ooooh ok wait can i be totally selfish and annoying and ask 🌊 and 🐋 for a max verstappen boxer au oh plssss pls pls it would fix me i think i would love you forever kiss kiss bowing down pleading begging
· · · · ♡ boxer!max verstappen…
whoever it was causing this terrible racket by your bar, you were going to fuck them up.
you were not about to scamper off in front of some low-rent punk, red light district or not. not when you spent your evenings breaking apart all of amsterdam's hot-headed idiots, who still hadn't figured out the only place for a fight was the ring five meters away...
—oh. you stopped dead in your tracks at the end of the corridor, instantly recognizing the blond-haired man huffing and puffing by the sandbag, in a corner of the ring. maybe you were not going to fuck up max verstappen. your boss would not like a run-in with the four-time boxing champion, his clandestine ring's most lucrative stallion. neither would your nose.
you observed him in silence, leaning against the concrete wall as he dealt powerful blow after powerful blow, his taut muscles glittering with sweat under the tungsten lights. hard not to be appreciative of his strong frame splitting the air open with each thunderous strike. of his breathless grunts, barely audible over the loud thumps at the ends of his fists.
"pretty intense for a morning routine," you spoke after a little while, startling him out of his trance. his head snapped as he turned on his heels, narrowed eyes and parted lips. he was handsome, when his chest was racing after a breath. you'd never seen him up close—never talked to him; you led lives on opposite sides of the bar. him on straw mats and you between bottles.
"sorry for scaring you, champ," you said joyfully as you made your way to your absolute mess of a bar.
"no, you didn't... it's just... what are you doing here?"
"well, you know, i work here and all." you chuckled back. why was the infamous mad max's flustered stuttering so damn adorable? "and someone can't deal with a closing shift to save their fucking life, so obviously i get to pick up the pieces. what are you doing here? it's barely six in the morning."
"i like to train in the morning. it's calm."
max verstappen would train in the antichamber of death if he could, you thought to yourself as your eyes slid over to the bruises and lacerations on his toned arms. the price of legend, you assumed.
"well, don't let me distract you," you had ahead of you long hours of cleaning up broken glass and—was that puke?
you groaned. thump! of course, verstappen was back at it again, cold and precise like he'd never been interrupted in the first place. you took your head into your hands, as if that could make the retching go away. thump!
"max?"
"...yes?" you'd never expected the legendary mad max to sound so soft-spoken.
"will you teach me how to punch stuff really hard sometime?"