The Day Nikolai Caught Baby Fever

Babysitter Diaries - Maxiel(Part 1)

Summary:

Max agrees to let Lando's friend babysit his son on race weekends and (Un)fortunately the babysitter happens to be his ex-teammate Daniel Ricciardo. And well lets add a sprinkle of love and matchmaker Brandon and you have Maxiel

CHAPTER 1

The thing about having a three-year-old no one knew about—aside from your closest circle—was that Max had to be careful. Very careful.

It wasn’t like he didn’t trust the world with Brandon. He just didn’t trust the world for Brandon.

The kid deserved more than flashing cameras and tabloids wondering if Max Verstappen had finally “settled down.” He wasn’t a scandal, wasn’t an accident. He was just a wrinkly, wide-eyed surprise dropped on Max’s doorstep on a rainy Tuesday with a note that said “He’s yours. I can’t do this.”

Max hadn’t blinked. Not once.

Now, Brandon was three and sharp like a knife—clever, stubborn, with his father’s frown and his own kind of sunshine tucked behind baby curls and blue eyes. He was the reason Max woke up smiling and passed out exhausted every single day.

But Max's sister—his rock through the early months of diapers and midnight crying—was expecting her second baby now, and her hands were full. She’d offered to keep helping, eyes full of guilt, but Max had shaken his head and told her gently, “I’ve got it.”

He didn’t, though. Not entirely.

So, now, he was pacing around his Monaco apartment, floor spotless, toys half-hidden behind the couch, and Brandon currently napping with a stuffed lion tucked under his chin. And Max? He was waiting.

Because Lando—fucking Lando—had said, “I’ve got a friend who’s good with kids. You know him, actually. He’s in town. I’ll send him your way.”

Max hadn’t asked questions. He should’ve.

Because now it was nearly four o'clock, and the doorbell rang, and Max wasn’t prepared for the way his stomach dropped.

He opened the door.

And standing there in faded jeans, sunglasses in his curls, a grin that hadn’t aged a day since the last time they’d shared a garage, was Daniel fucking Ricciardo.

“Hey, Maxi,” Daniel said, bright as ever. “Heard you’re looking for a babysitter.”

…..

Daniel – A few hours earlier

He hadn’t expected much from his Tuesday. The weather in Monaco was too hot, the espresso too bitter, and the silence in his apartment? Way too loud.

Retirement—or whatever this limbo phase was—had its perks, sure. He didn’t miss the interviews, the pressure, the back-to-back flights. But the buzz, the people, him—yeah, he missed that.

So when his phone rang and Lando’s name popped up, Daniel answered without thinking twice.

“Please tell me you’re calling to say we’re getting matching tattoos.”

Lando snorted. “Better. I’ve got a job for you.”

Daniel blinked. “What, like... a real one? Because I’ve gotta tell you, mate, my résumé’s mostly just me being hot and yelling at engineers.”

“Babysitting.”

That got a pause.

“You want me to babysit you?”

Lando groaned. “Not me, you idiot. Max.”

Daniel sat up straighter. “Max?”

“Yeah. He needs someone to watch his kid. Don’t ask too many questions. Just—he trusts me, I trust you, and you’ve been doing literally nothing lately, so…”

Daniel leaned back into his couch, suddenly very, very awake.

Max had a kid?

“I—wait, what? Since when does Max have a kid?”

Lando hesitated just long enough for Daniel to know he wasn’t getting the full story. “It’s… complicated. Just go, yeah? I told him I’d send someone and he said he’s cool with it.”

Daniel twirled his keys in his hand, staring at the ceiling.

Max had a kid. And Lando thought he of all people should watch him.

Part of him wanted to laugh. Another part—deeper, quieter, older—felt something clench in his chest. It had been a while since he’d seen Max. Too long.

“…Alright,” Daniel said softly. “Send me the address.”

Because maybe this wasn’t just about babysitting. Maybe it was about seeing an old friend.

One he’d never really stopped missing.

…

Max’s apartment hadn’t changed much. Sleek, minimal, expensive taste. Same cold grey walls, same view of the harbor. But there were little things now—tiny shoes by the door, a toy firetruck half-tucked under the coffee table, a sippy cup forgotten on the kitchen counter.

And standing dead center in all that soft domestic chaos?

Max Verstappen.

Arms crossed. Eyebrows doing that thing. Glare sharp enough to cut granite.

Daniel smiled anyway, because that’s what he did.

“Hey, Maxi.”

Max didn’t blink. “What are you doing here?”

Daniel raised both hands in mock surrender. “Relax, I come in peace. Lando sent me.”

“For what?” Max deadpanned.

“Uh…” Daniel rubbed the back of his neck. “The babysitter interview?”

Max looked him up and down like he was inspecting a car crash in real time.

“You steal candy from children.”

Daniel gasped. “Once! And that kid was being a little gremlin—he bit me first!”

“You’re proud of that story.”

“I’m just saying, it built character—for both of us.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just stared at him like Daniel was some kind of poorly wrapped Amazon package he didn’t remember ordering.

“I need someone responsible,” Max said flatly.

“And I’ve kept myself alive for thirty-four years. That counts for something.”

“You once tripped over your own shoelaces and fell into a pool.”

“I was testing gravity!”

Max's mouth twitched. Barely. A flicker of something dangerously close to amusement.

Daniel pointed at him. “There. That’s the beginning of a smile. Admit it, you missed me.”

Max turned around. “I’m going to check if Brandon’s still asleep.”

Daniel grinned as Max walked away, muttering something in Dutch under his breath.

“Admit it, Verstappen!” Daniel called after him. “I’m the best candidate you’ve got!”

“You’re the only candidate I’ve got,” Max muttered from the hallway.

Daniel just plopped onto the couch, pleased as hell.

This was going to be fun.

.......

See Early chapter Updates in Stck.me[Chapter 1-5] : https://riavolkov.stck.me/story/934059/Babysitter-Diaries-Maxiel

The Fanfic Fiasco – Charlos ft. Cupid Rookies

Summary:

Kimi, Oliver and Isack deal with their Carlos ship's fallout like any fan would do - by writing fanfic obviously. It was all fun until it got switched with FIA documents.

Kimi Antonelli, Oliver Bearman, and Isack Hadjar are so done. Done with the tension. Done with the heartbreak. Done with watching Charles and Carlos—once the grid’s softest duo—now glaring at each other from rival garages like they hadn’t once shared hotel rooms and playlists and podium champagne.

The bromance is dead. The ship has sunk. And the only way the boys know how to cope? Fanfiction.

It starts as a joke. One night, during a rain delay in Imola, Isack pulls out his laptop.

“Okay, what if Carlos never left Ferrari?” he says, typing furiously. “And Charles stops being emotionally constipated for five seconds and tells him how he feels?”

Kimi chimes in from the hotel bed, scrolling through Tumblr. “Make Charles cry. Then kiss.”

Oliver’s already two Red Bulls in and nodding enthusiastically. “No, no—make Carlos cry. Angst sells.”

They’re unhinged, and it’s the best fun they’ve had in weeks. The fic becomes a full novella by the end of the weekend. 37,000 words. Three POVs. A Ferrari reunion kiss in the Monza rain. It even has a playlist.

And then—disaster.

“Scarlet Nights & Monaco Mornings: A CharLos Love Story (feat. Pining, Public Confessions)”

And it’s signed off at the bottom.

Written by: Kimi, Oliver & Isack 😘

………

The conference room is buzzing with low chatter, drivers half-awake, PR managers trying not to scream into their phones, and coffee being consumed like it’s holy water. Charles is scrolling through telemetry on his tablet. Carlos is pretending he’s not glancing at him every thirty seconds.

Enter: FIA rep, holding a stack of printed papers like Moses with the commandments. They hand out documents one by one.

“Track limits update,” they mutter.

Lando grabs his copy, frowns. “What the hell is this?”

He squints at the title.

“Scarlet Nights & Monaco Mornings: Chapter 17 – The Confession in the Rain”

His eyes light up.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar looks over. “What is it?”

Lando’s already climbing on the table. “Storytime, bitches.”

“No—” Kimi says too late, diving for him.

Lando clears his throat, full theater mode.

“Charles couldn’t breathe. Rain soaked through his fireproofs, but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver—it was Carlos. Standing there, drenched, eyes wild, and asking the one question he never thought he’d hear.”

‘Why didn’t you stop me, cariño?’

Charles steps forward. ‘Because I loved you too much to cage you in.’

Gasps echo across the room. Max spits out his water.

“Wait, is this—” Charles snatches the paper, skims, turns scarlet.

“Is this fanfiction about ME?!”

Carlos blinks. “Wait. Wait. I am pregnant?!!!”

George, wheezing in the back: “Page 23, bro. Page 23.”

“The baby kicked again, soft as the way Carlos whispered Charles’ name in sleep when he thought no one was listening—”

“OH MY GOD,” Carlos yells.

Isack tries to crawl under the table.

“We were grieving!” Oliver shouts.

“It was therapy!” Kimi adds, hiding behind a Red Bull merch bag.

Pierre’s already posted a blurry pic of the title page to his Instagram story. Caption: never letting them live this down.

Esteban: “So who’s the alpha?”

Everyone: “ESTEBAN—”

Meanwhile, Charles is still holding the fic like it’s physically burning his hands. His voice is quiet.

“…You really wrote that I cry in the rain?”

Kimi, whispering: “You do.”

A long pause.

Then Carlos goes, “…Do I really call him cariño that much?”

Isack shrugs. “More than you think.”

Charles stares at the floor. Then at Carlos. Then—

He bursts out laughing.

It starts small, then grows until he’s clutching his sides, full-on giggling, face flushed. Carlos can’t help it—he laughs too.

Kimi, whispering to Oliver, “Did we just… fix them?”

Lando, smug: “Fanfiction. Cures all wounds.”

Max: “Do me next.”

Everyone: “MAX—NO.”

………

Fernando Alonso won’t stop asking what an "omega verse" is.

The FIA is not amused.

But the internet? Oh, the internet devours it.

#ScarletMornings trends worldwide.

And maybe—just maybe—the fanfic does its job after all. Because by the next race, Charles and Carlos are spotted laughing again in the paddock. Then sharing an umbrella. Then...

“You’re welcome,” Oliver says smugly, watching it all unfold from the Ferrari hospitality tent.

Isack high-fives Kimi. “Healing through fanfiction. Works every time.”

……..

📸 Instagram Post – @charles_leclerc

Location: Monza Pit Lane Caption: raining again 😅

(📸: @carlossainz55 said he forgives me. i think.)

#ScarletNightsAndMonacoMornings #canonverse #MonzaRain2025

The photo is blurry. Rain streaks across the lens. But you can clearly see Charles and Carlos, standing in the exact pose from the fic: Carlos’s hand on Charles’s soaked race suit, forehead resting on his. Charles smiling like he hasn’t in months. Someone (probably Lando) is screaming in the comments:

@landonorris: I’M GONNA SUE FOR EMOTIONAL DAMAGE @kimiantonelli: 💅 we manifested @maxverstappen1: still waiting for my fic @pierregasly: when’s the wedding @fernandoalo_oficial: does the baby have a name yet or

Eli King x Killian Carson - God of Wreck

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61493053

The world is too real, too sharp at the edges, A place of rusted dreams and half-written apologies. I wake to the weight of another gray day, Where love is a whisper that drifts far away.

I trace my own shadow on cold, empty streets, No grand devotion, no desperate cries, Just fading echoes and hollow goodbyes.

But in a book, love is a fever that burns, A name on the lips with every page that turns. They'd search for me, fight, bleed, and break, Swearing my heart is the one thing they’d take.

No silence between us, no distance, no doubt, Just a love so loud it drowns the world out. To be wanted so fiercely, to never feel small, To forget what it was to live without love at all.

Yet here I remain, where love is a ghost, A flicker, a shadow, a half-hearted toast. If only I could slip between ink and time, To a world where someone says, "You're mine."

NikoBran – Preschool nightmare ft. Leigh Sokolov-King

Nikolai stood in the doorway of his daughter's room, arms crossed, lips pressed into a tight line. His heart was breaking. Shattering into a million irreparable pieces.

His little princess, his Leigh, his baby, stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her tiny blue backpack, completely unaware of the absolute devastation she was causing her father.

Nikolai turned to Brandon, his traitorous husband, and hissed, “She’s too young for this.”

Bran, who had been through this emotional meltdown all morning, sighed. “She’s five, Niko.”

Nikolai’s eye twitched. “And?”

“She needs to start school.”

“She needs to stay home.” Niko crossed his arms, glaring at the abomination of a uniform their daughter had to wear.

Bran rubbed his temples. “It’s literally pre-school.”

“You don’t understand, Brandon. She’s leaving me.”

Bran groaned, but Leigh finally turned around, her little pigtails bouncing, her bright eyes full of pure excitement. “Dada, do I look pretty?”

Oh. Oh.

Nikolai felt his entire soul collapse. His baby was so happy, so excited—so completely unaware of the absolute hell he was going through. Didn’t she know she was supposed to stay small forever?

“You look…” His throat clenched. He couldn’t do this. He blinked furiously, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You look too grown-up, Leigh. Noooooo….Take it off. You’re not going.”

Leigh giggled, completely unaffected by his suffering. “Dada, you’re so silly!”

Silly? Silly? He was grieving. This was a tragedy.

Bran, ever the heartless one, placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s still young, Niko.”

No, she wasn’t. This was only the beginning.

First, it was school. Then, she’d be reading books without his help. Then, she’d be talking about some little punk she had a crush on—some worthless brat who wouldn’t be good enough for her, no matter what.

Then it would be prom—a date—then college. And then, one day, she’d come home and tell him she was getting married to some useless brat who thought he was worthy of her.

No. No. No.

“She’s leaving me,” Nikolai whispered, traumatized by the future playing out in his head.

Bran sighed deeply, running a hand down his face. “She’s going to pre-school, not getting married.”

Same thing.

Leigh, oblivious to the emotional hurricane her father was experiencing, clapped her little hands. “Dada, let’s gooo! I wanna see my class!”

Nikolai turned his wounded gaze to Bran, betrayal written all over his face. “I will never forgive you for allowing this.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Niko.”

But it was too late. Nikolai ,the ruthless, untouchable mafia leader, had officially lost his little girl to the cruel, unforgiving passage of time.

………………..

Nikolai stood by the preschool gate, arms crossed, radiating pure doom and gloom. If anyone didn’t know him, they’d assume he was here to kill someone—not to pick up his five-year-old daughter.

Bran sighed beside him, hands in his pockets, watching their daughter’s classroom door with an amused smile. “You look like you’re waiting to shake down a teacher, Niko.”

“I might.” Nikolai scowled. It had been four hours. Four long, painful, excruciating hours. “She’s too young for this, Brandon.”

Bran groaned. “Again with this?”

Nikolai didn’t respond. He was suffering in silence. His baby—his perfect, innocent baby—had been away from him for an entire morning, thrown into a world of tiny, sticky-fingered heathens he didn’t trust.

Just as Bran opened his mouth to no doubt scold him for being a dramatic, overprotective idiot, the preschool door burst open.

And there she was. Leigh.

Their little girl came skipping out, her tiny backpack bouncing behind her, her face beaming with happiness.

Bran smiled warmly. “See? She had fun.”

But Nikolai was still brooding. Fun? Or was she traumatized and hiding it? What if she had been bullied? Forced to share her toys? What if she had cried, and he hadn’t been there to pick her up immediately?

Bran crouched down to her level, ruffling her pigtails. “How was school, princess?”

Leigh grinned. “I had lots of fun with the boys!”

Silence.

Nikolai’s soul left his body. His stomach plummeted to hell. His worst nightmare was coming true.

He turned his betrayed, horrified gaze to Bran. “See? I told you!”

Bran groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Niko—”

But then Leigh turned to Nikolai, tilted her head like a little menace, and grinned wider. “But, Dada, you told me to punch dumb boys, right?”

Bran froze.

Nikolai blinked.

Leigh clapped her tiny hands together. “It was really fun!”

For a second, there was complete silence.

Then—

Nikolai burst into booming, delighted laughter.

“Now that is my little princess!” Niko declared, pride shining in his eyes.

Bran rubbed his temples. “I officially put both of you up for adoption.”

But Nikolai was too busy beaming at his perfect daughter. He scooped her up into his arms, spinning her in the air as she shrieked with laughter. “You know what, princess?” He kissed her cheek. “I’m getting you that tiny blue bike you asked for.”

Leigh gasped, eyes lighting up like fireworks. “Really?”

Niko nodded solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. “You have made me the proudest father in the world today.”

Bran groaned. “She assaulted a kid.”

“She assaulted a dumb kid.” Niko corrected, grinning like an idiot.

Leigh nodded proudly. “He tried to steal my crayons, Dada. So I made him cry.”

Bran nearly choked. “Jesus Christ.”

Niko wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I raised a warrior.”

Bran shook his head and turned away, done with both of them. “I swear, I am the only adult in this family.”

But Leigh was giggling in Niko’s arms, cheeks red with joy, and for once—just for once—Bran let himself smile.

“I just want to protect you. You don’t have to let me in your heart, Remi. But at least let me guard it from the outside. Let me shield you from whatever it is that haunts you.” -Vaughn Morozov

Love this!!!

Where's the trophy? He just comes running over to me - Maxiel

Summary:

Max kisses Daniel after winning the Japanese GP, ending years of secrecy. The world goes wild, and Daniel steps fully into his iconic F1 WAG era — loud, proud, and completely in love.

Max sits in the quiet of his hotel room, the distant hum of the city below muffled behind thick glass. The adrenaline of the race has long since faded, leaving behind the familiar ache — not in his limbs, but somewhere deeper, in that space between ribs and heart, where everything he can't have tends to settle.

He scrolls through his feed, picture after picture of today's podium, the champagne, the fans, the interviews. Everyone smiling. Everyone watching. Always watching. And he’s there too — the golden boy, the champion. Untouchable. Perfect. Alone.

He thinks of Daniel in the paddock today, beaming as always, joking with the crew, laughing with the journalists, slipping into that effortless charm that makes everyone love him. That smile that draws the world in… except Max knows it’s a mask. He knows the real version of it — the tired version, the quiet one, the one Daniel gives him when no one’s looking. That’s the one that guts him.

Because Max knows the cost of loving Daniel in silence, but it's Daniel who pays it every single day.

He wants to kiss him when he wins. Wants to pull him into his arms, bury his face into Daniel’s neck and tell him, You’re the reason I don’t fall apart. He wants to let the cameras flash while he presses his lips to Daniel’s temple, wants to smile and not lie with it for once.

He wants to want, out loud. But he can’t.

The world isn’t kind to men like him. Especially not men like him at the top. There’s no space for vulnerability in the kingdom he's built, no margin for anything soft. They would rip it apart — not just him, but Daniel too. Turn their love into a scandal, make them into something ugly, something to gawk at, to tear down for views and clicks and headlines.

So Max keeps it buried. Keeps him buried.

They move through their world like strangers sometimes, side by side but never touching too long, never looking too deep. In front of others, Daniel is just the goofy friend, the old teammate, the past. Not the man who knows how Max likes his coffee. Not the man who holds him in silence on nights when the world feels too loud. Not the man who taught him how to feel something other than cold.

And what kills Max the most isn’t his own restraint — it’s Daniel’s understanding.

No protests. No ultimatums. Just that same soft smile, the one he gives when Max brushes past him without a glance, when Max pretends not to notice his lingering stares, when Max shrinks his love down into something palatable, something the world can swallow without choking.

“I understand,” Daniel says. Every time. Like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t carve him out too.

Max wants him to not understand. Wants him to yell, to fight, to demand more. Because maybe then Max could justify the pain — maybe then he could hate Daniel a little, for pushing, for asking, for making it harder. But Daniel never does.

He just stands there, heart in his hands, and offers it anyway. Quiet. Constant. Crushing.

Max presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, willing the burn away. He should be happy. He’s at the top of the world. But what’s the point of a podium when the person you want to share it with has to stand in the shadows?

What’s the point of winning when the only thing you want to shout about is the one thing you can’t say?

………..

Daniel lies with his head in Max’s lap, legs curled up on the couch, one socked foot lazily brushing against the cushions. Max has the remote in hand, flipping through channels with that usual absentminded focus — not really watching anything, just searching for something to drown out the silence they don’t talk about.

The room is dim. Warm. Familiar. It smells like takeout and Max’s cologne and the lingering echo of a kiss they shared in the kitchen twenty minutes ago — the kind that’s too soft, too slow, like it carries all the things Max won’t say out loud.

Daniel scrolls through Instagram. Another photo of Charles and his girlfriend at some event. George and his fiancée. A new post from a Formula 1 WAG account — a montage of drivers' wives and girlfriends, cheering from the pit wall, hugging their partners after the race, some of them posting adorable behind-the-scenes photos, tagged with hearts and matching emojis.

He turns the screen to Max with a lazy smirk that barely hides the ache underneath. “When do I get to be on one of these?”

Max doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his eyes on the TV, frozen halfway between a Netflix menu and a live match.

Daniel chuckles, playing it off like it’s a joke, even though it’s not. “Imagine me in the background, screaming your name like a soccer mom with a team shirt that says ‘Max’s Boyfriend’ in glitter font.” He throws in a dramatic hand motion. “I’d go viral.”

Max smiles, soft and fond. His hand brushes through Daniel’s hair — instinctive, gentle, careful. Always so damn careful. But he doesn’t say anything.

And that silence says everything.

Daniel turns back to his phone, pretending to scroll again. He doesn’t push. He never does. Because he knows.

He knows the pressure Max is under. The eyes. The expectation. The ruthlessness of this world that only loves you when you’re untouchable — cold, perfect, invincible.

There’s no space for softness in that world. No space for him.

Still, there’s a part of Daniel — quiet but constant — that aches to be claimed. Not just in the dark. Not just behind hotel doors or during long-haul flights when no one is watching. He wants to stand by Max on the track, in the sun, in front of everyone, and belong.

Because he does.

Because when Max falls asleep curled into his side, trusting him with all the pieces no one else gets to see — the fear, the doubt, the softness — Daniel feels it in his bones: this is real.

But real doesn’t always mean visible.

Max finally says something, his voice quiet. “You’d steal all my fans.”

Daniel smiles, a hollow little laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Damn right I would. I’m a crowd favorite.”

And Max laughs too, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head, like he always does — when he’s sorry, when he’s scared, when he wishes things were different.

Daniel closes his eyes and lets it happen. He doesn’t ask again.

Because it’s not fair to want what Max can’t give — even if it hurts that no one else knows that the love of his life is sitting right above him, fingers threading through his curls, as if that touch could erase the world they’re forced to hide in.

And the worst part? Daniel does understand.

He always has.

………

The clink of cutlery on fine china grates on Max’s nerves like nails on glass. The restaurant is dimly lit, glowing with luxury — crystal chandeliers, gold accents, laughter that doesn’t reach the eyes. He’s seated at a long, polished table surrounded by sponsors, team execs, a few fellow drivers — all dressed up, all smiling too wide. All pretending.

Max stares down at the plate in front of him, some fancy, tiny portion of something he can’t even pronounce. He’s not hungry. Not for this.

What he wants is back home. A small apartment kitchen. Daniel barefoot, shirt half tucked, humming off-key while he flips something in a pan with absolutely no recipe. The smoke alarm probably going off. Max yelling at him to open a window while laughing anyway. Burnt food. Cold beer. His arms around Daniel from behind. The world far, far away.

“Max.”

The voice snaps him out of the daydream. He looks up, blinking.

Carlos.

Seated beside him, glass of wine in hand, watching him too closely. There’s no smile on Carlos’s face, no joke laced in his tone. Just something steady. Honest. Dangerous.

“You know he’s going to leave someday, right?” Carlos says low, voice just beneath the chatter of the room. “If you don’t stop hesitating.”

Max stiffens. His fork clinks against the plate.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carlos gives him a look — the kind that sees right through all of Max’s defenses. “Yes, you do.”

Max opens his mouth. Closes it. His heart pounds, loud in his ears, louder than the meaningless conversation around them. He tries to focus on his plate again. On anything else. But Carlos’s words hang heavy between them.

“He deserves better than being hidden like a dirty little secret,” Carlos says, quieter now. “You know he does.”

Max clenches his jaw, voice tight. “This isn’t easy. You think I want this?”

“No. I think you’re scared,” Carlos says, unfazed. “And I get it. But hiding him isn’t protecting him, Max. It’s hurting him. And you.”

Max doesn’t say anything.

Because he knows.

Every time Daniel smiles through disappointment. Every time he jokes just to keep the weight off Max’s shoulders. Every time he understands without being asked to — it breaks something inside him.

Carlos leans in just slightly. “You’re the fastest man on track. But one day, you might regret being the slowest in your own life.”

Max swallows hard.

The food’s gone cold.

And suddenly, this room — this gilded, polished world — feels like a cage. One he built himself. One that Daniel’s waiting patiently outside of, hand always held out, never demanding, never begging — just there.

But for how much longer?

Max grips his fork tighter. His knuckles turn white.

He can win every championship. Shatter every record.

But if he loses Daniel… What’s the point of any of it?

………

The roar of the engines fades into the thunder of the crowd, but Max hears none of it. Not the screech of tires, not the frantic voices on the radio, not the commentators yelling about records shattered and history made.

All he hears — all he feels — is the pounding of his heart and the way his eyes find him.

There he is. Daniel.

In the stands, barely five rows up, in a Red Bull tee two sizes too big and a cap pulled low like he’s trying to blend in — but there’s no blending for Max. Not when he’s looking for him. Daniel’s not waving a banner or screaming his name, but he’s there. Winking. Smiling. His mouth shaping the words Max has memorized from him: You did it, baby.

He looks like any other fan — just another face in the crowd.

But to Max, he’s home.

The car pulls into parc fermé. The mechanics swarm. Team radio explodes with victory shouts. P1. Japanese Grand Prix. Another title-defining win. Cameras flash, the anthem booms, and still — none of it matters.

Max doesn’t even wait for the usual routine. Doesn’t rip off his helmet for the post-race interview. Doesn’t even spare a glance at the others behind him, still clambering out of their cars.

His feet move before he can think. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like love.

Through the crowd. Over the barriers. Security trying to stop him — they hesitate. Then recognize him. Then don’t dare. Because Max Verstappen doesn’t stop for anything.

Daniel sees him too late.

He starts to smile. “What’re you—?”

But the words never finish. Because Max kisses him.

Hard.

Like everything he’s swallowed for the past two years finally breaks through. Like he’s tired of loving in the dark. Tired of stolen moments. Tired of regret.

The world around them halts.

A stunned silence ripples through the crowd. The podium stands still. The camera lens refocuses, the broadcasters go quiet, and for a heartbeat — a single, suspended breath — the entire world watches.

And then— Chaos.

Screams. Cheers. Gasps. Applause that erupts like fireworks. Flags waving harder. Someone shouts Max’s name. Others are crying. A camera zooms in just as Daniel’s hand curls behind Max’s neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back with the kind of fierce relief that says finally.

Max pulls away, just slightly, forehead resting against Daniel’s. Breathless. Unshaken.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he says. “I can’t.”

Daniel blinks, eyes glassy. “You sure?”

Max nods, voice quiet but steady. “Fastest man in the world, remember? Took me long enough to realize what matters.”

And Daniel laughs, shaky and full of awe, pulling him in again. “You dramatic little shit.”

Max grins.

And as they stand there, locked in each other’s arms while the world screams in celebration — not just for the race, but for them — Max feels, for the first time in forever, like he’s won something real.

…….

Where's the trophy? He just comes running over to me

……..

Daniel Ricciardo’s F1 WAG era doesn’t start quietly. It begins with a kiss that crashes the internet, melts a thousand phones, and sends the sports world into collective cardiac arrest.

Max kisses him in Japan. On the track. On live TV. In front of God, FIA, and every fan with a social media account.

And just like that — everything changes.

Within hours:

#MAXIEL trends in 47 countries.

The clip hits 25 million views on TikTok by midnight.

Someone posts a slowed-down version with Taylor Swift’s Alchemy playing in the background. It goes insane.

The internet collectively:

“DANIEL RICCIARDO WAG ERA LET’S GOOOOO.”

.......

Send your prompts

Read early story updates in : https://riavolkov.stck.me/

4 times Charles, Max, Lando and Oscar trying to be subtle over their feeling for Carlos but being painfully obvious + 1 time Carlos shocked them

MAXIEL – Life after disater

TRUTH SERUM -CHARLOS

 3 times Lando, Charles, Oscar fought over Carlos + 1 time they decided to share him( aka The Sainz effect)

Vaughn Morozov x Remington Astor - God of Despair

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62137246/chapters/158938864

JerLan - Letter to my Husband

To my husband, my forever,

There are nights when I lie awake and watch you sleep, wondering if this is real—if we are real. If I close my eyes, I can still taste the venom of our hatred, feel the sharp edge of every cruel word we once hurled at each other. We were reckless, violent, self-destructive—a war bound in flesh and fire. I wanted to break you, and you wanted to burn me to the ground.

And yet, here we are.

I have always been obsessed with you, Landon. Whether it was with my hate or with my love, my mind has never known a moment where you did not exist within it. Even in the days we stood on opposite ends of the battlefield, I was still yours. My thoughts were filled with you, my rage was carved for you, my hands ached to touch you—even if only to hurt you.

But love is just another form of destruction, isn’t it?

I think I started loving you when you smirked at me in that dark alley, cigarette between your lips, daring me to do something about the fire you lit inside me. I think I knew you would be mine when you let me touch you that night, even though we both pretended it meant nothing. It was always you, wasn’t it? You, with your goddamn arrogance, your sharp tongue, your chaos wrapped in elegance. You, who made my blood boil, who made me lose control, who pulled me apart and put me back together without even realizing it.

You have always been my obsession, Landon King. And now, you are my husband.

Even now, I still crave you like I did back then. My need for you is not gentle—it is violent, all-consuming, endless. You should know that by now. The way my hands still tighten around your waist, the way my lips still trace every inch of you, the way I still grow jealous when anyone dares to look at you for a second too long.

You are mine.

And I am yours, in a way that both terrifies and completes me.

Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever stop wanting you the way I did when I first realized I couldn’t live without you. But then you look at me—with those sharp, wicked eyes that once held so much hatred, now drowning in love—and I know.

I will want you like this forever.

I will love you as long as I breathe.

I will destroy anything that tries to take you from me.

We are not a love story written in soft words and tender touches. We are a love story written in obsession and ruin, in fire and devotion, in the blood of those who dared to come between us.

I would burn the world for you, Landon. And I know, without a doubt, that you would do the same for me.

So here’s to us. To our war that became love. To our love that will never die.

Your forever, Jeremy Volkov

______________________________________

To my ruin, my obsession, my husband, my greatest temptation

Jeremy, if someone had told me years ago that I would one day wake up with you in my bed, your ring on my finger, your name wrapped around my soul like a brand, I would have laughed in their face. Because you and I were not meant to be a love story.

We were meant to destroy each other.

I still remember the first time I hated you. Hated the way you looked at me as if I was something you could own. Hated the way your presence filled up every space I entered, like a shadow I could never outrun. Hated the way my heart picked up speed whenever you smirked at me like you knew something I didn’t.

But the worst part? I loved it.

I loved the way you made my blood burn. Loved the way you challenged me, infuriated me, made me reckless. Loved the way our war was always laced with something neither of us wanted to name. It was always you. I didn’t want to admit it, but I think some part of me knew it from the very beginning.

And now, here we are.

Husband. I never thought I would wear that title, much less for you. And yet, I do, and I wear it like a crown, like a warning, like a declaration to the world that I am yours and you are mine. Forever.

It should scare me how much I need you, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes me want you more.

There are moments when I catch you looking at me—like I’m something worth worshiping—and it makes me want to tear you apart and put you back together just to remind you that I am just as obsessed with you as you are with me. You are my favorite thing to break. My favorite thing to ruin. My favorite thing to love.

And I do love you, Jeremy.

In the darkest, most twisted way a man can love another.

I love you in the way I refuse to let you out of my sight for too long. I love you in the way I would carve out the hearts of anyone who dares to touch what’s mine. I love you in the way my hands find your skin in the dead of night, tracing every scar, every bruise, every mark I’ve left on you.

You once told me love is just another form of destruction. I used to think you were wrong, but now I know better.

Because you? You have destroyed me completely.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Yours, always, Landon King

KillianLandon -Twisted Desires

Killian had always been a little too curious about Landon King. At first, it was harmless — intrigue over how someone so polished could also be so brutal. But curiosity had a habit of festering in Killian, twisting and evolving into something darker. It started with the way Landon carried himself — all power and arrogance — like he owned every room he walked into. Killian told himself it was just annoyance. That’s why he stared. That’s why he followed Landon’s movements so closely.

But somewhere along the line, the irritation warped into obsession. Slow, creeping, and utterly consuming. It was the kind of obsession that curled beneath Killian’s skin, making his hands twitch whenever Landon spoke too confidently or when that smirk played at the corners of his mouth. On the surface, Killian hated him. That was what everyone saw — sharp glares, biting insults, snide comments. But under all that, he wanted Landon. Wanted in a way that made his chest tighten and his throat dry. It wasn’t soft or sweet — it was vicious, like the need to conquer something dangerous.

He’d never admit it. Not out loud. Not even to himself on most days.

The rivalry between their groups was too strong, the hatred too deep-rooted. And no one could openly want a King, especially not a Heathen. It was practically asking for a death sentence. Killian had always been good at hiding things — the morbid fascinations, the dark thoughts — but this? This was different.

The only one who even remotely knew was Gareth, his brother. Killian remembered the moment too well — Gareth walking in on him watching a video of Landon at one of the underground fights, not even bothering to hide the way his eyes lingered too long on the blood-smeared jawline or the way Landon moved like a predator.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Gareth had muttered.

Killian had only smirked, trying to play it off. “Curiosity, that’s all.”

Gareth hadn’t bought it for a second. “You and your taste in men, Kill. Keep telling yourself that curiosity lie..”

But Gareth wouldn’t tell anyone — Killian knew that much.

Landon, on the other hand, barely noticed him. Why would he? Landon didn’t care about anyone from the Heathens, unless they were bleeding out at his feet. Killian hated how much that thought pissed him off — how it made something sharp twist in his chest.

But he was patient. Obsessions like his didn’t burn out quickly. And someday, he’d make Landon notice him — not as an enemy, but as something else entirely. Something that owned him.

………………………………………………………..

Landon King didn’t give a damn about the Heathens. To him, they were nothing more than annoying cockroaches — loud, arrogant, and constantly trying to bite at his ankles like they stood a chance. He was a King. His bloodline ran with power, old money, and the kind of dominance people couldn’t fake. The Heathens should be grateful he even acknowledged their existence, let alone occasionally crushed them beneath his perfectly polished shoe.

But Killian Carson... now, he was different.

At first, Landon didn’t care for him either — just another mafia prince with too much power and not enough discipline. But then, he noticed the cracks. The tiny, almost invisible fissures beneath Killian’s perfect mask. On the surface, Killian was flawless — calm, cold, collected — but Landon saw more. The small twitch of his jaw when someone got too close, the way his hands flexed like they were holding something back, and most importantly, the way his eyes sometimes lost that detached sheen, replaced by something darker.

It intrigued him. No — it obsessed him.

Landon found himself watching Killian more than he wanted to admit. Picking apart every little tell, trying to unravel him. There was something raw beneath that pristine facade, something Landon needed to see — to break open. He didn’t just want to know Killian; he wanted to own him. Completely. Mind, body, every dark secret.

And that thought pissed him off.

Because Landon didn’t bring people into his world, let alone his space. His room was sacred — a place untouched by the filth of others, even his closest friends. But the idea of Killian there, underneath him, wrecked and ruined, was now haunting Landon’s thoughts in the worst way possible.

He hated Killian — despised the smug smirks, the cold stares, the fact that he acted like he was untouchable. But fuck, he also wanted to pin him down and fuck that arrogance right out of him.

It was maddening. A King should never want a Heathen. But Landon wasn’t just any King — he was the one who always got what he wanted.

And right now? He wanted to break Killian Carson apart — piece by beautiful, dark piece.

…………………………………………………………….

The air outside the underground fight club was thick with smoke, sweat, and tension — a perfect mix of chaos that Landon King thrived in. But tonight, something else pulled his attention.

Killian Carson.

Leaning against the grimy wall of the alley, a cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, looking like he owned the fucking world. That calm, detached aura — it irritated Landon to no end. Always so composed, so perfect, like nothing could touch him.

Landon hated that about Killian.

And yet, here he was, walking straight toward him.

Killian didn’t look up, even when Landon got close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. That smug arrogance was exactly why Landon was going to ruin him.

Without a word, Landon plucked the cigarette from Killian’s fingers. Finally, Killian’s gaze flicked to him, sharp and calculating — but he didn’t speak.

Landon smirked, brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deep, and then leaned in, grabbing Killian’s jaw with a rough grip. Their faces were inches apart, breaths mingling. Killian’s eyes widened slightly — not enough for most people to notice, but Landon saw it.

Then, without hesitation, Landon shotgunned the smoke directly into Killian’s mouth.

For a moment — five, six seconds — Killian let him. Processing the sheer audacity, the shock of it, maybe even liking it, though he’d never admit that. The taste, the heat — it hit him all at once.

But Killian wasn’t someone who stayed passive for long.

His hand shot up, grabbing Landon by the collar and yanking him forward. Their mouths clashed in a violent mess of teeth and tongues, more fight than kiss. It was all sharp edges and dominance, neither willing to give in.

Landon pushed Killian hard against the wall, pinning him there, one knee between his legs. Killian’s breath hitched, but he didn’t stop — biting Landon’s lip hard enough to taste blood. Landon growled, the metallic tang mixing with the nicotine on his tongue.

Fuck, this was addictive.

Eventually, Landon broke the kiss, breathing hard, but his hands didn’t move from Killian’s throat, fingers pressing in just enough to leave a message. “You’re not as perfect as you pretend to be.”

Killian smirked, voice low and rough. “Neither are you.”

That was all it took.

The next thing they knew, they were speeding away in Landon’s car, silence stretched thin between them, the kind that buzzed with tension. They didn’t speak — didn’t need to.

Landon drove them to a remote forest clearing, the kind of place no one would stumble upon by accident. The car door slammed, and within seconds, they were back at it — fists curled into collars, shoving, fighting.

“Why the fuck do you hate me so much?” Killian snarled, shoving Landon back.

“I don’t,” Landon spat, pushing Killian against a tree, pinning his wrists above his head. “I want to own you.”

The fight dissolved into something primal — messy, raw. Their mouths crashed again, and soon enough, Killian’s back was digging into the rough bark, Landon’s hands gripping his thighs, lifting him up effortlessly.

The cold night air was nothing compared to the heat between them.

Landon’s mouth traced Killian’s neck, biting down hard, sucking bruises into his pale skin — marks that would last days. Killian gasped, the mixture of pain and pleasure pushing him to the edge. Landon’s hand wrapped around Killian’s throat, tightening just enough to make his vision blur at the edges, and Killian moaned — actually moaned — as tears pricked his eyes.

“Look at you,” Landon growled, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Fucking perfect when you cry.”

Killian’s nails dug into Landon’s shoulders, desperate, raw, but he didn’t stop him. He couldn’t. The pressure around his throat, the brutal pace Landon set — it was all too much and not enough at the same time.

“Say it,” Landon whispered against his ear, lips brushing the shell. “Tell me who owns you.”

Killian’s breath hitched, a tear slipping down his cheek, mixing with the sweat and dirt. His pride battled with the need clawing at him, but the hand tightening around his throat pushed him over the edge.

“You,” he choked out, barely a whisper.

Landon smirked against his skin, biting down hard. “Good boy.”

And as Killian came undone, tears streaking his face, Landon thought he’d never seen anything more beautiful — more his.