Chapter Text
Max didn't know when he stopped feeling so hungry. He used to feel it. Whenever he stepped onto a ring, he felt it. Creeping on his skin, feeling the need to win and be the last man standing.
But then things just got boring for him. Too easy. And the harsh spotlight searing into his skull, only making things worse in his head.
Then he caught a whiff of him among the crowd who were roaring and chanting his name. A glimpse of him with an arm wrapped around his waist, a nose brushing his neck, and the fake, practiced laugh curling on his lips at the other man.
And that was enough to list something inside him.
Blood surged back to Max’s head, a primal growl rumbling through his mouthguard. His fists clenched tight in the gloves.
And it didn’t take long for Max to turn the snarls and growls into a triumphant roar from the audience. His final punch landed clean on his opponent’s jaw, dropping him to his knees as the bell clanged and the whistle cut sharply through the noise.
The ref drew Max’s wrist, hoisted it high, declaring him as the last man standing.
_________
‘Congrats, man.’ ‘Another night, huh?’ ‘Nice one, dude.’ ‘Congrats—’ The words washed over him, fleeting, as he slumped on a bench in his private room. Didn’t bother to offer more than just a nod or an empty smile in response.
“Another easy night for the Lion, it seems?” A voice commented. It jolted him a little, not much of a surprise, but he knew this one voice was different from just a passing comments.
The omega entered the room and sat himself down on a chair in front of him with Carlos looming just outside the door.
“Yawned at the end. Time to fight someone who can actually hit back, no? And with more at stake and to gain?” the omega continued.
“What do you want, Charles?” Max asked calmly, but his words still carried a bite.
Charles let out a low chuckle. “You know what I want, Max. Isn’t it kinda boring down here already? What’s left for you here?”
“I’m not changing my mind anytime soon, Charles. I’m not interested in that offer contract,” Max said without missing a beat. He unraveled the tape from his hands, eyes never lifting.
“Satisfied with this?” Charles leaned forward, filling the air with his sweet scent. Betting whether it could lower Max’s guard “Just brawling for blood, not sport, because you’re an alpha?” He reached for the tape, offering help. Max yanked his hand back, dodging him. He could sense Carlos outside tensed. “There’s a bigger world out there, Max. A real name to make. You deserve it.”
“All I need is wins and money,” he said with confidence, though it wasn't even quite convincing for himself. ”I don’t need a couple buzzes around the media and the internet.”
Charles sighed, slumping back in his chair as if conceding defeat. “What’s holding you back here, Max? You could have much more outside and a granted safety net. Things could go shit down here in one night and you'd lose everything!”
Before Max could answer, hushed whispers and frantic footsteps echoed from outside the dressing room.
Not even a second, a man in all black entered his room and said, “Max, Toto wants to see you tonight in his place.”
_________
“A bit of a dull show, wasn’t it?” Toto said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Sitting on his makeshift throne behind his desk, eyeing Max in a chair in front of him.
“I’m only here to win, not to put on a show,” Max replied. Repeating it couldn’t even convince him of his answer.
Toto chuckled darkly. “But I pay for the show.”
“Winning brings real money,” Max stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Toto's eyes gleamed, lips curled into an infuriating smirk. “You’re not wrong.”
He flipped through papers on his desk, and only the rustling of the paper was heard. Then it hit Max, the familiar scent of wet meadow and something sweet underneath.
George stepped into the room, long legs moving with grace, his black silk bathrobe clinging to his frame. A tray balanced in his hands, carrying two steaming cups of tea. He glided to Toto’s desk, setting a cup down with practiced ease, not earning a glance from Toto.
Then he approached Max, his scent growing stronger. Max damned himself when he could sniff another scent that wasn’t his layered under.
The mark on George’s neck peeked behind the robe. Sent something twisted in his gut. It always did.
“An easy win to start the season, Max?” George’s blue eyes peered through his long lashes as he stood before him. “Or should I say… Lion?” He added with a playful tone in his voice. Almost seducing in Max’s ears.
Max swallowed the lump forming in his throat, wishing it could take along the scrunch in his stomach away. “Yeah,” he managed, voice rough.
George’s smile was as pristine as the silky robe. He offered tea. Max’s hand, clammy and all scratched, took the cup. Their fingers brushed for a fleeting second.
He’d just fought five men in the ring hours ago, but nothing burned quite like this.
George walked back to Toto’s side to sit on the armrest of his chair after offering him a smile. Max chugged the cup to ease the tension.
“So.” Toto, who was done flipping through the pages, broke the silence. “How much do I owe you?” He asked, tone businesslike.
Max’s eyes flicked to George, who was already watching him. That soft, enchanting smile playing on his lips, his skin glowing like honey in the dim light. Sharp features perfectly sculptured yet softened by a delicate warmth.
Max gripped the mug tighter, the fresh blisters on his knuckles stinging against the porcelain.
He tore his gaze away, clearing his throat. “Just what we had agreed on.”
_________
In the dim glow of the wine cellar, bottles clinked softly as Max shoved George into a rack. George glanced around, eyes darting to ensure no glass shattered, but his focus faltered as Max’s lips found his neck. Rough around the edges, nothing but soft when it hit his skin.
Max’s hand slid under George’s thigh, pulling him closer, their bodies flush. George’s long leg almost wrapped around his waist.
“Easy there, tiger,” George murmured, his voice a breathless mix of whimpers and moans as Max sucked gently, leaving faint marks on his skin. “Not too hard—ahh—just ones I can cover with makeup, Max!” Yet, despite his words, he tilted his head back, baring his neck further, inviting more of Max’s touch.
“It’s been so fucking long,” Max growled on George’s skin. The burn earlier ignited into something more ablaze, but Max indulged in it. He let himself burn with it. “Missed this,” his voice croaked as he inhaled the omega’s scent deeply. Filling his lungs with him.
Intoxicating but fuck, it was all Max needed.
“It's only been two months.” George whispered, his hands casting through Max’s hair, tugging gently to guide his lips across his skin. Max’s name lingered on his breath every time a soft moan escaped his pink lips. “Max—ahh.”
Max’s mind was too foggy with lust and need that he forgot about the permanent mark already perched on George’s neck. Something more primal and wild lurched as he grazed his teeth on it.
George hissed softly, a weak sound, shaking his head as Max lingered possessively on the spot with deliberate focus.
“Why don’t you cover up this one?” Max murmured, his voice low, almost a growl rumbling from deep within.
Instead of answering, George mewled, “Hurry up, want you.” His lips searching for Max’s under the dimness.
Max chuckled, a low, rough sound, before capturing George’s lips in a kiss. It was wet and rushed, exchanging all the pent-up heat and unspoken want they couldn’t share with anyone.
Their breaths mingled as they poured their hunger into the moment they could steal briefly just for themselves.
George’s scent clogged his nose, all sweet and spicy that was almost burning by the time. He drank in the soft, sinful sounds spilling from George’s lips, swallowing them through the kiss.
As George shifted, struggling to steady himself against the rack, Max’s free hand roamed lower. With a slow tug, he slid George’s underwear down, drawing a shudder from George that echoed in the quiet clink of bottles.
“You’re so wet already,” Max said against his lips, a little teasing as he traced the slick already smeared on his skin. His robe was drenched with a mix of sweat and slick. “Did your slick start oozing out when you were watching me in the ring earlier?”
“Max,” George gasped, his voice breaking on the edge of a plea. His body arching into the touch. His hands tightened in Max’s hair, pulling him closer, as if afraid the moment might slip away.
Deliberately ignoring the omega’s aching cock, Max’s calloused fingers glided over the silken heat beneath him, teasing that made George’s hips twitch in anticipation. Max paused, letting the pad of one rough fingertip circle the tight ring of muscle before pressing in. Slowly and carefully.
The contrast sometimes felt like mocking Max, because those same knuckles he used to split lips and shattered noses in the ring were also the ones he used to coax him open with a tenderness he didn't even know he possessed.
But he let it. Because it made him feel more alive than winning any tournament every other week.
It didn’t take long before George writhed under his fingers. With three fingers slipping in and out of him as he tried to stand on his wobbly legs, “Need you now,” he whimpered through what sounded like a sob.
Max could barely control himself at the sound of George’s need. With a low growl, he pulled back, hands gripping George’s hips. He lifted George effortlessly, their lips crashing together again as he carried him a few steps to a sturdy wooden table tucked against the cellar wall.
Bottles rattled faintly as Max set George down, the omega’s legs parting instinctively. The robe falling open like shed armor, baring flushed skin and the slick shine between trembling thighs.
“Fuck, very beautiful,” Max muttered, more to himself, drawing a whimper from George.
“Just, hurry,” George begged.
Their movements were frantic, driven by their suppressed hunger. Max shed barriers with hurried hands, pressing himself closer. George’s fingers clawed at Max’s shoulders, urging him on with breathless gasps.
The table creaked as Max thrust into him, their bodies joining in a swift, intimate rhythm. George’s moans mixed with Max’s low groans, the air thick with their shared heat and the sharp scent of need.
Each movement felt like a desperate claim as if they could make this fleeting moment last. Too uncertain when fate would allow them to be together again.
As they were reaching their climax, Max nibbled at the skin on George’s neck. Always the perfect spot for him to paint him with red and purple. Just as a trace and a proof that he had him for a brief moment.
“Max, —ahhgn.” George cried to him, voice breaking as he sensed Max’s intent. His mating mark, stark above his scent gland, pulsed under Max’s hovering teeth. “N-No,” he whimpered, a weak protest, even as his hips arched, chasing the rhythm of Max’s thrusts.
Max growled softly, teeth grazing the mark and holding himself back by gripping onto George’s legs from actually breaking him through the skin. Their bodies surged together, the table groaning beneath them.
George’s moans sharpened, a desperate edge as he clung to Max, nails digging into his back. Max’s breath grew ragged, his thrusts quickening, driven by the wildfire of their need.
In a shared, shuddering instant, they tipped over the edge—George’s cry muffled against Max’s shoulder. Max’s low groan buried between George's neck as he spilled deep inside George.
The world narrowed to the heat of their release and the clink of bottles fading as their bodies trembled in the dim cellar. Clinging to the fleeting claim of their union.
Once Max caught his breath, he pulled out from George, earning a few soft whimpers from the omega before he left a few gentle strokes to his waist. Max then buried himself again in the crook of George’s neck.
“Is your scent sweeter than usual?” He asked, breathing in his scent.
“Maybe,” George answered between his breaths. His hand started patting Max’s sweaty hair.
Max’s shoulders shook as George chuckled.
“What?” Max asked, lifting his head to look at George.
George shook his head, “Just wondering what would anyone say if they see the unbeatable Lion like this.”
Max shrugged before plopping his head into the crook of George’s neck again, “Who cares.”
George’s laugh was soft, almost swallowed by the cellar’s hush. “Do you know there’s a bruise on your temple here?” His fingertips drifted to Max’s temple, feather-light. “You should clean this. Alcohol, maybe.”
“It’s fine, just a bruise,” Max muttered, but his hand slid to George’s hip—and George hissed, sharp enough to freeze him. “Shit. Was I too rough?”
“No,” George cut in, wincing. “It wasn’t you.”
Max got up to look at him under the dimmed light. “Let me see,” he said, deadpan.
“It wasn’t you, it’s been there for a while,” he said, hurriedly covering himself up more with his robe.
“George,” Max called to him, tone low, his jaw clenched, “Was it him again?”
“It’s just a bruise,” the words slipped from George almost intentionally.
At times like this, it was what made Max realize that the two were nothing but two bodies fulfilling their needs. Seeking warmth through each other in the shadows that no one could see.
“Fuck,” Max snapped lowly to himself once the realization hit him, rubbed his face harshly. Then stood up to collect his scratched clothes before putting them on.
Through the silence, he heard George ask. “I heard Charles reached out to you again.” There was something guarded around him in his voice now. “Are you considering his offer?”
“No.”
“Why? It has much more for you to have.”
“I’m here just to win. I don’t care about anything else,” he said as he zipped up his pants, still with his back facing George. He heard George say something behind him, but it was left muffled. He didn’t bother to ask him to repeat. “You should go back to your bed, George. Before he realized you’re missing,” he paused, “This can’t be comfortable for your bruises.” Using his chin to point towards the table.
“Will I see you again next week?” Instead, George asked, he stirred to the side, away from Max.
“Only if I win.”
“Win then, it’s all you care about anyway.”
_________
The lines had long blurred. Winning wasn’t victory anymore. It merely felt like the promise Max forced himself to keep. It was no longer the thrill he sought nor what drove him to throw the last punch.
It felt like he was hungry for an entirely different thing.
Then, the next tournament came.
Another sweat and blood dripping onto the ring. Another faceless roar in the crowd. Another punch he could throw before the bell clanged, and it was his fist again being hoisted up in the air.
But that night, Max didn’t see him anywhere.
_________
“So I heard your boss went MIA for a week.” Silvya’s voice cut through the empty gym from behind him before he even saw the beta.
Max didn’t have to turn to know it was her. His fists kept driving into the heavy bag hanging in front of him. “Not my boss.”
She stepped into view anyway, boots scuffing the worn mats. Dropped onto the bench press like she owned the place. Crossed her arms.
“In a sense,” she said.
“He doesn't own me.” The words came out through clenched teeth.
Max snapped one last blow a little too hard. The bag swung wildly, chain rattling like loose bones through the quiet hall.
Silvya tilted her head. “Alright, tiger. Easy.”
Max exhaled hard through his nose. He dropped onto the bench across from her, shoulders slumping for the first time all night. His hands went to the gloves, peeling Velcro with short, angry tugs.
“How’d you know?” he muttered.
Silvya snorted softly. “People talk about a billionaire missing, duh.” She reached over without asking, took his left hand in hers, and started unwrapping the tape with more care than Max could ever. “And the newsroom’s been in chaos. Editors scrambling, phones blowing up, why does a whole conglomerate just vanish overnight? Hot topic under business. Hotter under gossip.”
Max stared at her fingers working the tape, at the fresh splits reopening on his knuckles. He didn’t pull away.
“Don’t poke your nose into it,” he said, but the bite was gone. Just exhaustion now.
Silvya rolled her eyes. “Relax. Unless Toto suddenly decided to strut down a catwalk and become a fashion icon, he’s safe from my nosy ass.” She paused, then, softer, “How about George? Have you seen him since Toto vanished?”
Max’s shoulders tensed. The bruises on his knuckles stung. “How would I know?” His voice was a bit too defensive.
She shrugged, light. “Just wondering if they disappeared as a package. Might make the investigation easier if we know who’s still breathing between the two.”
“I don’t know,” Max answered, voice flatter this time. Ignoring the deeper implication of Silvya’s question.
Silvya just nodded without pushing any further.
Her eyes glanced up to him with a serious glint in them. “So, what’s your plan?”
“Nothing.” The answer didn’t even sound convincing.
She threw the tape across the hall, flipping his hand in front of her face to examine it. “Stop being stupid, Max.”
“What? You want me to call the police?” His laugh was short, bitter.
“That’s not what I meant.” She sighed, still holding his hand. “Your deal with Toto. What happens when he’s really gone? Who can guarantee your rights and safety from then on?”
“Nothing changed, okay?” he answered. “The deal’s still on. I still get my money. Just have to win.”
Silvya studied him for a long beat, let go of his hand, and leaned back onto the bench. A sign that she wasn’t gonna fight him.
The gym lights hummed overhead.
“Isn’t Charles still trying to get you signed under his banner?”
Max’s jaw ticked. “What about it?”
“Why won’t you even consider it?” Silvya leaned forward now, elbows on her knees, voice dropping. “C’mon, Max. Tell me. Is rotting in the shadows with no real contract, no safety net, no future, better than finally stepping out and fighting under your own name? You’re the Lion. People know what you’re capable of. Why keep pretending you’re just Toto’s pet project?”
Max flexed his fingers. Feeling something creeping under his skin that he couldn’t quite name. Was it something that kept holding him back from stepping out of this shithole?
“Out there, winning doesn't buy me what I actually want.” The words rolled out from his tongue before he could even give another thought.
Max kept his eyes away from Silvya’s scrutiny. Knowing well she could easily break Max if she pushed harder enough.
A few beats later, she sighed, more exhausted than ever. “Fine, be stubborn all you want.” She stood up and walked over to take her bag. “When’s your next match?”
“This weekend.”
She nodded. “I might drop by if you don’t mind.”
“Yeah, that's okay.”
She walked over, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of her shampoo. “Put on a good show, wouldn’t you?” she teased, lightening the air just a fraction. “I might not be your main target audience, but watching you fight is always worth the ticket, Lion.” She said casually, like it wasn’t loaded with everything unsaid.
Max huffed a small laugh—the first real one in days. “Easy.”
She reached up and ruffled his damp hair.
“Wanna grab some dinner?” She asked before walking away.
“You don’t have news to write?”
“Uh, well, the fashion world could wait a few more hours for my words of wisdom.”
Max hesitated. Looked at the dried blood on the mat. At the empty gym. At the door, she was already half-turned toward.
“Yeah,” he said before he could change his mind. “Let’s go.”
_________
He won another two tournaments after that. Yet he still didn’t see him anywhere.
Only some shit tons of dollars wired into his bank account.
And it didn't fill anything inside.
_________
“Can Max Verstappen hold onto his throne this weekend, or will the rookie finally dethrone the Lion tonight?”
The commentator’s voice boomed through the megaphone, cutting over the restless roar of the crowd.
Max found himself standing on the ring with gloves laced tight, mouthguard bitter against his tongue.
Across from him, the new face. A kid barely 23—or was it 22, he could barely give a fuck. Eyes bright, bounced on his toes, bouncing like he still believed winning meant something.
And maybe it really did for the young boxer. Maybe it should’ve for him.
After the bell rang, rounds blurred. All he did was rely on his muscle memory to keep his feet on the ground.
All types of scent mixed into one, sending his head into another wave of nausea. A punch sent copper flooding his mouth. Max tasted it and felt nothing. Just kept moving.
It wasn’t like the rookie was an extraordinary boxer. Max had fought worse. But somehow that night, winning wasn’t even in the back of his mind.
By round eight, the world narrowed. Vision tunneled. A high, constant ring drowned the crowd, drowned the commentator, drowned everything except the dull throb in his temples.
Somewhere in the stands, Silvya was probably watching. Probably frowning. Probably wondering why the fuck he was acting like a fucking sore loser.
And that made him feel bad, yet, Max had zero will to deflect a punch.
“Are we witnessing the Lion losing his fangs and claws against a rookie?” The commentator’s voice invited more rumble from the crowd.
Max lurched backward. Threw himself against the corner padding when the bell rang. A drip of blood in his eyes.
“Max, what the fuck are you doing?!”
“Max, quit your bullshit!”
“Max!”
Voices from his corner—coaches, cutmen, the sponsorship suits who only showed up when the checks cleared—shouted over the noise.
He laughed. Low, almost a growl trapped in his chest. Tasted his own blood on his tongue.
He lifted his head just enough to scan the stands. Found Silvya with her arms crossed, face tight with disappointment. Like she’d seen this coming.
Max just shrugged.
The next round started, and Max had no plan to fight back at all. The crowd booed at every move he made.
Right before the round ended, Max caught it.
He caught a whiff of his scent that he could taste on his tongue. Sweetest he’d ever tasted.
His fists tightened inside his gloves. He didn’t bother looking for him within the crowd because the scent was already flooding into his lungs.
Suffocating, and yet despite the beating he was getting since the first round, it was the one that affected him the most.
The bell was about to ring. He took a step back before lurching forward. One last blow to the rookie’s nose that sent him kissing the ground.
Max didn’t even care about the sting on his wound when a bunch of men threw themselves around to congratulate him. His eyes locked onto the crowd where George was sitting, watching him before he lunched up from his seat and left the hall without a second glance.
And the hunger in Max’s stomach grumbled worse than ever.
_________
“Stay still!” Silvya dragged the wet rag across the deep cut on his lips. “What the fuck were you even thinking? Giving a rookie an easy win?”
Max shrugged.
“Stop shrugging or I’ll beat you up some more." Threatened Silvya. “I’m being serious, if you do this bullshit again I’ll stop coming to your tournaments. It’s embarrassing watching your ass getting beaten.”
Max’s eyebrows raised. “You are only here because you found a boy. Or a girl.”
Silvya sighed. “A boy this time, unfortunately.”
“Bad.”
“Whatever, he’s been entertaining me so far.” She dabbed harder at the cut above his eye. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes passed in silence. Only the rustle of gauze, the drip of antiseptic, the low hum of the air vent.
Max said, finally. “Did you see him?”
Silvya paused, rag hovering. “Who? Toto?”
Max gave her a flat look. Shrugged again, deliberate this time. Earning another swat on his shoulder.
She rolled her eyes but answered. “Just a few of his men. And George.” The name landed quietly in the small room. “Is he gonna be your new boss now?”
“I don’t have a boss, Sil.” Max defensive.
It was her turn to shrug. “By the dynamic—he’s the one paying you to do your job, right? Sounds like a boss to me.”
Max didn’t get to respond to her words when a man in all black knocked on the door from outside the room.
“Max, come with us to Toto’s place.”
Max didn’t think. Didn’t argue. The summons wasn't the kind you refused, though he had shit tons of questions on his mind.
He stood. Nodded once to Silvya. “See you. Have fun.”
“Yeah.” She slammed the first-aid kit shut. “Bye.”
He followed the man out. The hallway lights buzzed overhead. Their shoes echoing on the concrete wasn’t any louder than the thump in his head.
____________
If anything, Max was more surprised that he didn’t jump at the sight of George when he entered the room.
Maybe because the gap between them, if possible, widened.
He stood in front of George who was sitting on the throne-like desk Toto used to sit on.
“How much do you want?”
It was a question Toto usually threw at him. But this time it came out of George’s lips.
Max contemplated his answer.
You.
“Just the usual.”
From his seat, George barely gave him a second glance. The silky robe that’d usually draped over his frame was replaced by a dark shirt with sleeves rolled to the forearms. The collar opened just enough to show the mating mark. With a few of Toto’s men—or now George’s— standing around guarding them, Max could barely do anything.
“The usual,” George repeated, almost mocking. He leaned forward, an elbow on the desk. He slid a single across the polished wood—thicker than usual. “Consider it a bonus. For the show you put on tonight.”
Max didn’t move to take it.
George’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “You looked half-dead out there. Almost let the kid take it. Thought maybe you were done.”
“I won.”
“Obviously. You have to, don’t you?” George’s voice dropped. “If not then, what else is there for you, right?”
The question hung like a test Max couldn’t even answer. Max’s hands flexed at his sides—knuckles still raw from the fight, still stinging from Silvya’s rag. He tasted blood again, copper and salt.
But those wounds hurt nothing like the way George looked at him. Eyes so strange. So alien. As if they were nothing, never were anything.
Not that it was wrong, but what else is there for him now?
Though George’s sweet scent still filled his lungs. The only way Max was sure it was still George whose lips were softer than anything Max had ever touched. Whose hands were gentlest when they traced over his fresh cuts and bruises, whose voice turned sweet and beautiful when it called his name in the shadows, whispering things no one else was allowed to hear.
“Where’s Toto?” Max finally dropped the question. It came out steadier than he felt.
George looked around at the question—slow, almost theatrical. “Do you see him anywhere?”
Max’s jaw ticked. He shook his head. His hands clutched his sides. They were itching to reach out to him.
“So,” he said softly, “that means there’s only me here, Verstappen.”
“What did you do—”
“Well, then, Verstappen,” his words were cut by George. His hands were already busy flipping a small book on the desk. “The next tournament will be in 2 weeks, no?”
Max nodded. Dumbly. Fuck. He didn’t know what to do. If he moved, all he could imagine was lunging across the desk, taking George in his arms, kissing him until the cold shattered and he could have George again under him, whimpering his name.
George closed the book. Stood.
“Win, then,” he said. Followed by nothing. Like a final verdict.
He stepped around the desk, passed Max without touching him, without looking back.
The door opened. Then closed behind him.
Max stood alone in the room with the guards who didn’t speak, the envelope that hadn’t been touched, and the echo of George’s scent that still clung to the air.
Maybe he’d been naive. Maybe he’d really believed that once Toto was gone, the cage would open. That George would finally be his. No hiding under the shadows, no more price to name.
But here they were, a few feet apart with a chasm spread in between.
Winning had lost its meaning even more for him, and the hunger hadn’t left.
It had simply learned how to wait. And how to bleed quietly but the sting wasn’t so quiet within.