Eli King X Killian Carson - God Of Wreck

NikoBran & JerLan - “Can I have your son for the rest of my life?”

Brandon was having an exceptional day, one of those rare stretches of uninterrupted peace and focus. His latest canvas, an impressionist vision of Nikolai with that usual mix of shadowed wild charm, was coming together perfectly. He smiled to himself, dabbing a bit more paint to capture the angle of Nikolai’s jaw, a touch of light for the smirk that, to him, was pure art. His muse. His Heathen Peasant. Really, if he were to be honest, Nikolai was as good as a prince himself—but it was fun, calling him his Peasant. After all, didn’t Niko call him his Prince Charming?

Lost in his work, he barely noticed the sound of footsteps until the door slammed open behind him. He turned just as his twin, Landon, stormed in, his phone clutched in his hand, looking like he was about to deliver some dire news. Brandon raised a brow, unfazed, and continued to blend colors on his palette. What now?

“Have you seen Jeremy and Nikolai’s story?” Landon asked, his voice sharp with barely-contained annoyance.

Brandon shook his head, shrugging as he wiped his hands off. “Not yet. What’s so urgent?” he asked casually, though he snatched the phone from Landon with practiced ease.

The screen lit up with an image of Jeremy and Nikolai mid-soccer game, both flexing their arms with ridiculous grins, muscles on full display, jerseys clinging from the sweat. It was practically designed to be a thirst trap, and Brandon felt his eye twitch at the sight of them looking like they were on the cover of a sports magazine. Soccer? His mind reeled for a second as he thought aloud, “Why soccer of all things?”

He barely had a moment to process before Eli sauntered in, phone in hand, looking far too amused. “Ah, so you saw it too?” he said with a chuckle, nodding towards the story as Brandon continued staring, his annoyance only growing. “Guess I should explain. Last time I visited Killian, Jeremy and Nikolai were tagging along, as usual. I might have mentioned that Uncle Levi, was a bit of a soccer star in his prime. Thought it would be funny if they used that fact to ‘charm’ the future in-law,” Eli grinned, shrugging. “Didn’t think they’d actually take it this far.”

Landon crossed his arms, shaking his head. “You’re telling me that you planted this insane idea in their heads, and they just ran with it?”

Eli’s grin only widened as he shrugged. “What can I say? They seemed… interested. They said they wanted to get Uncle Levi’s approval.”

Brandon groaned, rubbing his temples, but he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, of course, they’re using my dad’s ancient soccer past as an excuse to post thirst traps. This is practically bait. As if Dad would be okay with anyone dating us..Dad thinks we are still kids.,” he muttered, exasperated but amused.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Ilya grumbled under his breath, feeling like he’d been assigned to the most ridiculous mission of his life. He was a hardened mafia guard, for heaven's sake, not some influencer’s cameraman! Yet here he was, jogging across a grassy field with his phone clutched tightly, running after two self-obsessed troublemakers as they posed and flexed in front of the camera. It was like watching a pair of overgrown children, except that these overgrown children were supposed to be the “fearsome” leaders of their respective places in Bartva.

Jeremy struck another dramatic pose, arms flexed, grinning with a perfect smile. Meanwhile, Nikolai kicked an imaginary ball, trying to make the whole thing look at least a little authentic. “Ilya, angle it from lower!” Nikolai barked, pointing downwards with an exaggerated motion. “You’re making us look short!”

Ilya rolled his eyes, adjusting the phone reluctantly. Making them look short? He thought to himself.—how much lower did they need him to go?

Jeremy and Nikolai reviewed the picture and immediately groaned in unison. “Ugh, no. We look ridiculous. Try it again!” Jeremy declared, putting his hands on his hips. “We need to look like the type of future sons-in-law who could make a retired soccer player proud. What would Levi think of that one?”

Ilya sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Look, I can tell you what he’d think,” he muttered. “He’d think you’re both insane.”

But the two weren’t paying him any attention. Jeremy was too busy readjusting his hair, slicking back some stray strands that had come loose. Meanwhile, Nikolai tried a new pose, hands on his knees like he’d just scored a game-winning goal.

“Come on, Ilya! Capture the spirit, the intensity! Make it look like we’re professionals,” Jeremy insisted, gesturing with that trademark confidence of his that could either make a person feel like a million dollars or make them want to throttle him.

“Professional what?” Ilya muttered under his breath. “Professional pains in my—”

“Did you say something?” Nikolai asked, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” Ilya grumbled louder this time, raising the phone again. “Just hoping no one comes by to see this madness.”

The two posed dramatically, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, staring off into the distance as though contemplating their destiny. They were fully committed, completely unfazed by how utterly absurd they looked.

After a dozen more failed shots and several changes in angle, they finally settled on one they deemed acceptable. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief, ready to reclaim his dignity as a serious bodyguard—but, of course, his relief was short-lived.

“Alright, now off to the art studio,” Nikolai announced with a grin, completely unaware of the suffering he was causing. “If we’re gonna win over Brandon and Landon’s mom, we need her to know we’re more than just pretty faces and sports studs.” He winked at Jeremy, who smirked back.

Ilya groaned as the two trotted off toward the mansion’s art studio like it was some grand adventure. He trailed behind, reluctant but helpless, resigned to the fate that being their bodyguard—and, apparently, their personal photographer—was his life now.

When they got to the studio, Jeremy immediately went to the paint supplies and smeared a few colors on a palette. Nikolai changed to a spare hoodie like he was prepping for the biggest art show of his life, eyeing himself in the mirror and adjusting his hair.

“What are you doing?” Ilya finally asked, unable to hold back any longer. “This is getting embarrassing. No one’s going to take you seriously if word about this gets out, you know.”

Nikolai laughed, as if that was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “No one will know, Ilya. That’s the point of having a loyal, trustworthy guard.” He winked, entirely too cheeky for someone who had just spent the last hour meticulously arranging his poses for Instagram stories.

Jeremy was even worse. He dipped a brush into a bucket of dark red paint, flicking it around on the canvas with the dramatic flair of a true artist, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Just a few more shots, Ilya,” he said, grinning as he smeared paint on his cheek with his thumb. “Make sure I look soulful, you know, like I’ve got depth.”

Depth? Ilya couldn’t help but wonder what depths these two had beyond the ridiculousness he’d been forced to endure all afternoon. Still, he raised the phone and clicked another photo, this time capturing Jeremy looking “deep and thoughtful” with his paint-smeared face and Nikolai gazing intensely at his “masterpiece” on the canvas.

The two reviewed the photo, nodding approvingly, clearly impressed with their own efforts. “Oh, this one is perfect,” Nikolai said with a proud smile, patting Ilya on the back as if he were some award-winning photographer.

Ilya muttered under his breath, casting a wary glance toward the studio entrance, just in case anyone came in. The last thing he needed was for someone else in the mafia to see him in this compromising position, photographing Jeremy and Nikolai pretending to be artists. He’d never hear the end of it.

Ilya clicked off the shot, shaking his head in disbelief. “This… this is a new low,” he said, but Nikolai just laughed, wrapping an arm around Jeremy’s shoulder as they reviewed the clip, fully satisfied.

“Well, we’re off to charm the in-laws,” Jeremy said with a grin, giving Ilya a thumbs up. “Thanks for all the hard work today, Ilya. You’re a real gem.”

Ilya groaned, fully intending to take the next two days off to recover from the utter humiliation of being their camera-wielding sidekick.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Levi sat at his desk, his phone in hand, scrolling through the barrage of photos and videos sent by those two hooligans, Jeremy and Nikolai. Each shot was more ridiculous than the last—images of Jeremy flexing and grinning like a wolf, Nikolai attempting to look “soulful” while smearing paint on a canvas, and, of course, the final pièce de résistance: a slow-motion video of them “playing” soccer, all dramatic lighting and ridiculous poses.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “What am I looking at? Did they… did they even kick the ball once?” He squinted at one of the pictures, which featured Jeremy with his arm around Nikolai, both gazing dramatically into the distance .

“Who do they think they’re fooling?” Levi mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. “They probably don’t know the first thing about soccer. They’re just trying to butter me up.” He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing as he came to grips with the fact that these two were very likely going to be his sons-in-law.

Astrid breezed by, catching a glimpse of the photos over his shoulder. She laughed, taking the phone from him to get a closer look. “Oh, that’s adorable! Look how hard they’re trying,” she said, scrolling to the picture where Jeremy was staring off into the horizon with paint smudged on his cheek. “They’re doing this to impress you, you know.”

“Impress me?” Levi huffed. “By making themselves look like fools? If they wanted to impress me, they’d stay out of trouble and keep their little mafia nonsense to themselves. But no, my sons have to fall for the most dangerous mafia boys.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “You’re just mad because they’re flaunting how much they adore our sons.”

Levi grumbled as she handed him back the phone. “I’m mad because they think this’ll win me over. Look at them—posing like a couple of overgrown schoolboys!.”

Astrid shook her head with a smile. “Oh, Levi. They’re in love. And those two hooligans will do whatever it takes to show you they’re serious about Brandon and Landon.”

Levi scrolled “What do Brandon and Landon even see in these idiots?” he muttered, though there was a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

Astrid smiled, amused. “Oh, you know exactly what they see. What I saw in you. Love. Protection and a bit of madness .”

playing pretend rather than have a serious conversation with me.”

Astrid shook her head, still smiling, as she went to pour herself a cup of tea. Levi watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to his phone, smirking despite himself at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

Levi let out a sigh of grudging acceptance. “Well, I suppose I could be stuck with worse. At least they’re entertaining.” He gave one last look at the ridiculous soccer photo, muttering with a half-smile, “But they’d better be ready to prove themselves, because winning over this father-in-law will take a hell of a lot more than paint and muscle flexing.”

......

Taglist:

@lanterns-and-daydreams

NikoBran – Friend ❌Boyfriend ✅

Brandon King had always known that Nikolai Sokolov was it for him. There was no question in his mind, no hesitation in his heart. Nikolai had ruined him for anyone else. There would be no other, no alternative, no second choice—just Nikolai, with his sharp grin, easy laughter, and eyes that saw straight through him.

But Brandon was a coward.

He had never once said it aloud. Not the way he should. Not with the kind of conviction that Nikolai deserved. Instead, he had let the words rot inside his chest, let them fester beneath the weight of his own fears.

So he kept Nikolai in the shadows.

He pretended not to notice the flash of hurt in Nikolai’s eyes when he said, “Pretend you don’t know me in public.”

He convinced himself that Nikolai’s goofiness afterward meant he was fine, that he didn’t mind, that he understood why Brandon needed to keep them a secret.

He ignored how Nikolai would practically light up when someone casually asked, “Are you two together?” only for that light to die the second Brandon laughed and brushed it off with a, “We’re just friends.”

He acted like he didn’t see the way Nikolai’s shoulders slumped whenever he pulled his hand away in public, as if being seen with Nikolai was some kind of sin.

But he did see.

Brandon saw it all.

It was in the quiet moments, when no one was around, that the weight of his actions pressed down on him the hardest. When they were alone in his apartment, tangled up in sheets and silence, Nikolai would look at him like he was the most precious thing in the world, like he was Brandon’s, and Brandon was his, and that nothing else mattered.

Brandon knew he had that look too, the one that told the truth even when his mouth spewed lies.

He knew because Nikolai wasn’t stupid.

And that was what made it all worse.

Nikolai knew. He had to know. Because he stayed. He stayed even though Brandon treated him like a dirty secret. He stayed even though Brandon denied him in public. He stayed even though he deserved better.

And Brandon?

Brandon was selfish enough to let him.

It wasn’t until one night, when Nikolai was sleeping beside him, his face soft in the dim glow of the city lights, that the realization hit Brandon like a fist to the gut.

If he lost him—if one day, Nikolai decided he was done waiting, done hoping, done pretending that it didn’t hurt—Brandon would break. He would shatter into something unfixable. Because this wasn’t just some passing thing. This wasn’t just love.

This was forever.

And Brandon was the one ruining it.

The idea of losing Nikolai?

That was the one thing that terrified him.

It wasn’t enough to love him in the quiet.

It wasn’t enough to keep him behind closed doors.

Because love wasn’t meant to be hidden. It wasn’t meant to be whispered in the dark and ignored in the light.

And if Brandon didn’t do something—if he didn’t fix this—he was going to lose the one thing in this world he could never replace.

The question was: did he have the courage to fight for it?

Or would he let his fear be the thing that destroyed them?

…………………

Nikolai has always known that Brandon King was a coward.

A beautiful, brilliant, maddening coward.

And yet, Nikolai would wait. He would wait forever if he had to.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t see it—the hesitation in Brandon’s eyes before he pulled away, the way his laughter sounded just a little too forced when he denied their relationship in public, the way his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long before slipping out of Nikolai’s grasp as if being seen with him was a sin. Nikolai wasn’t a fool. He saw it all. He felt it all.

But he never said a word.

Because for every moment of hesitation, there was another where Brandon looked at him like he was the only thing that made sense in this world. There were the nights where they lay tangled together, where Bran kissed him like he would die without him, where he whispered "mine" against Nikolai’s lips like it was a prayer. And wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that real?

But then morning would come. And Brandon would step back into the perfect little world of the Kings, and Nikolai would once again become the secret. The unsaid.

"We’re just friends."

Brandon would laugh, easy and careless, whenever someone asked.

And Nikolai would feel something inside him crack—sharp and painful—before he forced a grin, matching Bran’s energy, as if it didn’t fucking hurt. As if his heart didn’t splinter every time.

But still, he stayed.

Because Brandon was the only person who had ever felt like home. The only person he had ever loved with the full, unrelenting force of himself. And if waiting was the price to pay, if being hidden was the cost, then so be it.

He would endure. He would be patient.

Because one day, Bran would wake up and realize.

One day, Bran would see that Nikolai wasn’t just some secret to be kept.

He was the forever that Brandon was too afraid to claim.

And Nikolai? He would wait for that day. He would wait forever.

……………….

Nikolai had dragged Brandon to this café, like always, because he was craving something sweet. Like always.

Bran had just rolled his eyes, muttering something about Niko’s addiction to sugar, but still followed without complaint. Because, really, when had he ever denied Nikolai anything?

The scent of freshly baked pastries filled the air as they settled into a corner booth. Nikolai, as usual, was already eyeing the dessert menu like it held the secrets of the universe.

A few minutes later, the waiter—a bright-eyed girl with bouncing energy—came to take their order.

Nikolai was halfway through debating between a chocolate lava cake and a strawberry shortcake when she suddenly squealed.

"Oh my God! You guys are a couple, right? You look so cute together!"

Nikolai stilled.

His heart clenched, his fingers tightening around the menu, but he didn’t look up. He knew what came next. He always did.

"We’re just frie—"

Except, the words never came.

Instead, he felt something warm—solid, grounding—enclosing his hand. Brandon’s hand.

"Yeah," Bran said, voice casual, but there was something in it—something steady, unshakable. "He’s my boyfriend."

Nikolai snapped his head toward him so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

What.

He must’ve misheard. Right?

But no—there was Bran, completely relaxed, fingers laced through his like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like this wasn’t the first time he had ever acknowledged Nikolai as his.

The waiter exploded into fangirling, gushing about how adorable they were, how she knew it the moment she saw them, how they totally gave off soulmate energy.

Nikolai didn’t hear any of it.

He was too busy short-circuiting.

Because—Brandon King just called him his boyfriend. In public. With actual witnesses.

Nikolai was still frozen even after their desserts arrived, still blinking at Bran in stunned silence

From the moment the words left his mouth—"Yeah, he’s my boyfriend"—Brandon knew there was no going back.

And maybe he should’ve done this a long time ago.

Because seeing Nikolai’s usual confident, playful smirk wiped off his face—replaced with genuine shock, awe, and the softest pink dusting his cheeks—was something Bran knew he would remember forever.

But the best part?

He wasn’t done yet.

The entire day, Bran made sure Nikolai knew exactly what he meant by those words.

It started small.

Then, when they walked out of the café, Bran interwined their fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Nikolai? The Nikolai Sokolov?

Tripped over his own feet.

Bran caught him easily, biting back a smirk. "Careful, baby."

Niko choked.

The rest of the day was even worse.

Bran held his hand whenever he got the chance. Opened doors for him. Tugged him close.

When they stopped by a street vendor, he casually fed Niko a bite of his crepe, not even thinking twice about it.

Nikolai, on the other hand, was not okay.

"You—you—you’re doing this on purpose," Niko accused, looking like his brain had fully short-circuited.

Bran tilted his head. "Doing what?"

"This! The—" Niko waved his hands in the air, as if trying to capture whatever sorcery Bran was pulling. "The boyfriend treatment!"

Bran pretended to think about it. Then, he smirked. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

Niko opened his mouth, then closed it. His ears were so red now, they could rival a fire truck.

Bran leaned in, voice dropping into a soft murmur. "You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you, Niko?"

And for the first time ever, Nikolai Sokolov was left speechless.

“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

Vaughn Morozov x Remington Astor - God of Despair

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

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)

Jeremy Volkov x Landon King - The Devil's Match

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60931777

Creighton x Mikhail - Riding Lessons (ft. Traumatised Dad Aiden)

The clink of cutlery echoed through Aiden King’s grand dining hall as Landon shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth. The pasta was... questionable—courtesy of Aunt Elsa, whose cooking skills were the stuff of whispered family horror stories—but Landon was nothing if not brave. Or maybe just really hungry.

"So then I told him," Landon said, mid-chew, sauce splattering slightly, "if you think—"

"Swallow before you speak," Aiden cut in, voice flat, glaring at Landon like he’d personally offended the entire King bloodline.

Landon grinned, mouth still half-full, because pissing off Uncle Aiden was his favorite sport. He took a giant, exaggerated swallow and waved his fork around. “You know, Uncle Aiden, you really should try relaxing. Might help with the wrinkles.”

Aiden’s jaw clenched, but before he could fire back, the doors creaked open.

Landon didn’t notice at first—too busy gesturing dramatically about some nonsense story—but then he felt it. The shift in the room. The tension.

He turned his head.

What the hell?.

Mikhail Orlov. Mafia heir. Russian. Creighton’s boyfriend. Aka: the walking death wish.

Landon nearly choked on the pasta, eyes bulging. Oh my god. Mikhail’s here. He’s here. Uncle Aiden is going to murder him. I’m about to witness a mafia bloodbath, and it’s not even dessert yet.

He subtly inched his phone closer. I need to record this.

Mikhail, looking far too relaxed for someone seconds away from death, walked straight up to Aiden and stuck out his hand. “Mr. King,” he greeted with that same infuriatingly smooth grin.

Landon froze. Oh, he’s dead. So dead.

Aiden didn’t stand up. Didn’t even scowl. He just... reached out and shook Mikhail’s hand with a small nod. “Mikhail. Creighton’s upstairs,” he said simply, jerking his head toward the staircase like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Landon’s jaw hit the table. What the actual—?!

Mikhail, still grinning, gave a polite, “Thank you,” before striding confidently up the stairs.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Landon blinked at Aiden. “Uh... who was that?” He tried to sound casual, but his voice came out a pitch too high.

Aiden, already reaching for his wine glass, replied without missing a beat, “Creighton’s riding tutor. Here to pick Creighton for practice”

Landon promptly choked on the pasta. Aunt Elsa patted his back helpfully—a bit too hard, Aunt!—while Landon coughed and spluttered, tears forming in his eyes.

Riding tutor? Oh, he’s teaching Creighton how to ride, alright—just not on any horse.

Landon bit his cheek to stop himself from bursting out laughing. This is gold. He could say something now—spill the whole truth—but where was the fun in that? No, it’d be so much better when it all exploded naturally. He could practically see it: Aiden discovering the truth, Mikhail probably smirking through it, Creighton turning bright red... Oh, this is going to be epic.

He cleared his throat and stabbed another bite of pasta, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “Well... I’m sure Creighton’s learning a lot.”

Aiden didn’t catch the double meaning and just nodded. “He better be.”

Landon barely held back his laughter, his mind already plotting how to make this blow up in the most dramatic way possible.

Let the chaos brew.

……………………………………………………………………

The conversation was flowing brightly, as it usually did during King family dinners. Landon was pushing the food around on his plate, occasionally kicking Brandon under the table to keep himself entertained.

Just as Landon was about to make a snarky comment, the front door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed through the hall. All heads turned as Mikhail Orlov walked into the dining room, wearing a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and that signature cocky grin on his face.

Landon almost spit out his drink. He showed up again? This was about to be so good.

Mikhail casually stepped forward, hands in his pockets. “Evening,” he greeted, eyes flickering to Creighton for a split second before turning to the family.

Jonathan King raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Before Mikhail could speak, Aiden cut in smoothly, completely unbothered, “This is Mikhail Orlov. Creighton’s riding tutor.”

Landon almost fell out of his chair. He’s still going with that?

Jonathan’s frown deepened. “Riding tutor? Since when does Creighton ride horses?”

Aiden cleared his throat, trying to look composed. “Royal Elite University and King’s University are hosting a horse race next month. Creighton’s contesting.” Aiden glanced at Creighton, who was sitting quietly, sipping water like none of this chaos involved him. “He usually doesn’t like people, but he... tolerates Mikhail, so I hired him.”

Landon snorted into his glass. Tolerates? Brandon nudged Landon under the table, grinning, before leaning closer and whispering, “I’m pretty sure Creighton more than tolerates Mikhail.”

Landon barely managed to contain his laughter.

Levi, who had been silently observing, suddenly turned to his sons, his voice booming. “And why aren’t you two participating in this horse race?”

Landon and Brandon both choked on their drinks at the same time.

“W-what?” Landon sputtered.

“Dad, we don’t—” Brandon began, but Levi was already waving them off.

“You two have grown lazy. Mikhail,” Levi called out, gesturing for Mikhail to come over.

Mikhail strolled over, completely unfazed, standing right next to Levi, who gave him an approving nod. “You’re Creighton’s tutor, right? Find someone good for my sons. I want them both in this race.”

Landon’s brain short-circuited. Seriously dad??

But Mikhail, the audacious devil, only smirked. “Of course. I know just the people.”

“Oh?” Levi asked, intrigued.

“For Landon, I can recommend Jeremy. He’s excellent with teaching,” Mikhail said with a perfectly innocent expression, though Landon caught the wicked glint in his eyes.

Glyndon choked nearby.

“And for Brandon,” Mikhail continued smoothly, “Nikolai. He’s... very experienced.”

Brandon looked stunned, trying not to look as panicked as Landon.

Levi, however, nodded approvingly. “Good. Set it up.”

Meanwhile, Landon and Brandon exchanged wide-eyed looks across the table, mentally screaming. Mikhail just handed us over to our boyfriends under Dad’s nose.

Landon leaned over to Brandon and whispered, “This is going to blow up so hard.”

Brandon, still trying to breathe, nodded. “And I can’t wait.”

……………………………………………………………………

Aiden decided to come to the island to watch his son’s race.

As he neared Creighton’s door, he heard voices inside—specifically Mikhail’s deep, accented tone.

“Yeah, just like that… ride, ride exactly like that.”

Aiden froze mid-step, brow furrowing. Wait, what?

He tilted his head. Is he teaching Creighton indoors? Weird, but maybe it’s some advanced technique? Aiden, with his infinite dad wisdom, reasoned it out. But curiosity got the better of him.

Without knocking, he pushed open the door.

And promptly wished he hadn’t.

There was no horse. Not even a saddle. Just Mikhail sprawled across Creighton’s bed, shirt halfway undone, with Creighton—his baby—riding him. Not in the equestrian sense. Nope.

Aiden’s brain did a full blue-screen crash.

His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish, but no words came out.

Creighton yelped, scrambling off Mikhail, dragging the sheets up to his face in horror. “DAD!” he screamed, mortified.

Mikhail, the audacious Russian devil, barely flinched. He just smirked lazily, stretching as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Aiden’s eye twitched. He opened his mouth, intending to yell, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, he just… turned around. Like a malfunctioning robot.

He walked—no, stumbled—downstairs, each step heavier than the last. When he reached the living room, he sat down on the pristine white couch, hands folded in his lap, staring into the void. His mind was empty. Completely blank.

His son. His innocent, precious baby… riding. But not horses. Not horses at all.

Minutes passed in awkward, soul-crushing silence before footsteps echoed from the stairs. A red-faced Creighton walked down, avoiding all eye contact, looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Beside him, Mikhail descended casually, hands in his pockets, smirking. Like the devil he was.

Aiden’s eye twitched again as they approached.

He snapped out of his daze just enough to glare at Mikhail. “You… lied to me.”

Mikhail tilted his head, all faux innocence. “I didn’t lie. I told you I was giving Creighton riding lessons.” He shrugged. “I never specified what kind.”

That was it.

Aiden’s brain rebooted just enough for him to stand, fists clenched. Before Mikhail could react, Aiden swung—his punch connecting right with Mikhail’s smirking face.

BAM.

Mikhail stumbled back, still grinning, wiping blood off his lip. “Good hit, sir,” he chuckled.

Creighton, still hiding behind his hands, groaned. “Dad! Stop!”

But Aiden was too far gone, his entire life flashing before his eyes. “There was no horse!” he bellowed, pointing wildly.

Mikhail, with the gall of someone who clearly didn’t care about self-preservation, smiled wider. “Don’t worry. He rode just fine without one.”

Creighton let out a strangled noise. Aiden lunged again.

Chaos ensued.

In the end, it took Creighton pulling Mikhail out of the room while Aiden shouted after them, swearing about “never looking at a horse the same way again.”

As they left, Mikhail leaned toward Creighton, whispering with a grin, “Think he’ll still sponsor our next riding session?”

Creighton groaned, pulling his hoodie over his head. “You’re the worst.”

Mikhail’s smirk grew. “And yet, you still ride me.”

NikoBran - The Proposal

The gallery buzzed with excitement, the energy palpable as people moved from painting to painting, marveling at the artistry Brandon had poured his soul into. Nikolai stood at the back of the crowd, leaning casually against a column, his sharp suit barely containing the restless pride burning within him. He wasn’t one for crowds, but tonight wasn’t about him. Tonight was about his Brandon—his lotus—blossoming for the world to see.

Bran's family mingled among the guests, his mother dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and his father proudly recounting stories of how his son had always been a prodigy with a brush. Meanwhile, Bran himself stood at the center of it all, glowing under the lights, the very picture of an artist who had found his place in the world.

Niko's gaze never left him. Not for a second.

When Brandon finally stepped up to the microphone to address the crowd, the murmurs quieted into anticipation.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Bran began, his voice steady but warm, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Nikolai. “This exhibition means the world to me, not just because it showcases my work, but because it represents a journey—a journey I couldn’t have made alone.”

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, his chest tightening as Bran's words washed over him.

Bran continued, a small smile curling his lips. “Every piece here tells a story, a part of me. But there’s one piece that’s the most important. It’s not just a painting—it’s my heart on canvas.”

The room erupted into applause as Bran walked toward a large, shrouded frame in the center of the gallery. With a flourish, he pulled the curtain away, revealing the final painting: Nikolai’s portrait.

Gasps echoed through the room.

Nikolai froze.

The painting captured him with an ethereal glow, his striking features softened by the kind of warmth only someone deeply in love could see. His eyes, usually sharp and piercing, were filled with light, as if Bran had painted the very essence of Nikolai’s soul.

Bran turned back to the microphone, his voice trembling slightly. “This is my masterpiece. No matter how many paintings I create in the future, this will always be the one closest to my heart. Because Nikolai saved me. He believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. He pulled me out of darkness and showed me what it means to be loved unconditionally.”

Nikolai’s vision blurred as his throat tightened. He blinked furiously, trying to swallow the lump forming, but the dam broke when Bran stepped down from the podium, the crowd parting like a sea.

Bran stopped in front of Nikolai, his eyes bright with determination and love. Then, to Niko’s utter disbelief, he got down on one knee, pulling out a ring with a diamond so brilliant it caught every light in the room.

Gasps turned into murmurs as the room held its collective breath.

Bran looked up at him, his voice steady despite the emotion thickening it. “Nikolai Sokolov, you are the love of my life, the reason I can stand here today. You’ve cherished me in ways I never thought I deserved, and now it’s my turn. I want to spend the rest of my life proving to you that you’re more than enough, that you’re extraordinary, that you’re loved beyond measure. Will you marry me?”

Nikolai’s chest heaved, his breath hitching as tears spilled freely down his cheeks. His knees buckled, and before Bran could react, Nikolai dropped to his own knees, facing him.

The crowd gasped, but Niko didn’t care. His hands cupped Bran’s face, his voice breaking as he whispered, “You idiot. Of course, I’ll marry you. But let me say this—” He gripped Bran’s hands, his voice trembling. “You say I saved you, but you saved me, too. Every time you smile, every time you touch me, you remind me there’s light in this world. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I’m not letting go. Never.”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers as Bran slid the ring onto Niko’s finger, their foreheads pressing together as they both laughed through their tears.

“God, I love you,” Bran whispered.

“Love you more, love,” Niko murmured, pulling him into a kiss that left no room for doubt about their forever.

…………………………

Nikolai sat cross-legged on the plush carpet of their living room, his daughter Leigh Sokolov-King nestled snugly in his lap. Her wide eyes focused on the spoonful of yogurt he held out for her, but her curiosity was clearly more on the story he was telling. At three years old, Leigh already had her father’s sharp attention to detail and her papa’s endless curiosity about everything.

“Alright, little princess,” Nikolai said, his voice soft and warm, “where were we?” He dipped the spoon into the yogurt and waved it playfully. “Ah, yes. So, your Papa, he had this big, big event. All these people came to see his paintings.”

Leigh clapped her tiny hands, already enraptured. “Papa paints pretty!”

Nikolai chuckled, nodding. “Yes, he does. The best paintings in the whole world. But there was one painting—” He leaned in conspiratorially, as though revealing a secret. “—that was extra special. Do you know what it was?”

Leigh tilted her head, her curls bouncing as she thought hard. “A bunny?”

Brandon, lounging on the couch nearby with a sketchpad in hand, snorted, shaking his head. “Close, sweetheart, but not quite.”

“No, not a bunny,” Nikolai said with mock seriousness, though his lips twitched with amusement. “It was a painting of me.”

Leigh gasped dramatically, her tiny hand flying to her mouth. “You, Papa?”

“Me,” Nikolai confirmed, holding out another spoonful of yogurt, which she obediently accepted. “And it wasn’t just any painting. Your Papa said it was his masterpiece. The best thing he’s ever made.”

Leigh squinted at Bran as if trying to see the truth in his face. Bran gave her a playful wink and nodded. “That’s right, little one. Your papa’s face is my best work.”

Leigh giggled, yogurt smudged on her chin, and Nikolai used her distraction to wipe it away with a tissue. “So,” he continued, “after he showed everyone that painting, do you know what your Papa did?”

“What?” she asked, leaning forward, her yogurt momentarily forgotten.

“He knelt down, right in front of everyone,” Nikolai said, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper, “and asked me to marry him with a BIG RING.”

Leigh gasped again, her hands clutching her cheeks. “Did you say yes?”

Bran laughed from the couch, his sketchpad forgotten as he leaned forward to watch them. “Of course, he did, Leigh. But do you know what your Dada did next?”

Leigh shook her head, her curls bouncing wildly.

“I knelt down, too,” Nikolai said, his tone softening. “Because your Papa wasn’t the only one who wanted forever. I wanted it just as much.”

Leigh’s eyes sparkled with delight as she squirmed in Nikolai’s lap, reaching for Bran. “Papa, did you cry?”

Bran let out a laugh, moving to sit beside them on the carpet. He scooped Leigh into his arms, peppering her face with kisses, much to her delighted squeals. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, his eyes meeting Nikolai’s. “But only because I was so happy.”

Leigh beamed, clapping her hands. “That’s the best story, Papa!”

Nikolai smiled, his gaze lingering on Bran. “It is, isn’t it? The best story, because it’s ours.”

Bran leaned over, pressing a kiss to Nikolai’s temple before turning back to Leigh. “And you, little one, are our favorite chapter.”

Leigh giggled, squirming between them. Nikolai scooped up the last bit of yogurt from the bowl and held it out to her, chuckling as she eagerly devoured it.

“Alright, little princess,” Nikolai said, his voice filled with affection. “Now, off to bed. Tomorrow, your papa and I will tell you another story.”

.......

Taglist:

@lanterns-and-daydreams

The man I fell for – NikoBran ft Leigh Sokolov-King

Brandon never thought he'd see history repeat itself like this—his four-year-old daughter, Leigh, tumbling headfirst into the same trap he once did.

It wasn’t the tattoos or the sharp Russian accent that got her. No, Leigh—like Brandon before her—saw right through Nikolai’s tough, brooding exterior to the ridiculous, golden-retriever of a man beneath.

She clung to his leg as he cooked, demanding "uppies" with big, watery eyes. And of course, Nikolai lifted her, balancing her on one arm like she weighed nothing. When she pouted, he melted instantly. When she giggled, he acted like she was the funniest person alive.

Brandon leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as his fearsome husband—Russian mafia, covered in ink, terrifying to most—wore a pink princess tiara, seated at a tiny plastic tea party table, pretending to sip from a cup Leigh handed him.

"Daddy," Leigh declared seriously, turning to Brandon. "Papa's my favorite."

Brandon scoffed, but there was no real heat to it. "Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t know."

Nikolai shot him a smirk over the top of his tiny teacup, then winked. And just like that, Brandon fell all over again.

………………………………………

Brandon had never seen Nikolai look so horrified in his life—not when he’d been shot, not when he’d faced down his old enemies, not even when Leigh had once painted his entire left arm with glitter glue.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

Because their sweet, sunshine-faced four-year-old had just proudly announced at dinner, "Papa, I have a boyfriend!"

The fork in Nikolai’s hand froze mid-air. His eye twitched. "What."

Brandon, already sensing the storm, bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Leigh, oblivious to the deathly silence in the room, swung her legs happily in her chair. "His name is Tommy! He's in my class, and I’m going to marry him!"

The fork clattered to the plate. Nikolai turned to Brandon, his voice grave. "A brat has bewitched our daughter."

Brandon finally let out a chuckle. "Niko, she's four."

"I do not care." Nikolai gritted his teeth, eyes dark with pure, unfiltered rage. "This—this Tommy thinks he can take my baby away? I will break his tiny legs."

Leigh gasped dramatically. "Papa! That’s mean! You can’t hurt my boyfriend!"

Brandon snorted, but Nikolai was dead serious. He grabbed Brandon’s arm. "We must find his family. Intimidate them. Make them leave the country."

Brandon shook his head, trying—and failing—to suppress his grin. "Or, we could let our daughter be a normal kid and not threaten a kindergartener with exile."

Leigh, done with the conversation, went back to eating her pasta, humming a little tune. Meanwhile, Nikolai stared into the void, muttering darkly in Russian about "unworthy little brats"

Brandon just patted his husband’s shoulder. "You’re gonna have a real bad time when she turns sixteen, babe."

“What sixteen? She won’t be dating till Sixty” Niko says.

…………………………………………

Brandon was a heavy sleeper, but years of living with a Russian lunatic and a sugar-obsessed four-year-old had sharpened his instincts.

A rustling sound. A faint giggle.

His eyes cracked open, and he instinctively reached out to shake Nikolai awake—only to find empty space.

His sleep-fogged brain took a second to process that. Nikolai was gone.

A faint glow spilled from the kitchen. Suspicion prickled down Brandon’s spine as he slid out of bed, padding down the hall as quietly as possible.

Peeking inside, he caught them red-handed.

Leigh sat on the counter, a cookie in each tiny fist, stuffing her cheeks like a squirrel. And right beside her, the alleged adult of the house, Nikolai, was equally guilty, mid-bite into a chocolate chip cookie.

Brandon crossed his arms. "Seriously?"

Nikolai froze like a deer caught in headlights, crumbs on his lips. Leigh gasped dramatically and tried to hide the cookies behind her back—as if Brandon hadn’t just seen her eating them.

Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hid those cookies because you two eat too much sugar. What part of 'No more cookies' did you not understand?"

Leigh, with all the confidence of a criminal defending her case, declared, "We found them fair and square!"

Nikolai, ever the terrible influence, nodded solemnly. "It was destiny, printsessa. The cookies called to us."

Brandon shot him a look. "Really, Niko? Destiny?"

Nikolai shrugged, unapologetic. "What kind of father would I be if I let our daughter face the dangers of the night alone?"

Brandon sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Since you two are such partners in crime, you can both deal with the sugar crash together tomorrow."

Leigh gasped. "Betrayal!"

Nikolai smirked, ruffling her hair. "Do not worry, printsessa. We will recover... and we will find more cookies."

Brandon groaned, already regretting all his life choices.

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.