Work Text:
Qualifying day unfolded beneath a sky that seemed determined to mimic the temperament of the drivers themselves, heavy with the promise of drama and drenched in the dusky light that made the paddock glimmer as if polished for the sole purpose of magnifying every triumph and every humiliation. Max Verstappen sat alone in the cockpit of his car in those final decisive minutes, his knuckles pressed white against the wheel as he wrestled silently with the uninvited anxieties that had crept into his mind like spectral critics whispering that every corner was insufficient and every acceleration too cautious. There had been a moment, fleeting but intoxicating, when he had held provisional pole with a lap so smooth he had almost imagined the car had grown wings. Yet that illusion shattered in an instant when George Russell appeared on the timing tower, his name illuminated with a cruel brilliance that announced he had stolen pole by a mere tenth, a margin so thin it felt like a personal insult crafted specifically to torment Max.
Later, when the cars were silent and the soft clamor of media obligations began, Max found himself standing before a camera whose bright light did very little to distract him from the image being displayed on the screen beside him. George, still flushed from the heat of the session, was speaking to another cluster of reporters with such natural grace that Max could not decide whether the universe was kind or simply taunting him beyond mercy. George’s cheeks were tinged with a rosy warmth that no poetic flourish could ever fully capture, and the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered along his jawline glimmered like water blessed by some celestial priest. Max felt an absurd and wholly inappropriate desire to press his thumb to that droplet and trace its journey downward, and when George shifted his weight and the hem of his race suit revealed just the slightest glimpse of his exposed ankle, Max understood with sudden clarity why Victorian men used to swoon at the mere suggestion of such a sight, for it required a stronger will than he possessed not to become undone by it.
His PR manager touched his shoulder with the weary patience of a man who had endured far too many Verstappen incidents in a single lifetime, and Max forced himself to face the interviewer who had just finished asking a question he had not heard at all.
“So Max, quite a shame to lose the pole position to George by one tenth. What can you say about the qualifying and the race tomorrow?”
Max opened his mouth with every intention of stringing together a sentence that would convey composure and professionalism, yet every syllable abandoned him the moment he glanced once more at the glowing screen where George laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the most absurdly unfair way.
“Uh, George was breedable today.”
The journalist blinked as if her soul had briefly malfunctioned. “I am sorry, what?”
Beside him, his PR manager inhaled so sharply Max feared he might require medical attention.
“I meant incredible,” Max said quickly, stumbling over the word as if it were a stone in his path, “incredible, yes, that is what I meant. He was incredible today and you can clearly see that his pace was so good.” He tried desperately to maintain eye contact with the reporter, but George had just laughed at something a journalist said, and Max found his mind dissolving into chaos again. “So good, like his laughter. I mean his pace was good like his life depended on it, and the final lap was beautiful, very beautiful, like him. Except no, he is not beautiful, absolutely not, he is handsome. Actually, no, he is George, and so he is incredible.”
The silence that followed was so profound Max wondered if the world had briefly stopped. His PR manager closed his eyes with the deliberation of a man contemplating early retirement.
Afterwards, in the privacy of the team’s motorhome, Max endured a scolding that felt less like a reprimand and more like an orchestral performance of disappointment. Every team principal, every communications officer, every unfortunate staff member who had been within earshot took turns expressing their mortification. Meanwhile, social media exploded. Headlines bloomed like wildfire, some dramatic, some mocking, many simply amused.
‘Max Verstappen Flustered Over George Russell: Did He Just Call Him ‘Breedable’?”
‘F1’s Hottest Confession: Verstappen Admits Russell Was ‘Incredible’—or Breedable —Fans React’
‘Max Verstappen Literally Loses It On Live TV—Calls George ‘Incredible’ (And Something Else)’
‘One Tenth of a Second, One Thousand Heartbeats: Max vs George Qualifying Drama”
The 2025 drivers’ group chat lit up with messages ranging from screenshots of the interview to merciless commentary. Charles sent a compilation of the moment from three different angles. Lando offered to design a commemorative T-shirt. Even Lewis sent a single message that read simply, “Max. Please.”
The Social media was crazier.
On F1 Instagram comments:
@f1queen99: MAX WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?? 😭😭 BREEDABLE?? ON LIVE TV?? I CAN’T BREATHE 😂😂
@poleposssion_princess: THIS IS WHY I WATCH F1. FOR MAX LOSING HIS MIND OVER GEORGE. ICONIC. ICONIC. ICONIC. 🫶🔥
@laptime_lolz: Max Verstappen literally stammered for three whole minutes trying to describe George without calling him gorgeous. I AM NOT OKAY 😭
@georgestruck: POLE STOLEN BUT HEARTS WON. MAX AND GEORGE ARE THE CHAOS WE DESERVE 💘💘💘
@teammaxstan: the team is so gonna scold him after calling George ‘breedable’ and it will be literally peak content. someone make a TikTok of this 🫡
@putmababiesingeorge: same Max, same.
@russtappen4life: Russtappen's future baby is gonna be the cutest baby alive🩵
And then George messaged him privately.
The notification appeared innocently enough, yet Max felt his heartbeat surge like he had just been launched off the grid.
George: I heard you think I was incredible today.
Max stared at the message as if it were a sacred relic.
George: Or should I say breedable?
Max wanted to sink through the floor, evaporate, and return only after humanity evolved enough to forget what he had said. Instead, he typed a mortified apology, but George sent another message before he could finish.
George: Relax. I found it… unexpectedly charming. And funny. And strangely flattering.
George: Since you think so highly of me, would you perhaps like to go on a date? Proper one.
Max felt the world settle into a soft, warm focus as if someone had dimmed the harshness of reality and allowed something gentler to take its place. He agreed, perhaps too quickly, but George replied with a laughing emoji that made his stomach flutter.
Their date took place the following evening in a quiet corner of the old city where strings of golden lights curved overhead like constellations lowered just for them. They walked slowly, speaking with a sweetness that neither had ever quite shown in public. George teased him for his chaotic interview, and Max attempted to defend himself with explanations that grew increasingly tangled, all of which only made George laugh harder.
They spoke of the race, of childhood memories, of the strange loneliness that sometimes settled over them despite the crowds that worshipped their every movement. Max found himself confessing things he had not intended to say, drawn to George’s calm attentiveness the way a tide is drawn to the moon.
When their laughter softened into a gentle quiet, they sat beneath a terrace lamp whose glow wrapped them in something tender and private. George leaned just close enough for Max to feel the warmth of his breath, and in that moment Max felt overcome by a sincerity so overwhelming he did not even consider filtering it.
“I truly want you,” Max said, his voice low and certain as if spoken from the deepest chamber of his heart, “to be pregnant with my child.”
George blinked, slowly, as though trying to determine whether he had misheard. “Max,” he said carefully, “that is a remarkably strong declaration for a first date.”
And Max, flustered beyond measure, simply nodded as if stating such a desire were the most logical thing in the world. George laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded, and though he shook his head, the fondness in his eyes betrayed him.
The night settled around them, sweetness lingering like the aftertaste of something impossibly delicate, and though neither spoke again of the startling confession, both felt something shift, gentle yet irrevocable, as if the future had leaned forward and taken notice.