You Are Enough - Maxiel

The Fanfic Fiasco – Charlos ft. Cupid Rookies

Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—disaster.

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

And it’s signed off at the bottom.

Written by: Kimi, Oliver & Isack 😘

………

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

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

“Track limits update,” they mutter.

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

He squints at the title.

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

His eyes light up.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar looks over. “What is it?”

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

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

Lando clears his throat, full theater mode.

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

‘Why didn’t you stop me, cariño?’

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

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

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

“Is this fanfiction about ME?!”

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

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

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

“OH MY GOD,” Carlos yells.

Isack tries to crawl under the table.

“We were grieving!” Oliver shouts.

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

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

Esteban: “So who’s the alpha?”

Everyone: “ESTEBAN—”

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

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

Kimi, whispering: “You do.”

A long pause.

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

Isack shrugs. “More than you think.”

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

He bursts out laughing.

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

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

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

Max: “Do me next.”

Everyone: “MAX—NO.”

………

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

The FIA is not amused.

But the internet? Oh, the internet devours it.

#ScarletMornings trends worldwide.

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

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

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

……..

📸 Instagram Post – @charles_leclerc

Location: Monza Pit Lane Caption: raining again 😅

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

#ScarletNightsAndMonacoMornings #canonverse #MonzaRain2025

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

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

GazKayden - The Story of Us

❗SPOILERS AHEAD❗

They say love has stages. Steps. A progression of feelings that shift from one form to another.

For most, love is something that blooms softly, gradually, like the first hint of spring after a long winter. But for Gareth?

Love was a sickness. A fever that gripped me too tight and refused to let go.

And it started with obsession.

Stage 1: Obsession

Gareth Carson never believed in fate.

Or love.

To him, those things were nothing more than pretty illusions people fooled themselves into chasing—like his friends, who fell head over heels for someone and acted like it was some divine intervention. He never understood the appeal. Relationships, romance, devotion—none of it ever intrigued him.

Sure, he indulged in casual flings, but they were fleeting, inconsequential. No one ever kept his attention long enough for him to care. He always got bored, always left before things could even come close to meaning something.

That was before Kayden Lockwood.

His professor.

Gareth didn’t know when exactly it started—maybe it was the first time Kayden called on him in class, his smooth, commanding voice wrapping around Gareth’s name like it belonged to him. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, exuding a quiet power, the kind that didn’t demand attention but still had everyone hanging onto his every word.

Or maybe it was the first time Kayden looked at him—not just glanced, but looked, sharp eyes locking onto Gareth’s, reading him in a way no one ever had.

Whatever it was, it had Gareth spiraling.

Obsession was a slow burn at first. It started with lingering stares in class, the way he always found himself waiting—hoping—for Kayden’s gaze to settle on him. Then it turned into staying after lectures for no reason, loitering near Kayden’s office, offering smug, sharp-edged comments just to see if he could get a reaction.

But it wasn’t enough.

So he dug deeper.

Gareth found himself researching everything about Kayden. His academic papers, his lectures, his past affiliations—anything and everything. Then came the more personal details: what coffee he drank (black, no sugar), what time he usually arrived at campus (early, always early), what book he carried around but never seemed to finish (The Picture of Dorian Gray, an ironic choice).

He was in too deep before he even realized it.

And the worst part?

He knew this was insane. He knew there was a line he shouldn’t cross, but when had that ever stopped a Carson? His brother was literally chasing after Eli King, their enemy, like a man possessed. If Jeremy could go after the devil himself, then why the hell would Gareth stop himself from chasing after his professor?

Even if Kayden was older. Even if this was forbidden.

Because Gareth always got what he wanted.

And Kayden Lockwood?

Was about to learn that firsthand.

Stage 2: Love

Gareth POV:

I always knew love was a weakness.

A flaw in human nature that made people act like fools, stripping them of logic, of reason, of self-preservation. I had seen it happen before—my cousins, my friends, my brother. All of them fell, one by one, as if love was some inescapable disease.

And then, I fell.

Just as recklessly. Just as foolishly.

At first, I refused to call it love. Love was supposed to be loud, all-consuming, fiery in a way that left nothing but ruin behind. But Kayden—Kayden was different. His love was quiet. A soft thing, wrapped in silent promises, in the steady presence of a man who never needed to say much to be heard.

It was in the way he looked at me, as if I wasn’t something he needed to tame, but something he understood.

It was in the way he spoke to me—not as a student, not as a reckless bastard with too much arrogance, but as his equal.

It was in the way he touched me—casual at first, fleeting, then deliberate. A hand on my wrist that lingered too long. A brush of fingers over mine when he handed me a book. A press of his palm against my back as we walked side by side.

It was in the way he said my name.

I should have known then. I should have stopped.

But I was never good at stopping.

So I did something I never thought I’d do.

I trusted him.

I let him see parts of me no one else did. I told him things I never should have, things that should have remained locked away in the darkness I was born into.

I told him about the Heathens.

About the violence that lurked beneath my skin, about the blood that ran in my family name, about the world I walked through, one that most people never made it out of alive.

I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it was dangerous, that Kayden didn’t belong in that world, that he was better off untouched by the kind of life I led.

But I told him anyway.

Because I loved him.

And like the fool I was, I thought I had it all.

I thought love was enough.

How cruel fate was.

Stage 3: Hate

Gareth POV:

Fate is a cruel mistress.

I always knew that. I had seen her rip people apart, turn lovers into enemies, break men who thought they were unbreakable. But I never knew just how cruel she could be.

Not until him.

Not until Kayden tore apart the heart I had so foolishly placed in his hands.

Betrayal was an old friend of mine. I knew what it looked like, what it felt like, the slow, creeping poison of it sinking into my bones. But this? This was different.

Because it wasn’t just my trust he shattered. It wasn’t just my family he betrayed.

It was me.

And what cut the deepest wasn’t that he had played me. It wasn’t even that he had used me to get what he wanted—to get information, to get leverage, to win.

No.

What burned, what hollowed me out from the inside, was the thought that maybe—just maybe—Kayden had never loved me at all.

Maybe I had been nothing more than a means to an end. A foolish, reckless man who handed over his secrets with open palms, thinking he was giving them to someone who cared.

I wanted to hate him for that.

I did hate him for that.

Hate him enough to hunt him down. To find him kneeling before me, bloodied, broken, surrounded by the bodies of the Serpents gang.

Hate him enough to press the cold barrel of my gun against his temple, my finger resting on the trigger, my heartbeat slow. Steady. Empty.

I could do it.

I should do it.

But then Kayden looked up at me, and I realized something.

Killing him wouldn’t be justice. It wouldn’t be revenge.

It would be suicide.

Because if I pulled that trigger—if I erased him from this world—then my heart would never beat again.

Because that meant...

That meant he still had it.

Even after everything.

Stage 4: Finding their way back

Kayden's POV

I always knew I would be the villain in Gareth’s story.

That no matter how much I wanted to rewrite the ending, no matter how many times I tried to play the hero, it would always end the same way.

With him looking at me like I had ripped the soul out of his body.

With me standing in the ruins of the heart I had destroyed with my own hands.

I should have stopped this when I had the chance. I should have walked away before it got too deep, before Gareth trusted me enough to love me. But I didn’t. I let him in. I let myself want him. And now I was paying the price for my selfishness.

He shouldn’t forgive me.

Not for what I did. Not for the lies. Not for the betrayal that had cost him more than I would ever be able to make up for.

And yet—yet—some part of me still yearned.

For him. For the way he looked at me before he knew what I was.

For the way he loved me, reckless and all-consuming, as if I was something worth loving.

I knew better now. I knew I wasn’t.

And still, I stood here, bloodied and beaten, with my sins laid bare before him, hoping—no, begging—for him to turn to me.

Just one last time.

Even if it was only to end me.

……………………

I never expected forgiveness.

Not then. Not now. Not after all these years.

Some wounds don’t heal. Some sins can’t be erased. And what I did to Gareth… it wasn’t something time could simply wash away.

But if I couldn’t be forgiven, I could at least try.

So I did.

Every day.

Every moment.

I learned to live with Gareth’s silence. With his anger. With the weight of what I had done pressing down on me like an iron chain. And yet, I kept going. Kept reaching, even when his back was turned. Kept hoping, even when I knew I didn’t deserve to.

And now, as I stand at the end of the aisle, watching Asher Carson glare daggers at me while leading Gareth toward me, I think: Every second of pain was worth it.

Every day I spent groveling.

Every year I spent proving I was more than my mistakes.

Because now, Gareth is here.

Walking toward me.

Not with anger. Not with hatred.

But with something else in his eyes—something I once lost, something I never thought I’d get back.

And maybe I never will. Maybe this is just a second chance to ruin him all over again.

But if it is, I will spend a lifetime making sure I don’t.

Because no matter how many years pass, no matter how much I fight, one truth remains.

I will always be his villain.

But I will also be the man who never stops trying to be his hero.

.......

Tag list:

@lanterns-and-daydreams

If you have any oneshot ideas, feel free to suggest it

Jeremy Volkov x Landon King - The Devil's Match

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60931777

NikoBran – Christmas Ho-ho ft. Leigh Sokolov-King

The mall was buzzing with Christmas energy—bright decorations, the scent of cinnamon and hot chocolate in the air, holiday music playing in the background. It was Leigh’s first Christmas with them, and Niko and Bran were determined to make it special.

Leigh, their tiny, calmest child—well, calm until she got near Landon—was sitting comfortably inside a shopping cart, her big, expressive eyes scanning the aisles filled with holiday treats, toys, and decorations.

Niko was the one pushing the cart, an unholy grin on his face as he helped their daughter pick whatever she wanted. Bran, walking beside them, had his arms crossed, watching the two sugar monsters in his life conspire.

“Are you sure we’re not going overboard?” Bran asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nope,” Niko replied instantly, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. “Leigh deserves everything.”

Leigh, still getting used to being spoiled, hesitated before picking a box of chocolates. She looked up at Bran, her tiny fingers gripping the box, as if silently asking for permission.

Bran’s heart melted.

“You don’t have to ask, sweetheart,” he told her gently. “If you want it, it’s yours.”

Leigh stared at him for a second, her small face serious. Then, after a moment of thought, she grabbed another box and placed both inside the cart.

Bran chuckled, shaking his head. “Like father, like daughter,” he muttered, glancing at Niko.

Niko beamed. “Of course. We have impeccable taste.”

Bran only sighed. He had two sugar gremlins to take care of.

As they moved through the store, Leigh’s shyness was still there —at least in public. She was still warming up to Bran’s family, still hesitant when they showered her with affection. But inside their home? She was a menace with Niko, always climbing on furniture, stealing sweets, and playing pranks.

Especially on Landon.

Niko finally had a partner-in-crime.

Bran swore he had to take care of not just one but two children. But Landon? Landon was wrapped around Leigh’s little finger. He pretended to be annoyed but spoiled her rotten anyway.

“Look, Leigh,” Niko gasped dramatically, holding up an absolutely ridiculous Christmas sweater. “It’s a reindeer! Should we get it for your Uncle Landon?”

Leigh tilted her head, considering. Then she grinned—her mischievous Niko-inspired grin.

“Yes.”

Bran ran a tired hand over his face. “God help Landon.”

They continued shopping, filling the cart with things Leigh liked—plushies, sweets, coloring books. But every time she chose something, she would glance at Bran, checking if it was really okay.

Bran had to bite back the ache in his chest.

He wanted her to know she never had to hesitate. She never had to feel like she didn’t deserve everything.

Niko, sensing Bran’s thoughts, nudged him. “Relax, Papa Bear. She’s getting there.”

Bran exhaled slowly, nodding.

And then—the moment that made everything worth it.

Leigh, their shy, cautious little girl, looked up at him with those big eyes and reached out her tiny hand. Bran instinctively bent down, and Leigh did something she rarely did in public—she hugged him.

Bran’s breath caught.

It was brief, but it was everything.

Then she pulled back and, in her soft little voice, asked, “Can we get a teddy for Uncle Landon too?”

Bran smiled.

God, he loved his daughter.

The kitchen smelled like cocoa, vanilla, and cinnamon, the warmth of the stove filling the space as Bran stirred the hot chocolate with slow, methodical movements. He liked making it himself. He could have just used the instant mix, but no, this was special. It had to be perfect.

Through the doorway, he could hear laughter.

Not just any laughter—Niko’s loud, carefree chuckles and Leigh’s soft, giggly squeals. The kind of laughter that made Bran’s chest feel full, warm, and alive.

He turned his head slightly, watching the scene unfold in the living room.

Leigh perched on Niko’s back, gripping his shoulders tightly as he galloped around the room. Her small hands clung to Niko’s shirt, her eyes shining with pure delight.

“Faster, Dada!” she squealed.

Niko grinned. “Faster? You sure you can handle it, princess?”

Leigh nodded furiously, her excitement bubbling over.

“Alright, hold on tight—turbo mode activated!” Niko announced dramatically before he took off in exaggerated slow-motion, making sound effects as if they were in some epic race.

Leigh burst into giggles, leaning forward, her tiny arms wrapping tighter around his neck.

Bran stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, just taking it all in.

This was his life now.

He had a home filled with warmth. He had Niko, his partner, his love. And he had Leigh, their daughter, their heart, their world.

Life had never felt so perfect.

“Are you just gonna stand there looking at us like a lovesick idiot, or are you gonna bring us the hot chocolate, lotus flower?” Niko teased from the floor, grinning up at him.

Bran rolled his eyes. “I was debating letting you two tire yourselves out first.”

Leigh, still giggling, turned her head and held out her arms toward him. “Papa!” she called softly, her voice full of warmth.

Bran felt something in him melt.

Setting down the mugs, he walked over and lifted her off Niko’s back, settling her securely in his arms. She was so tiny, so warm, and the way she immediately snuggled into his chest made his throat tighten.

“Did you have fun, sweetheart?” Bran asked, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Leigh nodded sleepily, already starting to wind down.

Niko got up, dusting himself off with an exaggerated groan. “I think she had too much fun. I’m officially dead.”

Bran smirked. “You always were dramatic.”

Niko plopped onto the couch, patting the spot beside him. “C’mon, bring our sugar gremlin here. Time for cocoa and cuddles.”

Bran carried Leigh over, sitting down beside Niko, tucking their little family together under a soft blanket. Leigh sat on his lap, her tiny hands wrapping around the warm mug Bran handed her, her nose scrunching as she took a small sip.

Bran gently brushed some loose hair from her face. “Is it good?”

Leigh nodded. “Yummy.”

Niko took a sip of his own and groaned. “Baby, I swear, if you ever leave me, I’m taking this hot chocolate recipe with me.”

Bran chuckled, leaning his head back against the couch. “I’m not going anywhere, idiot.”

Niko grinned, nudging their mugs together in a mock toast. “To our perfect life.”

Bran glanced down at Leigh, warm and safe in his arms, and then at Niko, his heart and home.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Leigh’s head, then stealing one from Niko’s lips.

“To our perfect life.”

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.

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

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.

“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

Babysitter Diaries - Maxiel(Part 1)

Summary:

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

CHAPTER 1

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

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

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

Max hadn’t blinked. Not once.

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

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

He didn’t, though. Not entirely.

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

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

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

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

He opened the door.

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

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

…..

Daniel – A few hours earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babysitting.”

That got a pause.

“You want me to babysit you?”

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

Daniel sat up straighter. “Max?”

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

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

Max had a kid?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One he’d never really stopped missing.

…

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

And standing dead center in all that soft domestic chaos?

Max Verstappen.

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

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

“Hey, Maxi.”

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

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

“For what?” Max deadpanned.

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

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

“You steal candy from children.”

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

“You’re proud of that story.”

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

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

“I need someone responsible,” Max said flatly.

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

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

“I was testing gravity!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daniel just plopped onto the couch, pleased as hell.

This was going to be fun.

.......

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

The Day Nikolai caught Baby fever

If anyone had asked Nikolai Sokolov a year ago whether his cousin Killian Carson was capable of taking care of a baby, he would have laughed so hard he’d choke on his vodka.

Killian? With a baby?

The man could barely take care of himself without causing chaos, breaking laws, or dissecting something. If left to his own devices, he’d probably misplace the baby and remember it three hours later with a casual "Oh, right."

And yet.

Yet.

Here Nikolai stood, in Killian’s disaster zone of a living room, watching something he never imagined he would see: Killian Carson—Bratva’s resident emotionless weirdo, criminal lawyer who is a criminal himself, and his absolute menace of a cousin—completely destroyed by fatherhood.

Killian stood near the sofa, looking half-alive, the dark circles under his eyes so deep they could be used as evidence of war crimes. His usually sharp, calculating gaze was dull and unfocused, his normally immaculate appearance was rumpled and chaotic, and his posture was so slumped that Nikolai almost felt bad.

Almost.

Earlier, when Killian had called saying, "It’s an emergency," Nikolai had dropped everything.

He had rushed here, expecting blood, gore, maybe a kidnapping attempt—something life-threatening.

Instead, he walked in to find his terrifying cousin holding a screaming, wailing, tiny human being—Theo.

And before Nikolai could even process the situation, Killian had walked up, dropped the crying demon into his arms, muttered a hoarse "Your problem now," and collapsed onto the sofa, dead asleep.

Just. Like. That.

Nikolai stared down at the tiny, wrinkly, red-faced demon wailing in his arms.

What the fuck.

He had not signed up for this.

He was a feared Bratva enforcer, a man who could make grown men cry with just a stare, not a damn babysitter.

But before he could even think about shoving the baby back into Killian’s arms, something strange happened.

Theo stopped crying.

His big, round blue eyes—the same icy blue as Killian’s—stared up at Nikolai.

And then… the tiny thing reached out with his chubby little fingers, grasping at the tattoos on Nikolai’s forearm.

Drooling.

Drooling.

All over him.

Nikolai froze.

The little gremlin actually looked… fascinated.

His tiny fingers traced over the ink, his mouth parting in awe, and for some inexplicable reason, Nikolai felt something weird in his chest.

Not heartburn.

Not nausea.

Something worse.

Affection.

Oh. No.

This was bad.

Very, very bad.

Nikolai looked at Theo, then at Killian, then back at Theo, who was still staring at him like he was the best thing he’d ever seen.

God help him, but he was falling for this tiny, wrinkly, drooly little demon.

He held Theo closer, suddenly feeling protective over the tiny human in his arms.

And then it hit him.

He was getting baby fever.

A full-blown, raging case of baby fever.

Oh, fuck.

He was going home and demanding a baby from Brandon. Today. They are gonna get a surrogate or they are gonna adopt one.

Killian had fucked up his entire life.