Chapter Text
2010
Limburg, Belgium: Karting Genk
WSK Euro Series
Brought to you by: Ken Walker & Jake Sanson
Sanson: Top of the morning folks! Are we all set for today's exciting event? It's D-Day people!
Walker: Oh we are all eagerly looking forward now. Bright new stars have once again shown us why motorsports is just the gift that keeps giving.
Sanson: Boy don't I know it. Starting on provisional pole is Verstappen, with an outstanding quali result yesterday.
Walker: He'll have to keep up alright, we've got Leclerc on his tail and the older Russell closing in!
Sanson: I'll say, it's incredibly humid today no?
Walker: Absolutely. I reckon it'll be wet, but what's new?
Lap 1.
Tooth, nail, sweat, tears, tufts of hair and perhaps someone's skin pinned to track. Max sees it all whisk past when he cuts a sharp turn left. Beneath him, the car wavers as if uncertain. Max doesn't accept uncertainty.
Lap 3.
Charles is threateningly close behind. Once they would've pushed each other off in a ragged match of superiority. Sunlight cut clean lines straight through his helmet, blinding him as he took the last corner before shifting up again. Suspended in midair, like colloidal solutions, Max considered sending Charles straight sideways just for fun. Jos would be happy.
Lap 6.
Charles turns on him. Max barely keeps it in check. He hears, vivid even if imaginary, Jos' thunder rattling everywhere.
Lap 9.
Benjy overtakes Charles. There's no time to lament the only person he's remotely considered an acquaintance being shown up in a race that was supposed to draw out everyone's worst. It has drawn out Max's worst, what more matters to him.
Sanson: What a tight fight here! Benjy is gaining on Max, he's pushing hard! And—oh? What's this folks? Charles overtakes again! He's earned back position!
Walker: I'm seeing Norris move aggressively down the straight, here's George with the quick uptake and... there we go! George in P4, chasing down Benjy.
Sanson: I'd love to know how a Russell dinner goes mate, swear.
Lap 14.
There's Benjy in his peripheral. He pushes harder, even if there's no real need to. Jos has always said the greatest battles are those far behind him, ants in an obedient trail following an elephant.
Lap 20.
Three more laps to go. Charles is P2, he can see Benjy and George fighting again. Distantly Max wonders if they ever clash like dogs at home as well.
Lap 21.
George wins that. Benjy doesn't give up.
Lap 22.
Charles is secure where he is, and it makes him believe everyone else is too. Everybody else rooted firmly to their standings, simply because they haven't yet learned how to move up. Max prays for his father's good health, going into the last lap.
Lap 23.
Charles is not behind him anymore.
Sanson: What is going on Ken? Am I seeing this right?
Walker: If you're talking about George suddenly pinching second in the start of our finale, you'd be damn right. Can I say damn? Is that allowed?
Sanson: He's giving Max a run for his money! I know Jos is not inviting Steve to a barbecue anytime soon.
He's behind Max. He's behind as he should be, rushing forward.
He slides up beside Max like a snake. Loud, not at all furtive lest someone notice how reckless he drives. George gets away with everything the little prince he is.
Max sees the final stretch pour itself out, vast and expansive. Dense asphalt scratchy from the wheels jostling over astray marbles strewn across an interlocked structure that will be okay by tomorrow. When they race again.
George pokes and prods as if pushing Max's raw flesh, not dragging a patchwork of leftover lumber to the finish line. These things shake when he pushes too hard.
They stay in a timely war of attrition. Max knows he has nothing to lose.
But George keeps trying. He tries harder than anybody, he also fails just as much.
That second does wonders for them.
George tries slipping into the meagre gap and Max viciously doesn't let him. It's his last karting race. He'll never come back again. All the more reason to remind George, be the one he loses to.
Sanson: We've arrived at our final few minutes! George and Max locked like peas but the pods are bursting today Ken!
Walker: I hate your metaphors. You are spot on however. We see Max pushing, slamming hard with a—and he shuts George down! Insane.
Sanson: I think we have our KF3 Champion settled this year, hm?
Lap 23. Max Verstappen crosses the finish line a champion.
That podium is perhaps the most satisfying of his life. It's nothing in the grand scheme of things, Jos doesn't smile with a lightened edge. The skies are still glaucous and mundane, gray as he remembers them always being. Hints of fresh blue catch themselves amid ropey beams of faded sunshine, dull thickets soaring as puffy cotton balls heavy with water. Nothing's different from anything else and he can't feel triumph anymore.
They hold a small ceremony here after WSK. Not specifically for KF3 but Max hadn't placed the last championship, hadn't participated at all back then. Jos was busy shaping flesh into bones with a rod Schumacher had gifted them. A tall, brittle thing meant for pool games with Mick. Not that Max learnt how to play pool at all. Jos was hammering him beneath brisk, soaring pale moonlight when the cold became a vessel after the first few hits.
He is handed a gleaming trophy. George is too. Charles tosses up high his own, emulating the men they see on SkySports. Max stares down. That which remains nestled in his hands, which he earned and belongs to him. Then chances a glance beside him.
George is staring.
Freakish blue eyes boring holes like sulfuric acid boiling over. He's all taut lines, tired yet furious. He looks, for the first time, utterly violent.
It makes Max happy. Really, really happy.
Then after the podium he gets truly violent.
Max doesn't remember everything clearly. There were motorhomes, a cantilever canopy drawn black above, gravel pressed into his nape. Maybe there was someone else. Maybe there was a camera, a locket on the floor or a hand fisted in his hair.
There was his broken nose, blood trickling down till it slipped past his lips. Metallic and tangy, bleary eyes reaching to catch the pulsating neck between his fingers, pressing into a jugular.
George was there. George was on top of him, hurtling fists into Max's face, turning purple and gray the longer Max stayed tight around his trachea. All because he'd teased George a little. No, not tease. He's not a liar. Max had called him names. Called him weak and cheap and stupid, large and lanky and nothing but an expense not worth the price tag.
Now he was being punished for it.
That was... that was good. Satisfying. Happy.
The last thing he remembers before losing complete consciousness is a smile. His own. Toothy as can be when he's half bloody already, George's angry tears plopping onto a busted upper lip.
"Princess."
Max woke up in the hospital. George in a different one. The damage was relatively even.
2016
Madrid, Spain: MADRING Circuit
Formula 1
Brought to you by: David Croft & Martin Brundle.
Max's reality is not shattered yet. A beacon of triumph beams down on them all, wherein he's standing above hoards of people who don't yet know he will rock the world, who know only he is Red Bull's replacement for Danii Kyvat, nothing else.
"The kid has strength," Helmut whispers loudly, "and he did something? Yes? So we keep him."
"But...fans...consider...prospects of the crowd are..."
"We're building dedication. And, uh, synergy with our fans. It takes time."
"Older drivers... he is not... if they say..."
"I know what is happening. You don't, shut up."
"Boss will be... what will... I'm not... blame.."
"I said shut up!"
Max watches Helmut cut the call just as an echo rings around them. With only bits and pieces he's able to clearly illustrate that they don't like him, don't really want someone who is not publicly appealing or liked by the other drivers. Is he capable of being liked at all? No.
Well shit.
Helmut believes in him regardless, the old hag. Jos would fight on his behalf, even if Max would bare such a fight as thickened bruises on his stomach.
Croft: Max Emilian Verstappen is truly a force to be reckoned with. Amongst the hectic Mercedes rivalry, here's a young boy carving his name beside the likes of Hamilton and Rosberg.
Brundle: You never truly know unless you know, right?
Hamilton? Rosberg? Forget them all. Not even Vettel or Alonso or Webber will compare. Max will rival Senna himself.
He goes online, against his best wishes, and spends a few minutes scrolling through Twitter turned a minefield. In about some days time, he was told to stray strictly off social media platforms that urged him to end his soulless, sullen and tragic life because Max could never compare to the people he tried in vain to emulate.
Jos had also once told him that, pushing Max's head beneath the pool in their clogged sink. Then again when he'd cracked something sharp over Max's sprained ankles.
Now he stands eagerly on every turn, astride rows of engineers and mechanics all of whom perpetuate Jos' insufferable agenda of superiority. But that's okay. Max finds the lined motorhome walls and DHL cargo receipts scattered carelessly over the table far more interesting. An engineer waves at him from where she's hosting up a set of cables, to which he simply nods.
cuttycunt • @cuntybunny • 3h ago
- tell me y we/re allowing fucking verstrapon to jst bypass penalties?
《view replies》
kori published • @kasahouse • 2h ago
cunt WHEN did he do tht?? Hello bitch Are we watching the Same race?suybuy • @sunnyvunny • 2h ago
MV33 fans when they realize they're driver is a whiny dick but don't wanna admit it:sugarrushhigh • @sendmysugaaar • 1h ago
calling us whiny & ur pfp is fucking rosberg okay 💀💀🙏pokit milli • @milly • 34m ago
replying to @sendmysugaar: HAHAHAH ARE U ACTLY COMPARING NICO ROSGOAT WITH THAT PSYCHO? Delulu is NOT the solulu 😭😭
A long while back, Hannah had told him those comments would persist like relentless flies, hence the mental health professional occasionally checking in to confirm Max was in fact alive and well enough. Not well. Well enough. To win, inevitably he must remain a little unwell.
Later on more people had warned against scrolling through Instagram as well, how people could make pointed reels and parade him like he weren't made of flesh and blood. As if it was better he crush himself into a box, mad and mad to be appealing.
[image displays Max Verstappen on the podium being showered in champagne by Kimi Räikkönen & Sebastian Vettel.]
•••••
[Scroll to see more]
♡ 192K | 🗨 1,347 | ↺7,683 | ⌲ 26.8K
⠀⃝ ⠀⃝ ⠀⃝ Liked by josverstappen
thesebsarecoming god mv33 fans are insufferable someone get this man out of our sport.
Max doesn't intend on upsetting anybody, he's only here to race. Jos has always been harsh like that, a little cruelty never hurts anybody.
Then he scrolls, reels upon reels of some avid fans cheering for him regardless while others curse Jos and Sophie for bringing someone like Max into the world. He's being compared on every corner, a collage of Rosberg's best moments piled against his greatest mistakes, seeing Hamilton overtake him forgetting that Max is nearly half his age.
Snapshots of Räikkönen pissed of at his antics, Sebastian (ever so kind) cursing him out on the radio. All captioned neatly with 'race winner? sure okay 💀.' The comments are perhaps worse in how overflowing a single thread goes on to become. Strangers picking him apart like surgeons. An ultimate scrutiny that won't ever find itself in their anonymous lives, on display for Max's maiden win. Just as there are folks who defend him with their lives, so are there folks who claim they're just siding with him for fun. The Switzerlands of Instagram make 'unbiased' posts in which, somehow, Max is always deemed incapable of fairness and equality.
Here, he faces a crossroad. A decision. Like many others made prior to this day, he stares down its narrow throat counting throbs.
Max has only ever wanted to prove something. Maybe tell the world he's not who they've assigned him to be, convince Jos kindness wouldn't have destroyed them. He can't engage with stuff that exists simply to crush a spirit and a spark. He's not five. Nobody needs to hold his hand.
But it's so fucking fun.
This is ridiculous fun. The best fun he's had outside the race.
Max likes every. Single. Post.
Indiscriminately, each cursed caption brightens with a deep red heart. He follows accounts with his name slashed in black as their profile pictures, listens to the reels again and again, screenshots particularly clever insults—Max is having a fucking incredible time.
He's cackling, still hidden in the not so secluded corner. Guffaws slam out in waves, clashing where they meet in another wheeze. The lady who had stared at him moments ago with a wave turns around, properly confounded once more. Her eyes track Max. They stay rooted to where he's bent over his knees, clutching his stomach.
Max has always been a little arrogant.
Throngs stoning him with their words, is that not the pinnacle of achievement? Not an incredible attainment or accolade? Is he not inherently the thing that draws them to Formula 1 now anyway? Is he not on top of the world? Staring down at everyone beneath him, all who would rather eat his eyes in a stew than cheer for him? Has he not captured them in the end?
A few posts get sent to Victoria followed by a string of red hearts, another few get added to Favorites. The lady stares with much more than mild bafflement. Because Max has never learnt to be lesser than, he grins wide and waves.
2019
São Paulo, Brazil: Autódromo José Carlos Pace
Formula 1
Benjy Russell doesn't really cry. His austerity shines on track, but dims those around him off it. The way he eyes the journalist holding up her mic infront of him, a red F1 logo plastered on the front, is strict as well.
People shift behind Max, milling about. The large backdrop made for photos and askew cables dragging after a camera crew, pavement chalky when he scratches it, it's as large as was made to be. From afar, he glimpses the kaleidoscope of shades fall across fans. When they shout his name, he smiles back.
Once or twice someone tried to strangle him here in Interlagos, but Max got away unfortunately.
Daniel stays with him ever since, hiding from Renault whenever he gets the chance.
The race is over. Max has won, loud and clear. He should be celebrating back at the motorhome, where Christian wants to pop another heavy bottle of champagne over his head.
But instead he's here, staring at Benjy Russell being bombarded with interviewers.
"Now if you could just tell us sir, why are there no points to your name yet?"
"The car hasn't been performing to what I had initially expected," he sighs, "and I'm keenly aware of my mistakes as well. However there's nothing to be done about it after the race, so we can only focus on garnering better results hereafter."
Intensely diplomatic, Max watches him wave off everything. Not a reporter who isn't subdued by Benjy's determined charm, swayed by strictness that terrifies people. A lady in a crisp white shirt and blue pencil skirt pulls Benjy aside with a shaky mic to ask her query, and leaves looking more crumpled than she'd arrived. If Max pays a little more attention, he might be able to tell if that's the same person who flirted egregiously with Hamilton infront of Rosberg. Then got told off.
Humming sweetly, Daniel nudges him. "You know Maxie, there's a really long line for that fuckass battery acid you like—"
"He doesn't look right."
Max blurts out. Thoughtless and instinctual.
Daniel looks at him weird, "Huh?"
He's right though. It doesn't look right. Benjy's talking but he's not frowning or swallowing gulps of air, neither are his eyes watery. He's breathing regularly, straightfaced without a pinched smile or a strained forehead or a crease between his brows. He's... polite.
"Too polite. It's weird."
"I mean, that's Benjy for ya. Don't know what you're on about Maxiel."
Benjy looks detached. Capable of separating himself from agony, he seems like someone who doesn't drown in globs of thick, rigid flesh. Capable of keeping the personal and professional different. Benjy has never succumbed to lesser things, he's fixed on what needs to be said and therefore doesn't say too much or too little. He's not spilling his guts out, not crying. No pretty tears trailing down his handsome face.
Max thinks he's handsome. Has known for a while that men elicit something deep-seated in him, the same way women simmer inside. For a while he thought Daniel had been that spark.
Benjy is good competition still. Shapely lines, firm broad muscle—Max likes Benjy, physically at least. And even then, he looks so fucking off. Completely missing the mark, the itch in Max's chest unscratched.
"Max? Are you—"
"I wish he would cry," it pushes out before he can stop himself, "he'd look so hot if he cried."
Daniel stares at him stunned. Max doesn't even begin to notice.
If Benjy cried, his eyes would well up with tears and go all puffy. His face would turn splotchy, red, sweat mingling with salty streams dripping pathetically past his plump pink lips, all breathy and desperate. He would be embarrassed, everybody would stare at him and he'd maybe look away and find Max's eyes and suddenly his mouth would curve in fury. Everything would go pitch black. He'd walk over, toss Max down to put a fist through his head. But he's slim, all lanky limbs wrapped around Max's hips. Thighs trembling, chestnut brown hair falling into his eyes and then he would hit Max.
He'd hit and hit and hit, pummel Max to fucking death. If that wouldn't work, he'd cinch fingers around Max's throat. He would find Max's pulse, press to pull till they're both gasping. Max would rut against him, flip them over and rip that shitty black suit off with his teeth, smile at how politely he'd be greeted by perky red nipples and an expanse of unmarked skin.
God, Max would ruin him. He'd never close around anybody again. He'd weep with a cock inside and finally shut up for once.
Saliva pools in his mouth. Max goes dizzy.
"Holy shit mate," Daniel punches him properly, "Max what the genuine fuck."
Max could. Max could do so, so much to him. He wants—ah.
He's hard.
"Oh."
"Oh!? More like gross mate why are you picturing Russell like that?"
"He looks hot."
"I seriously don't get you," Daniel huffs, "can't say I've seen anyone get off to Benjy ew."
Benjy?
Who said anything about Benjy?
"First time experience, now you know."
Max breathes in the cool air. Benjy could never do it for him.
2021
Abu Dhabi, UAE: Yas Marina Circuit
Formula 1
Brought to you by: David Croft & Martin Brundle.
Croft: Am I watching the same race? Masi has really shaken the crowd.
Brundle: Toto is not happy about that one folks!
When it happens, Max, it will happen.
Croft: And he crosses the line! Max Verstappen is the 2021 Formula 1 World Champion!
Brundle: Bloody hell what is going on here, Jesus.
Croft: Christian sounds quite satisfied indeed. Today's going to be phenomenal back at Red Bull Racing.
[Christian Horner speaking to Max Verstappen on the radio - broadcasted on SkySports.]
"Max Verstappen, you are the world champion! You are the world champion! Oh my lord..." "Thank you! Thank you to the team, to everybody,!..."
[End of broadcast.]
Abu Dhabi, UAE: Afterparty at private-location.
Formula 1
"Why are you here?"
Lewis shrugs, raising a glass of vodka. "No idea mate. Lando called me. Cheers."
"Your fans are trying to kill me, you know?"
"Pfft," he snorts, swaying drunkenly, "fair. I would too."
"So..."
Lewis' expression turns sour, blurry to colorless to completely static in a matter of minutes. That's how Max knows he's finally being honest. Mors tua vita mea or whatever, nothing could've stopped him from winning even if he wasn't the one screwing over Hamilton. Max had every reason to be proud, Lewis hadn't earned seven championships being nice either.
"Fuck off Verstappen."
He snorts. So much for keeping things cool.
Really he's all fired up ready to exchange verbose blows with Toto's lapdog, but fighting a man whom many consider the greatest when they're both drunk and who Max actually does, immensely, respect against all odds is not... good.
"So now what?"
"Now I pretend I haven't seen you at all, goodbye Max. See you next season. Hopefully not."
Petty fucker.
Max ends up wandering around the block with nothing real to do. And by block he means the venue Christian booked out for him, a scandalous club sunk in strobing purple-red lights. There's far too many people swaying drunk on the dance floor for comfort, sweat and grime cloying like fog in the air, scintillating lights hiding whoever's hands keep slipping past his hips.
Valiantly pushing through for a drink, he flags down a stone-faced bartender.
"Pilsner."
"Šnyt?"
"Hladinka. Fast yeah?"
"Mhm."
He slumps atop the counter. All celebration died down after 12, he should be in bed freshly showered and ready to sleep another decade. His phone should be switched off, silencing the driver's chat Benjy was so insistent on creating with everybody so they could keep tabs on important stuff. As if any of that mattered at all, Max didn't know official proceedings well enough (nor did he actually care, fuck that) but he also knew none of the other drivers aside from maybe Carlos gave a shit. Everybody else was either content with not doing anything, or letting Benjy manage everything. So with not even official work to fret over, he should've been snoring ten inches deep into his mattress.
Instead he finds himself meeting eyes with George Russell nurturing a Hemingway special, staring back at Max curiously.
Oh fuck.
The first thing that registers is not, 'good evening' or 'how the fuck did you end up here' or even anything remotely close to George's changed appearance, though Max reckons with the way they're locked onto each other he'll get there soon.
What registers is;
princess
congrats. benjy doesnt want to wish you so im doing it.
you reacted with 👍
me
ty
Seen
To have that conversation with the man who effectively kickstarted his masochistic tendencies was embarrassing. Fucking Pierre had better luck getting into Yuki's pants.
Not that Max wanted to sleep with George or anything. They hadn't seen each other for a long, long while. Not face to face at least. He didn't want anything to do with him.
Punch him yeah, he'd look good with a broken nose (all angry and red aiming for Max's throat with those pretty sharp teeth of his biting chunks of flesh out and using Max for his own—)
"Top of the night mate."
George smiles politely, still swirling that unicorn vomit of a drink.
Max rushes to sit straight, beckoning the bartender to work faster. "Uh, yeah hallo."
"Mhm," he hums, tracing the glass rim languidly. Max takes this chance to do that staring he wanted.
"Congratulations, by the way."
"Mhm."
Fuck he's hot.
There has to be some explanation for why he's attracted to gangly lanky limbs. That explanation is obviously freakish. George looks so, so good—a hundred times worse than the horror plaguing Max at night riding him senseless. Chestnut brown curls swaying, tipsy yet not tipsy enough with his slender, pale fingers and soft plump lips pursuing subconsciously. He takes a swig of his Hemingway, puts it down rather abrupt as if testing how well it sits on his tongue. His eyes, bug-like charms so large they're almost popping out, shine hideously blue and gleam like diamonds. Ugly diamonds.
"Verstappen?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah sorry."
George pouts. Pouts. Wow Max needs to fuck him immediately.
It's sort of pathetic how hung up he is on someone whose not been in his vicinity for more years than they've known each other. But then, George also clearly keeps up with Max's career if the constant likes and comments are anything to go by.
Yeah genius, cause you're a Formula 1 driver and so is his brother.
Shut up.
"You're here for Benjy?"
Benjy had snagged his first podium, a solid P3 after so long fighting for scraps. George grins.
"Kinda. Here to commiserate for Lewis as well of course, no offense."
"Of course."
"You deserved that win though. Quality drive mate."
"Huh," he slumps against the table, "you're the first person aside from my team to think that."
George smiled, amusement leaking like a faucet from his eyes. He scooted closer.
"Don't get me wrong I still think Lewis would've skinned your arse, but, hey," he shrugs, "a win is a win."
"Fair enough."
"You gonna party hard tonight?"
"Not really," he hums. Max keeps his eyes shamelessly fixed on George's stupid, suction plump lips. He must spend a shit ton of time on his appearance.
"Shame. Tell you what, next year I'll invite you to Benjy's Championship party eh?"
That pulls a laugh, no matter how cracked it is. Max chuckles at more than just the casual remark or the confidence with which George slips in a threat, no shame in his propinquity to the reigning World Champion. There's mirth alight in his blazing eyes, but there's also so much expectation. As if he knows one day it'll be true, that someday Benjy will own the top step. Rightfully. Not snagged by the teeth like a rabid dog hunting for scraps. Not like Max.
Which, come on. That's funny.
"Yeah? You think so?"
"Hundred percent mate. It'll be a lot cooler than this. I reckon your team could learn a thing or two then."
"You are really optimistic for him, schat."
"Yeah yeah shit or shucks whatever I don't care," George goes weirdly somber for a split second, recovering just as quick, "he's gonna win like no bloody else."
"It is his first podium, you're reaching."
"You had a first too no?"
"Right but," Max shrugged. It was written in the air, in the atmosphere surrounding them.
"It'll be good promise."
"If he ever makes it, you know?"
George's smile stiffened, as did his posture.
"Know what?"
That it was impossible. For someone like Benjy at the very least. Maybe it would've been in the realm of possibility for George but not Benjy. George could take anything he wanted on track.
"Don't make me say it."
"Oh I beg your pardon mate," shaper, bleeding red at the edges now, "you'll have to use your words with me. Know what."
"I just, I mean—with Mercedes as it is right now? I wouldn't expect big things if I were you."
"Who said anything about the team? I'm talking strictly about Benjy."
"Right and. Well. See for yourself George," He was off-kilter. He knew he was. Max had already started chugging the drink placed seamlessly before him, and maybe he shouldn't.
He points to Benjy drinking away the night with an arm draped casually over Lando, tossing back shots over something as pathetic as a single podium.
"P3 yeah?" George's eyes are like snake slits cutting through him. Max feels alive. "Who celebrates like that for fucking P3? Mate I would kill myself."
He thinks of competing against George. That would be fun. He'd have to claw for every inch on track like a madman. Then it'd feel worth it.
Silence. Max should really learn to read the room. "And I'd do it out of shame. Benjy is an excellent driver don't get me wrong but god, that's just fucking embarrassing. Not only has Mercedes not even signed him yet, but Williams is a fucking mess and you know? I don't see that changing at all. Shouldn't he be more worried about his damn career already? Some Championship material that is."
It's not even vitriol towards Benjy Russell, it's just anger. Frustration at the night, at how he's supposed to feel guilty for finally snagging his first triumph over Lewis Hamilton and everyone expects him to bend over backwards apologizing for what every other driver would've done just as much. What George would've done in his place.
"Maybe he is seeing something I am not," he really should shut up. George's face blurs before him. "I cannot believe a future world champion thinks like this but. P3's not enough mate, it doesn't get you a win being happy with P3. Sorry that's just how—"
Crack.
"Oh."
Had he known George would deck him hard enough to have Max head straight for the ground, he would've shut up sooner.
The world tilts sideways for a moment. Colors and shapes swapping positions, music expanding like space while suddenly every shade of red is a whisper.
George looms over him, staring down with pure fury. His fist finds itself bunching Max's unchanging Red Bull shirt with more force than that composed stature would suggest.
Max should've—well that's a lie. Max runs his mouth specifically for times like these.
"Are ya' not a little too arrogant for someone who won by scraps, Verstappen?"
He gulps. His eyes, Jesus they're far too blue. George shakes him aggressively, knees on either side of Max's hips caging him in.
"Answer me dickhead."
"Fuck off..." everything blurs.
"From what angle do you think you're any better than Benjy? Atleast Benjy doesn't need to make others feel like shit so Daddy will like him. Thought of that?"
He's not actually listening. Max can't process anything besides he's on me he's on top of me God he's so hot I want to fuck him shit does he like being on top he can fuck me I don't even care just—
George punches him again, knocking Max's face clean to the left, ignoring his coughs and wheezes. "Shit–"
"Bitch."
He spits on Max's chest and gets up. The bartender, a man who evidently was not on Max's side at all, laughs all nervous. George glares at him once more before he walks away, leaving Max a crumpled mess on the floor.
"Mad Max my foot."
Well. Atleast something good came of tonight.
2026
Melbourne, Australia: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit
Formula 1
Brought to you by: David Croft & Martin Brundle.
Croft: And Benjy Russell stakes his claim on that Championship Lead! He crosses the line a winner!
Brundle: What a showing today folks! The Mercedes garage is overflowing, there's Benjy's family cheering! A heartfelt moment for the British driver today.
George knows he shouldn't. It won't end well at all and he should keep it to himself and there's no point gloating over something said five years ago there's simply no logical point. Especially not when he was the one getting physical, putting Benjy's reputation at risk.
Yet.
me
not Championship material hm?
He doesn't think too much, sending it away and rejoining the celebrations. Benjy jumps like a man on fire suffocating George under his arms.
Roughly three hours later he's staring down at a response, fuming.
Max Verstappen does that to him. Leaves him feeling all kinds of rage.
brute
sure schat
whatever you say
George is going to kill him.