that Max was untouchable, guarded by Red Bull, yet still capable of commanding Charles’ every thought.
And yet, amid all the chaos and triumph, amid the celebrations and flashing cameras, Charles’ obsession had a single, simple truth He would never let Max go.
No matter the rivalry, no matter the team loyalties, no matter what gender they were, no matter the world watching — Charles Leclerc knew that Max Verstappen was his. And he would find a way to make Max see it, whether Max realized it now… or later.