Love This!!!

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

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

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

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

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

“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

The Fanfic Fiasco – Charlos ft. Cupid Rookies

Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—disaster.

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

And it’s signed off at the bottom.

Written by: Kimi, Oliver & Isack 😘

………

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

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

“Track limits update,” they mutter.

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

He squints at the title.

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

His eyes light up.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar looks over. “What is it?”

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

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

Lando clears his throat, full theater mode.

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

‘Why didn’t you stop me, cariño?’

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

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

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

“Is this fanfiction about ME?!”

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

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

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

“OH MY GOD,” Carlos yells.

Isack tries to crawl under the table.

“We were grieving!” Oliver shouts.

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

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

Esteban: “So who’s the alpha?”

Everyone: “ESTEBAN—”

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

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

Kimi, whispering: “You do.”

A long pause.

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

Isack shrugs. “More than you think.”

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

He bursts out laughing.

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

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

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

Max: “Do me next.”

Everyone: “MAX—NO.”

………

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

The FIA is not amused.

But the internet? Oh, the internet devours it.

#ScarletMornings trends worldwide.

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

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

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

……..

📸 Instagram Post – @charles_leclerc

Location: Monza Pit Lane Caption: raining again 😅

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

#ScarletNightsAndMonacoMornings #canonverse #MonzaRain2025

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

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

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

Jeremy Volkov x Landon King - The Devil's Match

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60931777

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

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

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.

NikoBran – Preschool nightmare ft. Leigh Sokolov-King

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

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

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

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

Nikolai’s eye twitched. “And?”

“She needs to start school.”

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No. No.

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

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

Same thing.

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

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

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

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

………………..

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

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

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

Bran groaned. “Again with this?”

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

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

And there she was. Leigh.

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

Bran froze.

Nikolai blinked.

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

For a second, there was complete silence.

Then—

Nikolai burst into booming, delighted laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

Bran groaned. “She assaulted a kid.”

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

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

Bran nearly choked. “Jesus Christ.”

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

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

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

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.