Maxiel - Blog Posts

How time rewrote the script, the world redefined, and yet, you remain the same

superlicense 2015 | fourth wdc 2024

full credit to @slutforpringles for putting these vids together!

What if you were max verstappen and what if this really hot older man met you at a karting thing and he was a fancy f1 driver who also wished you good luck for your super licence and he ends up being your teammate and you didnt know teammates were supposed to be this way because no one else is this way and what if he left you and the team and everyone thought he left because of you but it turns out he's still your friend and he would chase the feeling of having you as a teammate chasing chasing chasing the same feeling he had with you but it is never the same as it was with you and you never chased the feeling because there could only ever be him and then what if you won and you kept winning and he kept having his career ripped to pieces but he always smiled for you and supported you and said "if it's not me then im glad it's him"

and then!!! and then he comes back!!! he could be your teammate again but he joins the junior team but he's still in the family and you get to joke around in the same spot and then!!! he could be back in the car next to you!!!! he writes you a tribute and it makes you have to walk away from prying eyes because he wrote it with such love but then your boss is an incompetent asshole and he ends up walking away forever and you thought you lost him but truly it was never about the sport you were in you were meant to be friends and teammates forever and ever because he still watches your races and comes to a different continent to just play padel with you and it's just you and him forever and you just saw him a few days ago but he's part of a congratulations message and he calls you spectacular like he did so many years ago and you're just a man and you love him and also that man is daniel ricciardo

The more things change, the more they stay the same | 2011 -> 2024

birds of a feather x maxiel

do not repost without permission!!

“They’re still calling you Daniel. Thank you, Daniel.”

so eh...... maxiel huh

what if we used to be teammates and it was my last race (maybe probably possibly) and I gave u everything I had left to give. when ur arguably the reason my career didn't go the way it should have. when I had to leave (because of) u. when I had to watch u succeed where I failed. when I was glad it was u if it couldn't be me. what if it was my last race and u held my umbrella for me and didn't leave my side the whole time and defended me in the media and I gave u everything I had left to give. one last time. and we used to be teammates. what then?

thank you daniel

”They're still calling you Daniel! Just Daniel….” 🥹❤️

My high performance athlete who is good at every sport 🙂‍↕️

Daniel and Max VS RB Academy ahead of the 2017 Austrian GP | @ redbullracing

Max’s face changing immediately when daniel came in like “max, you’re a baaaaad man” omg that’s a boyfriend

very daniel ricciardo to log back in to just make a post that would make max verstappen’s dick hard and log back out

Daniel positing content that isn’t an ad gave me whiplash. And it’s Maxiel???

GAYS?!

They even crush on their older teammates in the same pathetic way 😤😪🙄

Just Max from Daniel's point of view ☺️

When I say I'm not that desperate but I am acting the way Max does around Daniel :(

You are Enough - Maxiel

Daniel thinks he’s not good enough for Max. but Max disagrees

Not just on bad days. Not just after a rough race or a brutal media day. It's a belief that's etched into his bones now—quiet and constant, like background noise he can't quite mute no matter how loud he turns up the music.

He doesn’t say it out loud, not to anyone, not even to himself most of the time.

But he feels it. In every stumble, in every misstep, in every look from the paddock that lingers just a little too long with pity.

The world reminds him of it daily.

He opens his phone and the comments are waiting for him like vultures. Max deserves better.

Why is he still with Daniel?

He’s just a washed-up has-been clinging to a golden boy’s coattails.

Some are cruel, some are subtle, but they all sink their claws into the same bleeding spot inside him. His failures are on public record—every DNF, every broken contract, every gamble that didn’t pay off. And even when he smiles, even when he pretends it doesn’t bother him, there’s a part of him that agrees. That maybe they’re right.

Because Max is Max.

Fast, ruthless, brilliant. The reigning champion, the name etched in record books, the face splashed across every screen and billboard. Everything about Max screams excellence. A machine on track. A phenomenon. A living legend before thirty.

And Daniel? Daniel is the joke people whisper when they talk about comebacks that never quite came true. He’s the punchline in too many think-pieces about missed opportunities and faded stars. He tried to carve out something more, something lasting—but the glitter faded, the cameras moved on, and he was left in the shadows with nothing but a grin stretched too wide to hide the cracks.

So he asks himself, every damn day, why is Max still here?

It doesn’t make sense. Not in any logical, sane way.

And yet—

Max looks at him like Daniel hung the moon. Like he’s the one who built the world Max stands on. There’s no hesitation in Max’s gaze, no second-guessing. Just that same quiet intensity, that same infuriating, grounding certainty that Daniel used to carry himself—back when he still believed he was someone worth believing in.

Max holds his hand when they’re alone, and more importantly, when they’re not. He kisses him soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world. He smiles at him across rooms crowded with cameras, in garages humming with tension, like none of the noise matters. Like all that matters is Daniel.

And when Daniel falls apart—because sometimes he does, silently, in the dark, in the moments when his breath catches and his insecurities press down on his chest like a weight he can’t lift—Max is there.

No lectures. No fixing. Just presence.

He touches Daniel like he’s something fragile but not broken. He whispers into his skin,

"You’re more than enough. You always have been."

He says it like it’s fact, like it’s gravity, like it’s so obvious he can’t imagine why Daniel would think otherwise.

And that’s the thing.

Daniel wants to believe it. He wants to hold onto those words and build something around them—some kind of safety, some kind of truth. But the doubt is insidious. It's not loud, it's not sharp—it’s slow. It’s a creeping, sinking thing. Years of public failure, of watching others rise while he stalled, of standing beside Max and wondering if he looks like a mistake.

And yet, somehow, Max makes him forget it.

At least for a moment. When Max cups his face and presses their foreheads together, when he brushes tears from Daniel’s cheek like they’re nothing to be ashamed of, Daniel thinks—maybe. Maybe I am enough. For him.

It’s terrifying.

To let someone love you when you’re not sure you love yourself anymore. To be seen—truly seen—and not run.

But Daniel stays. He stays because Max keeps choosing him, over and over, in the quiet ways that matter. And one day, maybe Daniel will be able to choose himself the same way.

But until then, Max’s belief is enough to keep him breathing.

To keep him hoping.

To keep him alive.

......

The hotel room is quiet. Dim light spills through the half-drawn curtains, catching on the edge of the bed where Daniel sits, hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands gripping his own hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He steps inside gently, the door clicking softly shut behind him. No shoes, no words, just the sound of his socked feet padding across the carpet.

Daniel doesn’t look up.

His shoulders are shaking.

Max’s heart squeezes in his chest.

He crosses the room slowly, crouching in front of Daniel, lowering himself until he’s eye-level. Still, Daniel doesn’t lift his gaze. Max reaches forward and gently pries one hand from Daniel’s head, lacing their fingers together, grounding him.

“Hey,” Max says, voice low and careful. “Talk to me, liefje.”

Daniel huffs out a bitter laugh, one that cracks halfway through and turns into something else—something broken. “What’s there to say?”

“You’re upset,” Max says simply. “So I want to hear.”

Daniel finally looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with the remnants of unshed tears. His lips part like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Just another shuddering breath.

“I just…” Daniel whispers, looking away again. “I feel like I’m dragging you down. Like you could be—like you should be with someone who shines like you do.”

Max frowns. Not angry. Not upset. Just hurt that Daniel could even think that. He brings their joined hands up and presses a kiss to Daniel’s knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Max asks.

Daniel doesn’t answer, but he leans in, just a little.

“I see the man who taught me how to laugh during the worst years of my life. Who believed in me before anyone else did. I see the driver who fought like hell on track, even when the world kept stacking the odds against him. I see the person I love.”

Daniel’s breath catches, and he blinks fast.

“I don’t care about the noise,” Max continues, cupping Daniel’s cheek with his free hand. “I don’t care about stupid fans or journalists who think they know us. I care about you. You, Dan.”

Daniel’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in Max’s voice. It’s so rare—Max always calls him other things: “mate,” “babe,” “liefje.” But Dan feels raw. Real. Intimate in a different way.

“I know it’s hard,” Max says. “I know you hear them. But I need you to hear me more.”

Daniel leans into Max’s touch, his forehead pressing against Max’s. “It’s just… exhausting, you know? Pretending I don’t care. Pretending I still have it together.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Max murmurs. “Not ever.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Daniel crumbles.

Quietly, but completely.

Max pulls him in without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Daniel and tugging him off the bed and into his lap on the floor. Daniel clings to him, face buried in Max’s shoulder, breath hitching against his neck. Max rocks them gently, one hand stroking up and down Daniel’s back, the other still wrapped around his hand.

They sit like that for a long time, Max humming something under his breath, fingers tracing circles over Daniel’s spine. Just presence. Just comfort. No expectations.

When Daniel’s breathing finally evens out, Max presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”

And Daniel believes him.

Not because the noise stops. Not because the doubts are gone.

But because when Max holds him like this, like he’s something precious—not a mistake, not a burden—it’s the only truth that matters.

....

It starts on a podium.

Daniel’s not even racing that weekend—he’s just there, part of the team, part of Max’s world. He keeps a low profile, tries to melt into the background even though the cameras always find him anyway. The whispers are constant, same as always.

“What’s Daniel doing here?” “Does Max really need the distraction?” “Why is he still hanging on?”

Daniel hears them, even if Max doesn’t.

And Max… he’s done pretending not to notice.

So when the race ends, and Max wins (because of course he does—he’s Max), he takes the usual path up to the top step. Trophy raised. Anthem played. Champagne sprayed.

But this time, as the photographers crowd the front of the podium and the interviewers line up with their mics and questions, Max does something else.

He takes off his cap, runs a hand through his hair, and glances past the crowd—eyes scanning until he finds Daniel, standing off to the side in the team gear, clapping, smiling that soft, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Max steps forward.

Down from the podium. Off the stage.

Straight toward Daniel.

And before anyone can process what’s happening, Max reaches for him.

One arm around his waist. One hand cradling the side of Daniel’s neck. A soft, sure look in his eyes.

Then Max kisses him.

Not a peck. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing.

A real kiss. A statement.

And for the first time, the crowd falls silent.

The cameras flash. Dozens, hundreds, a thousand lenses pointed at them—but Max doesn’t care. He leans in like the world isn’t watching, like he’s doing it just for Daniel, but everyone sees.

Daniel freezes, overwhelmed, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. When Max pulls back just a little, eyes still on his, he whispers, low and sure:

“Let them talk.”

Daniel blinks, stunned.

“They don’t know a damn thing,” Max continues. “I love you. That's what matters.”

It’s not just the kiss. It’s everything after.

Max answers every press question with Daniel’s name spoken like it’s sacred. He posts a photo later that night: just Daniel, curled into his side, captioned simply: My win, every day. He brushes off reporters who try to bait him into controversy. “He’s not a distraction. He’s my peace.”

And it works.

Not because the world suddenly becomes kind.

But because Max doesn’t flinch.

Because he keeps holding Daniel’s hand on the grid. Keeps pulling him into frame for photos. Keeps choosing him, again and again, in front of the world.

It doesn’t fix everything overnight. The noise is still there. But it starts to shift. A few headlines soften. A few fans change their tone. A few of them finally see.

And Daniel?

For the first time in a long time, he believes it.

Because Max didn’t just say it in the dark, with no one around to hear.

He said it in the light.

Where it mattered most.

Where the world had to watch—and listen.

...................

Hiiiiii guys!!!

This fic is something really close to my heart. “You Are Enough” isn’t just a story about Max comforting Daniel ...... it’s also a little love letter to you. Whoever you are, wherever you are in life right now… I want you to know this:

You are more than enough. Even on the days you feel like you’re not. Even when the world feels too heavy. Even when your heart feels tired. You are still enough — just as you are.

Thank you for reading this story, for letting these boys hold your heart for a little while. And if this fic gave you a moment of softness, comfort, or just a breath of peace.....I’m really, really glad.

Take care of yourself. Drink water. Get some rest. Be gentle with yourself.

You are loved. You are wanted. You are enough.

With all my love, Ria <3

.........................................................

Check out my other works in:

Unexpected Cupid – George x Max ft. Kimi Antonelli

Fake love -Lestappen

Paper rings - Maxiel

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

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.”

.......

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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)