;🎧.°˖✧ 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐! hi i'm sunshine, she/her. i write shit. mainly f1 but i can delve into other fandoms i am a part of and are requestable. i rep: 81, 33, 63, 12 but i can write for all drivers! feel free to send requests!
;🎧.°˖✧ 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔! obvs decent shit, no incest, rape, pedophilia, beastiality, etc. i'm not entirely comfortable writing male!reader fics but most of my fics will be gender-neutral!reader unless stated otherwise. i do not use Y/N. nothing with f1 team principals (except toto wolff). other than these, everything is good!
;🎧.°˖✧ 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔! narnia, formula 1, fnaf, hogwarts legacy, six of crows/shadow and bone/grishaverse, one direction, lockwood and co, spiderman, the wizarding world.
disclaimer: i will post nsfw content including nsfw writing but they will always contain tags and disclaimers.
hiiii I have a request for peter !! sorry if this doesn't have much detail, but a fem! reader and him going to a ball and it just ends with both of them being so tired that they just end up cuddling and spending the night in each others embrace <3
masterlist
Just Us
✧. ┊ PAIRING: peter pevensie x fem!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 2.1k words
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: slight angst, 95% fluff, no major warnings apply
No, Peter did not love balls in the slightest. Especially when it was to celebrate him. To celebrate his "impressive" victory over the Telmarines, even though it was a battle that they won, and every creature in Narnia had done their part. Not just Peter. But he had no say in the matter, his siblings being too encouraging about the event (likely wanting a way for Peter to embarrass himself), and you being at the forefront of planning. You, of all people, had seen him endure the sleepless nights. Had seen him dedicate his very being to Narnia. So when Caspian suggested the idea of a ball to celebrate Peter, you'd been ecstatic.
And now, he stands in the corner of his own ball, drink in hand, eyes trained on your carefree form as you mingle amongst the regal Narnians. The nymphs sewed you a gown, a gown that seemed to be woven from starlight and water streams, shimmering with every step you took. It was a cruel irony, Peter thought, that you looked more radiant and joyous in this moment than you ever had when you were comforting him through his nightmares or celebrating a small victory in the war room.
He watched you laugh, a genuine, unburdened sound that barely carried over the music, yet it echoed loudly in his ears. You were the reason this entire, suffocating spectacle existed. You, who knew exactly how much the war had cost him, had thrown him to the wolves.
"Enjoying the view, High King?" Caspian’s voice was light, far too cheerful, as he slid into the corner beside him.
Peter didn't look at him. He kept his eyes locked on you, watching as you expertly navigated a group of centaurs, looking perfectly at home in the centre of the attention he so desperately wanted to escape. A human who found where she belonged. Unlike him.
"You have no idea what you've done, Caspian," Peter murmured, his voice tight, taking a sharp sip of his drink. "She looks happy. And I look like a fool in a gilded cage."
"She worked hard on this for you, Peter. We all did."
"I know," Peter replied, a pang of guilt warbling with his irritation. He watched you turn, your eyes finally finding his across the crowded room. You beamed, raising your glass slightly in a silent toast, completely unaware that you were the focal point of his frustration and his intense, longing focus.
He forced a small, strained smile back, watching you return to your conversation. You looked beautiful, but for the first time, he found he couldn't bear to be the one to keep you in this spotlight. He wanted to drag you out of this ballroom, away from the prying eyes, and back to a place where he didn't have to be the 'Magnificent' high king, but just Peter, and you were just his.
His hand tightens on his cup as you glide over to him, looking like you're floating in that gown. You were just as beautiful as the dryads and the naiads. You were Narnian.
"Come dance," you said, reaching out a hand, your fingers brushing against his leather gauntlet.
Peter looked at your hand, then up at your eyes, searching them for any sign of a tease.
"I don't think so," he muttered, his voice low, almost swallowed by the swelling orchestration of the centaur musicians. "I've done enough performing for one night."
"It's not a performance if it's with me," you countered softly, your smile shifting from festive to intimate. "Consider it a tactical retreat from the crowd. No one will bother the High King while he's dancing."
He let out a short, breathy laugh, the tension in his jaw finally fracturing. He set his cup down on a nearby stone ledge.
"You always have an excuse," he murmured.
"I have a plan," you corrected, stepping closer so he had no choice but to lead you onto the floor. "There's a terrace on the east wing. In ten minutes, the fauns are letting off the star-flares. Everyone will look up. We look down, and we run."
As his hand found the small of your back, the fabric of the nymph-woven gown felt like cool water beneath his palm. He pulled you into the rhythm of the music, his movements naturally commanding despite his internal reluctance. For the first time since the music started, Peter wasn't looking at the crowd, the banners, or the glittering crown he felt he hadn't earned. He was only looking at you.
"Ten minutes?" he asked, his eyes darkening with a sudden, quiet intensity as he guided you through a turn.
"Nine now," you whispered, leaning in closer.
The star-flares erupted in a sudden cascade of brilliant gold and emerald sparks, drawing every eye in the hall toward the high arched windows.
Just as you promised, Peter did not hesitate. His hand locked around yours, surprisingly warm and solid, and he pulled you back into the shadows of the velvet curtains before the crowd could even begin to cheer. You ran through the winding stone corridors of Cair Paravel, the sound of your breathing and the light rustle of your nymph-woven gown echoing off the walls. Peter didn't stop until he pushed open the heavy oak door to his chambers, letting it click shut securely behind you both.
The room was bathed in the soft, ambient glow of a dying hearth fire, silent and completely removed from the suffocating grandeur downstairs.
Peter leaned his back against the closed door, closing his eyes as he let out a long, heavy breath. The rigid, regal posture he had maintained all evening melted away instantly. He looked entirely undone, his hair slightly rumpled from the escape, his collar loosened, and the weight of the High King temporarily lifted from his shoulders. Just a boy now. A boy who loved a girl.
When he opened his eyes, they fixed on you with an intense, quiet vulnerability.
"Thank you," he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that cut through the silence of the room. He stepped away from the door, moving closer to you until the heat from the fireplace caught the edge of your shimmering gown. "I don't think I could have survived another minute down there."
"I should've asked how you felt about it. I know you're humble to the core and hate these things" You pull off your painful heels and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. The dull thud of your heels hitting the rug seemed to break the last of the rigid formality holding him together. Peter’s lips twitched into a genuine, tired smile as he watched you toss them aside. He walked over, unbuckling his heavy leather gauntlets and dropping them onto a side table with a metallic clatter.
"Humble is a polite word for it," he said, running a hand through his hair, leaving it thoroughly dishevelled. "I just... I look at the centaurs who lost their sons, and the talking beasts rebuilding their homes, and it feels entirely wrong to sit on a throne drinking wine while they're still bleeding."
He stepped closer, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. The exhaustion in his eyes was stark, stripped of the brave facade he wore for Narnia. He looked down at your bare feet on the cool stone floor, then up at your face.
"You don't need to apologise," he murmured, his voice softening as he closed the remaining distance between you. "You planned it because you wanted everyone to see what you see in me. I know that. But the only part of this night that felt real was dancing with you."
His hand reached out, his bare fingers hesitant before gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your collarbone, his touch warm against your skin.
"Then let us celebrate you with only the two of us," you whisper back.
He didn't say a word. Instead, he stepped into your space, his hands finding your waist. His grip was firm but incredibly gentle, mindful of the delicate, gown beneath his fingers. He pulled you flush against him, the cool material of your dress pressing against his warm tunic.
The silence of the room was thick, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire and the distant, muffled thump of the star-flares still bursting over Cair Paravel. Without the eyes of Narnia on him, his gaze was fierce and entirely focused.
"Just us," he agreed, his voice a low, raspy promise against your lips.
He leaned down and kissed you. It wasn't the polite, measured kiss of a fairy-tale king, but something deep, desperate, and filled with the relief of a man who had finally found his safe harbor. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer as if trying to anchor himself to the one thing that made sense after months of war. When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours, his chest heaving.
Peter reached back with steady fingers to undo the delicate ties of your gown. As the fabric pooled around your feet, the cool air of the room hit your skin, replaced a second later by the warmth of his hands. You helped him unbuckle the heavy leather straps of his jerkin, setting the last piece of his warrior persona onto the floor. Stripped down to the basics, the scars from the recent battle with the Telmarines were visible on his shoulders, but his stare was entirely soft.
He lifted you easily, carrying you the short distance to the large bed near the hearth.
The heavy furs and soft sheets welcomed you both as Peter climbed in beside you. He immediately pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you securely. The contrast was instant. His body was radiating heat, solid and grounding, while you curled into his side. He rested his chin on the top of your head, inhaling the scent of the celebration still lingering in your hair, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles on your bare shoulder.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The distant sounds of the ball were completely forgotten, replaced by the rhythmic sound of Peter's heartbeat beneath your cheek. His muscles, which had been locked tight with tension for weeks, finally began to loosen.
"I don't ever want to go back down there," he murmured into your hair, his voice heavy with sleep and deep contentment. He tightened his embrace, pulling you even closer into his warmth. "Let them have the castle. I just want this."
"We can have this in Finchley too," you trace his fingers. You'd loved Narnia. You'd loved forgetting about politics and gender roles, and technology and all the ugly things the outside world had to offer. But it didn't matter where you were. As long as you fell into his bed at the end of the day. As long as you felt his fingers on your skin, his kiss against your temple.
The mention of Finchley hung in the quiet room, a sharp reminder of the world waiting for them beyond the train station. Peter’s fingers stalled on your shoulder. His chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh beneath your tracing hand. He turned his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your temple, just as you’d dreamed. He'd known how much you adored Narnia. How much you hated the thought of going back home. How much you didn't want this dream to end.
"Finchley," he breathed out, the word sounding foreign amidst the stone walls of Cair Paravel.
He shifted, rolling slightly onto his side so he could look down at you. The firelight caught the bittersweet curve of his smile. In England, he was just a schoolboy. He was a boy who had to fit into cramped train cars, fight with boys his age, and watch his country rebuild from a devastating world war. There were no crowns there, no grand victories, and certainly no nymph-woven gowns.
But looking at you now, stripped of all the royal titles that suffocated him, he realised you were right.
"You'd really content yourself with a cramped flat and a radio?" he whispered, his thumb gently tracing your jawline. His eyes searched yours, fierce and deeply earnest. "No talking beasts, no magic? Just me coming home from some mundane job, completely ordinary?"
He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours with a slow, tender certainty that answered his own question. It didn't matter if they were Kings and Queens or just two teenagers hiding from the London rain.
"If I have you," you murmur against his mouth, "I don't need Narnia."
"Then you, my love, shall be mine." He pulled the heavy furs up over your shoulders, tucking you securely into his side as the fire crackled down to a soft, amber glow. Wrapped in his warmth, the burdens of Narnia felt miles away. For the first time in months, Peter's mind was completely quiet, his heart steady beneath your hand as you both drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I’ve been struck by visions of Oscar Piastri being used to hearing reader’s one direction playlists for years
He knows way more than he lets on
So they come home to find Oscar doing something domestic like cooking or cleaning up the kitchen while singing along to Diana
Bonus: doing some sort of McLaren media day pop culture question thing and he answers a question about one direction lord a bit too fast
I send this while laying with my 1D blanket in bed, we thank you 😊
thank you, dear. and you are now my new favourite person for making my worlds come together. oscar is defo a secret directioner, case in point here
masterlist
Diana ᵒᵖ⁸¹
✧. ┊ PAIRING: oscar piastri x gender-neutral!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 1k
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: none, this is G rated, may induce a one direction related breakdown
"I’m afraid that’s incorrect, Lando," the announcer’s voice boomed across the Fan Zone stage, immediately followed by a collective, sharp intake of breath from the crowd. "Zayn was the first to leave One Direction, not Harry."
Lando groaned, immediately covering his face with his hands, visibly cringing at missing such a rookie question. The McLaren boys were doing a special 15-year celebration of One Direction, but you, along with a hundred other fans, felt your frustration spike. How did he get that wrong? It was painful to watch.
"Alright, Oscar, your turn, are you ready?" Cheers from the audience, hoping he wouldn't spew out a brainless answer like his teammate. As Oscar's partner, you lived and breathed One Direction, having bought every album on iTunes and CDs, owned their special bedding collection (tucked away in a closet at your parents' place because Oscar found it distasteful and refused to sleep in Harry Styles' face), and framed their posters around your teenage bedroom. You'd blare their songs in the car as the passenger with the AUX, sang like you were a professional singer in the shower, and, memorised the intro to the Best Song Ever music video. You were a fangirl, to put it lightly.
Oscar was indifferent to all these (except the bedding incident). The man listened to house music unironically. He had no taste in music.
"What is the name of One Direction's third album?" the announcer continues.
"Midnight Memories," he blurts out without missing a beat. Your eyes widen. You didn't think he even knew who was in One Direction, let alone the names of their albums in chronological order. But the Australian, so distracted by the urge to beat his teammate and not look like a fool, might have just outed himself.
"That is...correct! Impressive. Oscar, are you fan?" He brings his mouth to the mic at the announcer's question, face red as Lando laughs, making fun of him very openly.
"Uh....I wouldn't say I'm a fan, per se. But um...my partner is a fan, so I've picked up on things here and there..." he manages to speak shyly, his cheeks pinker as the crowd goes "oooohh."
"So, what's your favourite One Direction song, Osc?" Lando pounces at the opportunity to let his teammate embarrass himself even more.
The brunet pulls his hat over his face, wanting the ground to swallow him up, but he spiritedly answers. "If I'm not trying to humiliate myself, I'd have to say 'What Makes You Beautiful,' but if I am trying to humiliate myself..." he trails off, interrupted by the roar of the crowd. He knows the secret is out the bag now, and no attempts to save himself can work. "Dunno if you've heard 'Diana', but that's one of my faves." He ends with a nod, followed by another cheer from the crowd, the number smaller this time. A song not many were familiar with.
"That's a good choice, Oscar," the announcer tries to round up a giggling Lando and a flustered Oscar. "Thank you so much today boys, give it up for McLaren, everyone!"
Oscar is relieved when you don't bring it up for the rest of the weekend. He knows you were there, watching, but if you'd cared, you'd have teased him about it relentlessly the second he stepped off the stage. What he doesn't know, however, is that you have a better plan to catch him red-handed. You will get him to admit he likes 1D one way or another.
So when you come home from work, and you hear the quiet-humming-slight-mumbling coming from Oscar in the kitchen, accompanied with the sounds of a knife scraping the chopping board, you set your plan in motion.
"Diana...lemme be the one to...your eyes...you don't even know me...na na na...feel you crying..." You're careful to not make a single sound as you tiptoe to your kitchen. You lean against the doorway, smirking. The boy is playing the song on his phone, cutely singing along. He doesn't have a bad voice. When he tries.
"Oscar Jack Piastri, do you secretly listen to One Direction?" The boy jumps at the sound of your teasing, partly because of the sudden voice, partly because you just caught him doing something he wasn't meant to. Something that would severely damage his already dwindling reputation.
"Psh. No," he scoffs, wiping his hands on his apron. "It played in my...shuffle and I couldn't, uh...skip. Carrot hands." You walk over to him, picking up his phone. Surely enough, he's got a playlist called 'All One Direction Songs' being shuffled through on Apple Music. "Oh, that's why it was playing. How....odd." He puts on an oblivious expression, but his ears are red.
You smirk, pausing the music and putting the phone down. "Darling. I won't tell anyone of this if you admit to me, right now, that you like 1D."
"No, because that would be lying, and I don't lie."
"Do I tell the news first to Twitter or Instagram?"
"Okay, okay, God-" he leans on the counter, arms crossed in front of him, straining the short sleeves of his shirt. "I like One Direction," he gets it out, a barely-there mumble. Triumphant, you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck, lips pecking his.
"Does this mean we can sleep with my 1D bedding now?" You whisper through kisses.
"No. I refuse to wake up with my face buried in Niall's crotch."
hi this is me begging for fic requests. i recently got broken up with and NEED to distract myself so i will write ANYTHING and EVERYTHING (so long as it's within the guidelines) so if you want an idea adapted into a *hopefully* good fic to read before bed, my asks are wide open!! xoxo
✧. ┊ PAIRING: peter pevensie x fem!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 2.8k~ words
✧. ┊ SUMMARY: you are to wed prince caspian in favour of narnia, but king peter's arrival changes things
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: mentions of sex, fluff, angst, not much to it
You weren't exactly disappointed that you were to wed Prince Caspian. He was, after all, incredibly handsome, with an accent that made every creature, Narnian or otherwise, swoon. As the unofficial leader of the Narnians upon the Pensieves' disappearance, your own people and the Telmarines on Caspian's side figured an alliance of marriage would stop war crimes against Narnia forever. It was in the best interest of the people. And how could you ever go against the people?
It was easy to imagine Caspian as your future husband. Yes, it was easy until you came back to the Narnian camp after scouting out the Telmarines' weapons, met with the sight of Caspian sparring with a rather gorgeous blond. The man's hair shone under the Narnian sun, like a halo around his head, making his fair skin and blue eyes glow. A human would only ever be a Telmarine. But he was no enemy. You'd realised just who he was before Caspian did.
"Caspian! Caspian, stop it!" At the sound of your voice, the Telmarine was caught off guard, sword knocked out of his hand by the blond. He turned around to you, glaring.
"What?!" He watched you as you stood in between him and the unknown man, then in confusion as you bowed.
"High King Peter," you dipped low, the title slipping out like second nature. After all, it was tales of him and his siblings you grew up with. Tales that kept you going after all this time. Tales that, despite your family's brutal slaughter, left you breathing. Hope is powerful. You hadn't, however, expected him to be your age. Or look so...handsome. Caspian's eyes widened at your greeting, repeating the title in a whisper. Peter's eyes met yours when you rose, betraying nothing. Composure of a King.
"I believe you called," his gaze darted to your fiancé, his voice calm and collected.
"Yes, but we hadn't expected you to be so you-" You cut the Prince off before he could offend any ancient royals.
"We did." More humans ran to the blond, looking panicked. Two girls and a boy. The other rulers, you presumed. You gave a light bow to them too. "This is Prince Caspian," you introduced your betrothed. Caspian gave Peter and the others a firm nod before you introduced yourself and your situation.
They helped, of course. Especially the High King, who insisted you refer to him as 'Peter.' ("'High King' makes me feel a lot older than I am," he'd told you with a cheeky smirk when he realised you wouldn't let down with the formalities).
The tales that put you to bed every night never told you how beautiful he was. How kind. They'd often mentioned his ability to command a room with one word, or his displays of bravery in any situation, or where his priorities lay-- his siblings, and the people of Narnia. The tales made him appear powerful. A force to be reckoned with.
They'd never told you how soft he truly was. How he'd hold his youngest sister at the slightest sign of danger. How he wanted to be a doctor in the real world, so he could help people with medicine instead of swords. How he'd hesitate before putting any of his people on the front lines. How he insisted Miraz fight with him instead of his people, to avoid any innocent deaths. How he was...just a boy. An older brother who wanted the best for everyone. A true King. A ruler you'd have chosen. A commander you'd let protect you.
So you weren't surprised when he made the decision to stay. "The outside world isn't mine. This is," he'd confessed to you the night after the Narnians won the war. The night before he was to leave. You weren't surprised when he cried with Lucy in his arms, muttering false promises of visiting England. You weren't surprised when he gave up everything for Narnia.
You weren't surprised when he declined the throne Caspian offered him. "My throne lies in Cair Paravel. This one is yours."
You weren't surprised when you fell for him.
Now, only a few weeks out from yours and Caspian's wedding, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if fate will tie you to Caspian for eternity.
The trees are silent outside your window, asleep. You should be too. But you stand, putting on slippers, grabbing the candle that lay beside your bed and making your way to the one creature who isn't asleep now. Peter Pevensie. He sits on a chair in the map room, finger carefully tracing paths on a map in front of him. He wouldn't ever rest.
"Peter," you startle him, the only indication of his surprise being his wide eyes.
"You're up late," he leans back in his chair, cracking his neck. "Your River god wouldn't be pleased."
"I left the sea a long time ago."
"Then you and I have something in common," he watches you as you sit in front of him, pushing his map aside and sitting on the table.
"I wanted to thank you," You whisper, hand playing with the edge of your nightgown.
"Thank me? For what?"
"You know what. For all of it. For freeing my people. Freeing Narnia."
"We were all a part of it," he shakes his head. "You, most of all." Typical Peter. Humble to the core. Unlike Caspian, who boasted about the littlest of affairs. "I merely did what I had to. Create a path. You all took it. You all fought on your own-"
"Just accept the gratitude," you whisper, exasperated. "Calling you was the best thing we could've done. And you sacrificed your happiness for us. Left your siblings. For us." The High King has no response to that. He leans back, eyes shutting. In the dim lighting of the braziers, he looks young. Like he's not the ruler of a land. Like he's...just a boy who has the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"I did it for a more selfish reason," he murmurs, looking up at the ceiling, like this was something he hadn't even admitted to himself, let alone anyone else. His eyes find yours, eyelids heavy. He finally realised just how tired he is. "I stayed because..." He winces, looking away. He can't muster enough courage to say it. You don't press it, either. The Narnian king knew what he was doing. And if he thinks that hiding the truth is the wisest option, then you trust him. "I will be leaving for the Seven Isles in the morning. Caspian's orders."
You nod, playing with your fingers. "Will you be back in time for the wedding?" He lets out a breath at that, standing slowly, making a face as he does, hand darting to his side. He hadn't rested after the war. You can't imagine his body would be cooperating. Nevertheless, he leans against the table you're sitting on, jaw clenched as he gazes down at you. His hands hesitantly take your own, thumb running over your knuckles.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he barely gets it out. He brings the back of your hand and presses his lips to it. His eyes tilt up to meet yours, lips still brushing your skin. "You, Queen of Narnia, are my selfish reason." You can't move. Cannot breathe. He gently places your hand on your lap, taking a few steps back. He gives you a small, imperceptible nod, before he takes off for his chambers, leaving your head spinning, stomach sick. You feel so sick you throw up in your bathroom the second you reach your chambers.
You, Queen of Narnia, are my selfish reason.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, head mulling over the words. Fate chose Peter for you. And you were about to destroy what the universe wrote by having Caspian take your hand.
~
"You're not dressed?" Caspian makes you gasp on your wedding day by entering your chambers unannounced. It had been all the land was on about, celebrations having been going for a week already, the Narnians and Telmarines submerging themselves into wine and song. Your marriage marked the start of a new era. An era of peace.
"God, Caspian, don't you knock? What if I was changing?" He smirks at your outburst, walking closer, hand on your waist.
"Then I would've gotten a glimpse of what's to come tonight," his voice is a sultry whisper. You'd slept with the man prior, yes. Once. Before the day of the battle against Miraz. He practically fell to your knees and pleaded for your touch in Aslan's How. And who has the strength to deny that face? But physical relations after marriage are different. They're real. Not something to be forgotten. Not a spur of the moment, or a drunken mistake. They are what is to come until you breathe your last breath.
"Grooms are not to see the bride before the wedding. It's bad luck," you come up with an excuse to get him out your room. You aren't sure why you're not dressed. You'd always awaited your wedding day. The attention showered on you, the beautiful dress you'd wear. The forever love you'd have found.
"Darling, my luck has been rotten before you. Seeing you will early will change nothing," You let out an inaudible breath out of frustration.
"Is Peter back yet?" you put some distance between the two of you.
"No," his brows furrow in confusion. "Why does that matter?"
"We can't marry without him."
"...Why? He's not the priest to officiate the wedding." You clench your jaw.
"No but he is our friend. None of this were to be happening if he weren't here."
"I'm sure he'll be here soon. But we can't stop on his account," his hand slides around your cheek, cupping it. He leans in, whispering. "This is the best day of our lives. Make the most of it." You swallow thickly, reluctantly nodding. The handsome prince did have a point. He beams at that, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. "Get ready, now. I want to show all of Narnia who their Queen will be." He takes your hand just as Peter did that very night. He kisses it. Not like how Peter did it. His kiss has no intent behind it. It is merely a gesture. Peter somehow poured his heart into the kiss. Said everything he needed to say with just a brush of his lips.
You don't notice when Caspian actually leaves.
Your wedding dress was beautiful, with shimmering silk that looked like moving water. It had layers of clear, thin fabric that followed you like a stream. The top part was covered in small glass beads that sparkled in the light. Silver thread was sewn into the dress in patterns of river plants and leaves. The bottom of the skirt had wavy edges that looked like foam. Small pearls were scattered across the fabric to look like water droplets. It was a gift from your fellow Naiads, to thank you for freeing them from the Telmarines' reign, even if you were no longer part of the sea. They would forever be in your debt.
And when you walk to the altar, gasps are heard amongst the wedding guests. The train left behind a stream as you walked. Caspian was utterly mesmerised and captivated, his eyes never leaving you. His beautiful wife-to-be. The one who will be beside him as he rules Narnia.
Some of the guests sniffle as you walk, some cheer. There is only one who is silent. Stoic. Who can't even bear to look at you. You stop walking when you see him.
Peter.
He was true to his word.
Your eyes don't leave him. He only looks at you when he hears the silence in the room, your eyes locked together, a silent confession of love in both. A silent declaration of rebellion.
Caspian's eyes flicker between the two of you, as you're sure the guests are doing too. And an ugly part of him rears its head. He calls your name. "Walk," he whispers. It's not a kind one. It's laced with warning. Your feet carry you on your own accord. And Peter does nothing. He simply watches. Not out of helplessness. Out of calculation. Caspian takes your hand as you ascend the steps to the altar, his anger simmering down.
The poor priest only begins speaking when Peter's voice booms in the quiet room.
"I object," he doesn't even look up from his gaze fixed to the floor for a moment. Then his head rises. His shoulders broaden. His stance is commanding. Peter Pevensie. High King of Narnia.
"We are...not up to that part yet, your majesty," The priest stammers out. Caspian's anger is back, mixed with hurt. Peter was supposed to be his ally, not a traitor.
"I don't care," he walks forward, Rhindon swinging on his hip. His voice is loud, stern, unwavering as he addresses the hundreds of guests. "I am the High King of Narnia. I cannot allow this union to proceed, for my heart is bound to this woman by a love far older and deeper than any vow spoken here today. It would be a betrayal of Narnia and my own soul to remain silent while the one I truly cherish pledges her life to another. Please, forgive my intrusion, but I must speak my truth before it is forever too late."
"Peter!" Growls Caspian, setting a foot down one step of the altar. "How dare you stand in front of these witnesses to mock my honour? To think I called you brother, yet you wait until my hand is joined with hers to show your true, treacherous face!"
"I do not mock your honour, Caspian, I defend it, for it is a greater sin to let you marry a woman whose heart belongs to another! I will not watch my brother build a throne upon a lie just because he is too proud to see the truth!"
The anger in Caspian’s face shatters, replaced by a devastating vulnerability. He looks back at you, the woman he was seconds away from binding his life to, his voice barely a whisper as he searches your eyes. "Is this true?" he asks, the words trembling with the weight of a man realising his entire world was built on a beautiful, cruel illusion.
Your hesitant nod is betrayal enough.
He takes a moment, eyes flickering away from you. His posture slumps, as if he has given up. Caspian closes his eyes, a single tear escaping as he lets out a long, shuddering breath. When he looks up again, the flash of fury has vanished, replaced by a profound, weary clarity.
"Then I owe you a debt I can never repay, Peter," he says, his voice thick with emotion as he turns toward the High King. "You have saved me from the greatest sin of all. Taking a heart that was never mine to hold. I would rather endure this sting today than live a lifetime knowing I kept two souls apart who were meant for one another."
The both of you are surprised. It is unlike Caspian to let down. To give up something he fought for. He takes the crown off his head and walks up to the High King, placing it on his head. It fits Peter a lot better than it fits Caspian. He was born a king. A muscle ticks in Peter's jaw and before he can stop himself, he tightly hugs his brother, patting him on the back. Caspian is startled by the firm grip, but he gives in.
Caspian takes Peter's old spot in the crowd, as the love of your life ascends the steps, eyes never leaving yours.
Peter turns to the crowd and lifts his chin with the natural poise of a sovereign. He looks out at the faces of Narnia before turning his gaze back to yours, his voice ringing out clear and steady. "I have spent my life learning how to rule, but I nearly failed the most important duty of all—to be honest with my own heart and with the woman I love. I ask for your forgiveness for the disruption, but I could not let this day pass under the shadow of a lie. To Narnia, I offer my service as your High King; but to you," he turns to you, voice softer, "I offer my life, my soul, and every day I have left, if you will have me." The last part is hesitant, spoken with the anxiousness of a boy who's afraid he's lost his love.
"Yes," you let out a cracked whisper, smile gracing your face. He bows, kissing your hand as he always did. With love.
Titles were long forgotten. Alliances left up to friendship. All that was being celebrated today was love.
And for the first time in his life, Peter felt like he belonged.
hello i am maybe maybe not back with an entire change of direction, i can't help the deep peter brainrot i'm into
masterlist
✧. ┊ PAIRING: peter pevensie x fem!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 4k~ words
✧. ┊ SUMMARY: you and your boyfriend, edmund are very much in love. the perfect couple. but your eyes can't stay away from his older brother, Peter
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, light smut, mentions/implications of sex, sex scene but not explicit, swearing, cheating, infidelity, virgins, unprotected sex, all characters are over 18 obvs, cheating is bad don't cheat on your partner!!
You are very much aware that the way you look at Peter is wrong. Too long. Too lingering. Too much said in your gaze for him to just be your "friend". For him just to be your boyfriend's older brother. You'd been seeing Edmund for a year now. It was a relationship that was perfect. The kind that meant you had no fights, only respectful conversations. The sweet, happily-ever-after kind of relationship that your friends longed for. You were, yes, the "perfect couple" to everyone that knew you. A lot less harder to convince yourself of that, though. Not when Peter's dimples flash at you like this.
Not when he approaches you with a knowing grin when he spots you across the university courtyard.
He had started his first university year later than what was the norm. 'Several years to think things through', Edmund had justified it as. At the age of 21, he started his first year of medicine, and he was lucky to have you to accompany him, albeit a different major.
The boy tucks his hands in the pocket of his jeans, an olive bag slung around his torso, his cheeks the usual pink, hair shining golden under the sun.
"Hey, you," he grins, almost like he saw the way you were looking at him earlier. You hope not.
"Hi," you return a shy smile, trying not to give your inner thoughts away. You adjust your own tote hanging on your shoulder. "I'm coming over tonight. I was thinking I could make dinner tonight. Y'know, give you guys a break."
His eyes flick to the way you adjust your bag, then he shuts them, mentally chastising himself, reminding himself you're off limits. "Alright, sounds good."
"Cool, whatcha thinking? I'll pick up some ingredients on the way."
"Uh... maybe some pasta?" He clears his throat, his shoulders lifting up in a slight shrug. "Edmund's always going on about how much he likes your carbonara..."
"Done," you grin. You'd made the dish for Edmund several times and he never failed to show you just how much he appreciated it after. "I won't blame you if you get down on one knee after."
He rolls his eyes with a light smile on his face. His cheeks go pinker, if possible. "Cocky as always."
"Where you headed?" You don't want him to end this conversation. End how he's looking at you.
"To class. I have a group project meeting that's gonna go on for far longer than necessary and I can not be bothered, honestly."
"Wanna skip with me?" His eyes shift, like for a moment, he's excited at the prospect, but then logic wins over.
"As nice as that sounds, I don't think my group mates would take kindly to me not showing up. They're already complaining about me not pulling my weight as is…"
"Oh, come on, Peter! It's just one class!" Peter was stubborn as hell, having a very 'my way or the highway' approach to nearly everything. You know how hard it is to persuade him into doing something he doesn't want to do. Which is why you're surprised when he huffs and agrees.
"Alright--fine. You win. Just don't tell Edmund." He begins leading the way, failing to hide the small smile on his face. He leads you to a cafe on campus that's mostly empty, save for a few students typing away at their laptops or scribbling notes, coffee long forgotten. He's kind enough to buy you a drink and a pastry. And the worst part is that he knows exactly what you want without having to ask, something even Edmund didn't do.
"You know, it's crazy you're still single," you speak before you think as you settle in the coffee booth. He leans back in the seat, eyebrow raised. Then he tilts his head, leaning in.
"Oh, really? You're just saying that."
"Am not! I have some hot friends who would be willing to pounce." He snorts at your statement, fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup.
"Trying to play matchmaker, are you? Pimping me out to your friends?"
"Say the word and I will. Pimp, that is."
"Flattered, truly. But I think I'll pass." He looks away immediately, signalling this discussion is over. On the way back to his and Edmund's place, he drives you to the grocer, allowing you to pick up things you needed for tonight's dinner, warning you that their fridge only consisted of rotting vegetables and peanut butter. The two boys weren't skilled at cooking, and relied on Susan for their meals or takeout.
When you serve the food on the table for the two boys, Edmund pounces like a wild animal.
"Oh, I've eaten nothing all day!" He moans as he shoves a forkful into his mouth, smearing his mouth with the sauce. "This is heavenly." Peter, the more refined one, gives you a nod of appreciation.
"Now I know why Edmund goes on about this all the time. You're skilled." His sentence trails off as he sees Edmund leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek. He hides his anger in his plate of carbonara.
"How was your day, love?" Edmund manages to speak out through a mouthful of pasta.
"Good. Peter and I-"
"Just hung out around campus. Same old." Peter cuts you off, his response purposefully vague, eyes darting briefly to meet yours across the table. You're utterly confused by his concealment of the truth, but you decide not to press.
After dinner, Edmund makes out with your neck as you wash up, his hands roaming over your body as his front presses into your back. He does it when Peter's not in the kitchen, but the haze of desire and clatter of dishes in the sink make the two of you unaware of Peter's footsteps. He stops in the doorway, jaw tightening, jealousy and resignation coursing through him.
Edmund, none the wiser to Peter's presence, whispers. "God, I'm gonna make you cry tonight."
That's when Peter decides to go to his room.
And he only comes out when the clock reads 3 am. The blond was thirsty, his shirtless form heading to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. A few minutes later, he both curses and thanks fate when you walk into the kitchen with seemingly the same intent, your clothes ruffled, hair a mess, mascara smudged, and unmistakeable hickies on your neck.
He averts his gaze, clearing his throat before asking. "Water?" You nod. He hands you the glass meant for himself to you and pours another for him. You're silent as the two of you sip your water. He leans back on the counter, unable to stop his eyes from wandering to your neck. "Uh... I guess Edmund was in a good mood tonight?"
You choke on your water, but manage to sputter out a response to his risqué question. "Y-yes. Yes, he was."
"Well... I'm guessing he wore you out?" Peter eyes you intently, searching for any signs of discomfort or remorse, then smirks when your eyes blow wider.
"I'm sorry, do you really wanna know about your brother's sex life?" He almost snorts at the response, a little satisfied he pushed your buttons.
"No, not particularly. But you two weren't exactly quiet, if you catch my drift." That gets you to shut up. And look at the floor in embarrassment. You don't have to speak for him to get his answer.
"Right. Well... that's, uh... good for Edmund, I guess." He sets his glass down on the counter harder than he meant to, jaw clenched. He's afraid if he stays any longer, he might say or do something wrong. "Goodnight." He turns the corner, disappearing into his room.
"Edmund. Edmund, stop it!" Is the first thing he hears when he wakes up in the morning. He's still sans shirt, smell of eggs wafting through the house. It's not often their house smells like actual food and not...well...Edmund's sweaty socks or the cheap incense Peter buys to give the house a more pleasant vibe. He walks by the kitchen to see Edmund at it again, kissing whatever skin he can find on your body as you cook breakfast.
"Can't you guys ever keep your hands off each other for five minutes?" He scoffs out, eyes still bleary from sleep. His tone is bitter, leaning on the doorway with his arms crossed.
You turn back to face Edmund and smack him upside the head. "What did I tell you, you knobhead!" Wincing and rubbing his arm, Edmund gives Peter a glare for cockblocking him.
"Whatever. I'm going to shower," mutters Edmund. And with that, it's the two of you in the kitchen, the stove on low heat as Peter watches you. Your soft smile. Your untamed hair from sleeping.
"How do you take your eggs?" You ask Peter without turning around.
"Scrambled. Salt and pepper, please." He finally leaves his position from the doorway, unable to rip his eyes off you. You looked different in the morning light. Without your makeup, your hair wild, your face soft. Like you were free. It was a sight he'd like to see every morning in bed next to him.
"Toast?"
"Two slices. Buttered." He leans on the counter next to where you're cooking, his steps so quiet you're unable to pick up his proximity to you when he stops speaking. And then you feel it. A hand on your waist. Not Edmund's, because the shower is still running. Peter's.
He runs his hand over the curve of your hip, feeling the soft flesh through your cotton shorts. He stops for a bit, gauging your reaction to this. When you say nothing, he pulls you closer, mouth right next to your ear. His voice is a husky murmur. "Turn off the stove." He kisses your earlobe when you comply. "Now look at me." He spins you in his arms, pressing your back against the countertop next to the stove, your arms making utensils clatter. His hands slip under your shirt, feeling the soft skin around your waist, thumbs brushing lightly. His blue eyes are more pupil now, his cheeks so red they may be hot.
And then the bathroom door opens.
He pulls away sharply, taking a quick step back, putting distance between you. He grips the countertop, eyes tightly shut as he leans over it. He takes steady breaths to console himself. "Uh--right. Breakfast." He carries on like nothing happened, grabbing toast that popped out the toaster a while ago, cold now.
Edmund comes into the kitchen, hair damp, blissfully unaware to what was happening just a moment earlier. He takes a piece of toast from Peter. You're still shaky. Still remembering how Peter felt pressed up against you. How his kiss felt on your ear.
"Edmund?" You manage to speak, voice shaky.
"Hm?" He responds through a mouthful of toast.
"I know you just showered but...can we uh....do it again?" Both Edmund and Peter's eyebrows shoot up. Edmund breaks into a grin shortly after. Peter just keeps looking at you in horror like you betrayed him.
"Well. Someone's eager," Edmund puts his toast down and grabs your hand, leaving a fuming Peter in the kitchen. You don't dare meet his eyes as you're dragged out.
And you don't see Peter. Not for a week. Not until Edmund instructs him to pick you up after your classes and bring you to their home for another sleepover.
Peter is leaned against his Toyota as he waits for you. His jaw is clenched, his arms crossed, and he has found a new fascination with the cloudless blue sky. When he spots you heading towards him, he curses his heart for speeding up. Traitor. "Hey. Hop in." He remains as casual as ever. Like you're good mates. He opens the passenger door for you, then slides into the driver's seat without a word.
"You didn't have to. Pick me up," you start, staring out the window.
"Edmund asked me to." He spits out sharply, the words more bitter than intended. "Sorry," he mutters.
"Peter..." you fiddle with your fingers, letting out a long sigh."
"Hm?"
"What happened that day..."
"We both know what happened." He finishes your sentence, his tone indicating it's not up for debate. "And we both know it shouldn't have."
"That's my point. Nothing happened."
He lets out a dry laugh, no humour in it. Only resentment. "Right. Absolutely nothing. Is that what makes you sleep better at night?"
"I didn't cheat on Edmund-"
"And yet, you let me touch you. You let me pull you closer. You let me push you up against-" He stops himself before he goes too far, a shaky breath escaping his lips before he continues. "It still counts."
"No, it doesn't!" You're frustrated at his stubbornness. At his willingness to simply accept that what you two did was wrong.
"You don't get to decide that! You let me cross a line. And now we both have to live with it!"
"Pull over." He pulls to a random empty spot on the road, the engine of the car dying down. "You know what counts as cheating? Kissing, having sex, we barely touched each other." He lets out another scoff-laugh, refusing to even look at you.
"Oh, so as long as you didn't technically kiss me or fuck me, it's all fine? That's the line you're drawing? You forget--I felt it. The way you leaned into me, the way your breath hitched when I touched you-"
"Stop it, Peter."
"You have no idea how hard I've been trying to push away the memory of that day," he growls. "And then you have the gall to claim nothing happened?"
You clench your jaw, refusing to accept any of it. To admit you liked him touching you is to admit you like him. To admit you're cheating on Edmund. Which cannot be true. You are the perfect couple. "Just...don't tell Ed."
"Yeah, sure. Wouldn't want to ruin your perfect little relationship," he shakes his head, muttering under his breath.
"You're a fucking dick." You let out a retort of your own.
"And yet, you still wanted me to pin you against that counter." That's it. You open the door, getting out the car. He doesn't even stop you. And he gets an earful from Edmund when he returns home.
"Where is she?!" Edmund is furious, searching behind Peter like you're somehow hiding behind the tall blond.
"Wanted to walk back herself. Fresh air." He shrugs, keeping his tone casual. The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, but he can't bring himself to tell Edmund the truth. Not when the truth involves the two of you fighting over him, over whatever you two have got going on.
"So you just let her? I sent you to pick her up!"
"And she stubbornly insisted on walking. What did you want me to do? Tie her to the back seat?"
"Can you do anything right?!"
"Are you joking? I'm the one always fixing your messes. This is the first time I didn't do as you instructed, and you act like I committed a goddamn crime." Before Edmund can punch Peter in the mouth, he spots you walking up to the front door. He forgets about his spat with Peter and runs to you.
"Babe!"
"Told you she was fine." Peter rolls his eyes, arms crossed as he watches the scene.
"Don't blame Peter, Edmund. I hopped out myself." At your words, Peter gives Edmund the 'I told you so' look, which Edmund responds to with an eye roll and dragging you to his room.
It's well past midnight and Peter's still awake, shirtless in bed (it's how he sleeps best), laptop balancing on one knee. He couldn't sleep, given the events of the day and figured he might as well do his long overdue assignment. But his focus was shot anyway, his gaze drifting to the moonlight streaming in through the window, only source of light except the dimmed laptop screen. But you, of course, had to interrupt him. When he hears the knock, he sits up.
"Come in." He hadn't been expecting you, of course. He thought it'd been Edmund. So he freezes when his eyes land on you, a little too aware of his unclothed state. You walk in to his freakishly clean room, everything not only sorted neatly, but there wasn't even a speck of dust. A complete contrast to Edmund's room, which always looks like a bomb went off.
"Ed's asleep." You shut the door behind you. Peter leans back against the headboard, arm over his head.
"I figured as much." Silence. Then a shaky exhale from you.
"I'm sorry for um...earlier." For a moment, you don't think he's going to respond. But then he lets out a small shake of the head, his voice soft, so careful as to not break the tension.
"Don't apologise. I was just as much to blame." His eyes don't waver from yours, following them as they flick to his bare chest, and then back up. Peter was only three years older than Edmund, and yet significantly muscular. Taller.
"I...I couldn't sleep," you blurt something out to make it less obvious you were checking him out. But he's caught on. You know he has because he's smirking.
"Yeah? And you thought bothering me was the solution?" He brings his arm down so he's casually flexing his bicep. His tone is playful, but his eyes aren't. He doesn't want you here.
"Point noted," you whisper, taking the hint. It stung a little but you were ridiculous to think things could dissolve so fast.
"Hey. I was joking," he quickly backtracks, sitting up properly now. Then he shifts, patting the open space next to him. "Come here. Sit." An invitation that would surely end things terribly. An invitation you knew better than to accept.
"I shouldn't. It's probably for the best."
He knows you're right. Of course you are, given a clueless Edmund is snoring in the next room. But when Peter wants something, he gets it. His tone is sharp when he speaks, his voice low and persuasive, leaving no room for argument "Come. Here." You hesitantly cross the dark room, bare feet silent against the carpet floor. The mattress dips under you and you can smell his cologne from earlier today. You'd gotten used to the smell. So much so that whenever you got a hint of it on others in public, you'd start craving his presence.
His eyes don't leave you as you settle in next to him. They don't leave you as you take hold of his black beaded bracelet. They don't leave you as you whisper, "It was a mistake." They don't leave you even when his heart clenches in pain.
"Yeah. It was." That is when he turns his gaze back towards the window, like the light will make him disappear if he looks for too long. "But that doesn't mean I regret it." You shake your head, eyes not looking up from his bracelet. You're not sure if the shake of the head is an agreement or merely a way to stop yourself from snapping, or worse, crying. He notices this, his hand catching yours, fingers tracing your palm, feeling your pulse thundering.
"Edmund never does this for you?" He whispers, based on your shocked reaction to the gesture. Like every inch of you had never been worshipped before. And when you shake your head, he smiles. He'd taught Edmund a lot. But never how to treat a girl right. His head dips, his voice a murmur. "Then I'm better than him, aren't I?" His fingers move from your palm to further up your arm. "Bet I can fuck you better too."
Your wide eyes and red cheeks give him all the push he needs. His free hand cups your jaw, bringing your mouth close to his, close enough to feel his breath, but not to touch. He needs permission for that.
"May I...?" And when you nod, he snaps. The moment your lips meet, it's like a switch flips inside him--all the suppressed desire, the pent-up longing, the need to touch you, to taste you…it all comes crashing down. His hand releases yours, only to find its way to your waist, pulling your body closer to his. He kisses you hungrily, desperately, his other hand cupping the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
He feels the sin course through his veins with every flick of his tongue, with every tug on your hair.
He kisses you harder.
"I'm on the pill," you whisper between kisses. He didn't know the night would take that direction but he isn't complaining. His hands swing under your thighs and he pulls you on top of him so you're straddling him, his back against the headboard. The action is driven by need, his eyes dark, his movements feral. His hand finds your top as his mouth finds your throat. He doesn't start off with pecks, using tongue and teeth from the get-go, desperate to devour every bit of skin you've got.
He only stops when he feels you unbuttoning his jeans, his hips bucking up towards you, showing off his raw need. His hands slide over your sides, under your shirt, taking it off with the movement.
"You're sure this isn't a bad idea?" He heaves out, hoping the answer is no.
"Please don't ask me that." He chuckles at your answer, one hand finding the clasp of your bra and skilfully taking it off. You knew he was a virgin, so that move was impressive.
He doesn't fuck like a virgin either. Peter had an ability to be immediately good at anything new he tried. And that applied to his thrusts. They were nothing compared to Edmund's. His older brother filled you up achingly, his pace and depth perfect. He fit you like you were meant to be. He whispered praises in your ear, toe-curling dirty talk, telling you how pretty you were for him, how good you felt wrapped around him.
You both don't even hear the knock the first time. Peter hears it the second time. Edmund.
You were both in deep shit.
"Closet. Hide." He instructs you, scrambling to find his jeans. He hastily puts them on, makes sure you're concealed within the closet and opens the door, doing his best to put on an annoyed expression. Surely enough, Edmund stands in front of him, his jaw clenched, like he'd been expecting to walk in on bad news. He's more relaxed when he sees nothing past Peter. "What?"
"I thought I heard someone in there. I woke up and she was gone." Edmund still tries to search the room with his eyes, trying to look past Peter's towering frame.
"She said she was feeling unwell and decided to go home. I was awake so she told me." Peter says in a very matter-of-fact tone, leaning against the doorframe. He's just praying Edmund doesn't come close enough to hear his pulsing heart.
"And the sounds...?"
"I was...uh...I was watching porn." Edmund doesn't have much for that response. His eyes are wide, question in them.
"That loud?"
"Yes. It was a very...er...interesting video." The brothers just stare at each other.
"Right."
"Now can I get back to it, or are you gonna keep cockblocking me?"
"You disgust me."
"Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, man."
"Yeah, whatever." Edmund scoffs, rubbing his eyes and heading to his room. Peter shuts the door, locking it. You come out the closet, using one of his shirts to cover your naked body.
"We're good," he gives you a tight-lipped smile, closing the distance between you in two strides. He attempts to kiss you again but you stop him, voice soft.
"Peter..." He's about to protest, but stops when he sees your serious expression. "I feel terrible..." His hands find your hips, tightening almost painfully. He wants to snap, to pull you back into another kiss, to forget about everything else, about Ed. But your words give him pause, his eyes locking onto yours. He lets out a frustrated sigh, fingers loosening slightly. "I love Ed. I do. And cheating on him like this...with his brother..."
His expression shifts, love and yearning shifting to jealousy and hate. Hate for Edmund. Hate for him still owning your heart. Even when he fucked you hard enough to rearrange your insides. "I made you mine," he growls. "I've loved you for longer. Loved you better. Your heart cannot possibly still belong to him-"
"I want you. I really do. But not like this. Not behind his back." His grip on you loosens, his eyes shutting as he takes a deep breath. He's frustrated at your righteousness. But you're right. He loves his brother and a betrayal like this would be against all his morals. He reluctantly nods, pushing down the longing he feels, and letting go of you.
"Very well. Just...go home tonight. You can tell Edmund tomorrow." He doesn't meet your eyes. "Call me if you need anything. Or if Ed is a jerk to you, I'll break his jaw." His gaze remains rooted to the carpet as you wear your clothes. "Text me when you're home." As you head for the door. As it shuts and you leave.
He can't afford losing the only girl he's ever loved.
synopsis: you and your boyfriend, edmund are very much in love. the perfect couple. but your eyes can't stay away from his older brother, Peter.
Good luck, babe. ✧
synopsis: you are to wed prince caspian in favour of narnia, but king peter's arrival changes things
Just us ♡ ☽
synopsis: "fem! reader and him going to a ball and it just ends with both of them being so tired that they just end up cuddling and spending the night in each others embrace"
Formula 1
Logan Sargeant
How to deal with a bad result. A comprehensive guide. ✩
synopsis: he had a bad race. He finds his reprieve in you.
Pillowtalk.✩ (OP81)
synopsis: you celebrate a good race result with your boyfriend and his best friend.
So It Goes... ✩
synopsis: your school takes a trip to a camp where you get to spend a night with your closest mates, including your best friend, logan.
Soft Launch ୭ ☽
synopsis: He had a bad race. He finds his reprieve in you.
Pretty Boy ✩ ♡
synopsis: you take care of your little boyfriend after a bad race
Would it be enough if I could never give you peace? ୭ ♡
synopsis: he got dropped. his partner is winning races. the whole world thinks he's unworthy.
Private Debrief (AA23) ✩ ♡
synopsis: sargebon smut where they meet up during the 2025 season (after alexs dnf streak). alex starts to vent to logan and takes out his frustration on him
Manager in Training ☽ ♡
synopsis: logan visits the indy paddock and his little girl plays manager and cupid for him
Oscar Piastri
Pillowtalk. ✩ (LS2)
synopsis: you celebrate a good race result with your boyfriend and his best friend.
Earned it. ✩♡
synopsis: your best friend's teammate, oscar is jealous of your interactions and confesses to you
Diana ♡ ☽
synopsis: your boyfriend second-handedly became a directioner, but refuses to admit it. then he slips up, to your joy
Arthur Leclerc
Parenthesis ♡ ☽
synopsis: you feel something stir in you when you meet your kindergarten student's single father
Parenthesis (2.1) ♡ ☽
synopsis: your kindergarten student's single father invites you for movie night
Parenthesis (2.2) ♡☽
synopsis: maybe you do love him. maybe he loves you back
Most Ardently ✩ ♡
synopsis: your client's annoying little brother finally makes you snap
Isack Hadjar
jealousy, jealousy ✩ ♡
synopsis: your best friend prepares you how to kiss another guy, much to his own reluctance
Alex Albon
Private Debrief (LS2) ✩ ♡
synopsis: sargebon smut where they meet up during the 2025 season (after alexs dnf streak). alex starts to vent to logan and takes out his frustration on him
Ollie Bearman
New Perspective ♡ ✧
synopsis: situationship with him as a driver on the grid. ib “two sizes big, your shirt in my apartment / oh we were kids but that don’t make this less hard”?
hi!! would it be possible to request an imagine either with ollie or arthur where you’re a driver on the 2025 f1 grid and have a situationship with him. can you do a scenario based on the lyrics “two sizes big, your shirt in my apartment / oh we were kids but that don’t make this less hard”?
if not, no worries at all!! love ur works <33
why would you do this to me. i chose ollie bc uh variety. not sure if pure hurt no comfort is what you were looking for but :D
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: mentions of sex, situationship/fwb setup, hurt no comfort, coarse language, no happy ending
He's already gone by the time I'm awake. And there's no evidence he was ever here except his shirt discarded on the floor. Forgotten. Uncared for. "Keep it." He'd insisted the first night we were together. He'd torn my shirt amidst the heat and desire between us. Then the morning came and I had to go back to my hotel room before Quali, so he lended me the very shirt. He said it was newly washed. But it still smelled like him.
I pick it up off the floor and neatly fold it, because it's not mine anymore. It was never mine go begin with it. "Well, you can't let people know we're...sneaking around." The sting of those words is fresher than ever. Sneaking around. Not even sleeping with each other. Definitely not seeing other. Sneaking. Like it's forbidden. Like he'd rather die than admit it. He'll want the shirt back next time he comes over.
I go through the motions in my lavish hotel room. I follow my pre-race ritual. Brush my teeth, do the same yoga poses by the window, wear my purple underwear and ensure my hair is blow-dried, not air-dried. Silly superstitions but mine to believe. I'm on autopilot by the time I get to the garage. The night before wore me out and I had forgotten to set an alarm amidst the sex so I slept in. All the drivers are already in the paddock, and the cars are already ready by the time I'm in my race suit. I'm debriefed race strategies but can't focus because I see him walking by the garage. And he doesn't even look my way. "That's the point of a secret! We don't even show hints of it in public!" He's laughing with Kimi. Why is he allowed to touch his arm like that? And not mine?
The race isn't special. I'm no Verstappen or Piastri. I'm no Senna or Norris. My P9 finish is good enough. That's all I strive for. Good enough. Good enough to keep my seat. Good enough to earn back-pats. But never champagne. Good enough to be fucked. But never loved.
I forget to check where he ends up but it's quite obvious by the way he storms into my room.
"Hi, baby," I hate that I'm so eager.
"I fucking hate my team," he groans, bed dipping down as he sits.
"Where'd you end up?"
"P18" a growl that's unlike him. He doesn't mean to be unkind. Of course he doesn't. He's young, an enthusiastic rookie, after all. It's just...maybe I don't feel as high or a priority to him as other things. He's got new perspectives now, ever since coming into F1. He says he's matured and it's time to get serious. "I don't have time for a date night. I've got training and then sim-day. Best we can do is fuck." I hate that he's so hard on himself. I wish I could shut it in a closet.
He's not the Ollie I fell in love with.
"Oh, that's too bad, baby love. We'll do better next time," I casually rest my head on his shoulder from behind, arm wrapping around his front and mindlessly stroking his collarbone.
"Easy for you to say," he snorts, shrugging my arm off. "You landed in points."
"It's only P9. Not a top five finish like the team wanted-"
"Oh, shut up." He cuts me off. He doesn't mean it badly. Maybe he just hates that he had to confront his shortcomings by seeing me.
Then why is he here?
He must've realised his mistake, or he must've seen my pathetic face because he grabs my chin gently in between his thumb and his forefinger, voice soft. "I didn't mean that. I've had a long day. We can...do it if you promise to be quiet."
"Why do I have to be quiet?" I'm daring him to break my heart now. Maybe I'm sick of his new perspectives.
"Are you serious?" he chuckles like i'm an idiot for even pondering the question. "You want people to know we're together?"
"Yeah. Maybe I do." I don't know where this comes from. Maybe it's the knowledge that I am, at the end of the day, more deserving of love. I am deserving of being called 'mine.' And not just...'friend.'
"I can't do that. We're just kids-"
"That doesn't make it any less hard for me!" I don't mean to be loud. But I am. I want to fly. I want to be worth something. He stays silent. He pulls away from me and leans against the wall. He stares at a wall and I don't know if he's thinking or if he's trying to control himself from lashing out at me. Whatever it is, the words that come out of his mouth are not what I want.
"I can't do that," a whisper because if it is more, my heart won't be the only one shattering. "I'm sorry."
"So that's it? We're breaking up."
"We're not breaking up," he huffs. And damn myself for feeling hope. "In order to breakup, you have to be in a relationship."
The hum of the lights is louder now.
"Then take your shirt with you. It's too big for me."
single dad!logan who's daughter/son (already in a age where she/he can talk) 'tries' to get him a job with a indycar team at a race to which kyle maybe invited them to ! just pure fluff of his child playing manager for him <3 (maybe her/his cuteness can even pull something out for his career in a unrealistic scenario, who knows.. i just give you the ideas to do whatever you want with it !)
also: "this belongs to the single dad one too !!! i'm so incredibly sleepy & forget to add that his child comes across a pr manager who's then logan's love interest !!! i'm so sorry for forgetting to add this 🥲🥲"
made love interest a commentator instead bc that fit in better i hope that's okay!!. ignore discrepancies in text convo i noticed after i couldnt be arsed to fix it
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: it's just pure fluff, curse words, idiots in love, kids?
"Alright, now if we run into any problems, who we do call?" coos Logan as he places the Apple AirTag strap around his little girl's wrist. He's tucked away two phones inside her bag, but he can never be too careful. He's been called a helicopter parent more frequently than he'd like. But he doesn't care. His little angel's safety is always the number one priority.
"911!" Raya beams enthusiastically, doing this drill for the umpteenth time. At the tender age of five, she's more responsible than most kids her age. Logan needs the support. He's been doing this for far too long all by himself. He's been offered assistance from his parents, and his brother, and his friends, and basically every relative that remembered he existed since he got to drive for Williams. And the answer was the same every time. He doesn't like being pitied. He doesn't want sympathy. He'd raise this baby the way God intended-- simply YOLOing it.
"And if you get lost, who do you say you're here for?"
"Uncle Kyle!"
"Ah-ah, Kyle what?"
"Uncle Kyle Kirkwood!"
"Good girl, darling," he runs a soft hand over her poorly braided hair. Five years and he still couldn't fucking do it. But he wished for nothing else. He wanted nothing more. "Now go wear your shoes, we'll be out in five."
It's the St Petersburg Firestone Grand Prix he'd frequented when he was a kid in Florida, Kyle and him holding hands and marvelling at the legendary drivers time had seen. Now the boy, Kyle, was an Indy legend himself and a damn horrible uncle. People came and went. Trends changed. Kyle's always there. Kyle and Logan. Logan and Kyle. The fucker got an all-weekend pass for the two of them, despite Logan's reluctance. He's been put off by the racing world since his unfortunate time at Williams. He knows he has to land a job somehow and somewhere to provide for his baby, but for now, his funds are more than enough to give her a comfortable life.
"Daddy, can't find my teddy!" He sighs, irritation seeping into his voice at his daughter's late predicament.
"I put it in your toy box, baby girl, open your eyes..." he huffs, putting on his shoes. "You find it?"
"Yes!" She waddles out her room, looking adorable in her tiny shoes, oversized backpack and teddy bear in one hand. "Here we come, Uncle Kyle."
He lets out a soft chuckle, hoisting her in his arms. "Yes, that's right, baby, here we come, Uncle Kyle."
The son of a bitch is running late when they reach the GP. He promised he'd be there. He promised he'd support Logan in the horrors returning back to the paddock. But the bastard can't even be punctual.
"Lightning McQueen!" squeals Raya upon spotting a red car on display.
"Yeah, baby, Lightning McQueen."
"Are you friends with Lightning McQueen, daddy?"
"Sure, baby."
"Where's Uncle Kyle?"
"Wish I fucking knew," he mutters under his breath, trying to avoid eye contact with people that recognised him. He isn't in the mood for pictures. Or looks of pity.
"Yo! Logan!" He spins to trace the source of the sound. And there he is, the motherfucker himself.
"You're late," he simply states, arms crossed.
"Hi Uncle Kyle," Raya waves innocently, jumping up and down before running with those little legs to Kyle's arms. Kyle crouches down, receiving her.
"Ah, there's my favourite niece!" He lifts her into the air, ruffling her hair and messing it up. The braid that Logan spent so long trying to perfect. "You look gorgeous, little lady."
"Thank you!" She wiggles her legs with a pout, a universal indicator for being put down. He places her on the floor as Logan approaches him to give him a piece of his mind. Logan's very aggravated at Kyle's carelessness of leaving him in an environment where he wasn't very comfortable, so much so that he doesn't notice Raya spot his mate, Marcus Armstrong. The little girl makes a run for it, weaving and ducking through the crowd, calling out. "Marcus! Marcus! Uncle Marcus!" The little one ends up losing sight of the Kiwi, instead bumping into you, who's commentating for the cameras, and noticing the small 'thud' against your leg. Curious, you bend down to the lost girl's level. Raya, the little devil, is solely focused on finding Marcus, trying to get past you to continue her pursuit.
"And who do we have here?" The camera zooms in on her, the mic across from her tiny mouth.
"Want Uncle Marcus!" She whines, clearly not interested in whatever was going on.
"Uncle Marcus, huh? And what's your name, little one? Have you lost your parents?" You softly speak, finding the little one's features familiar, like you'd gazed into those eyes before.
"R-Raya. Raya Sargeant," and there it is. Your ex-boyfriend. You'd heard he'd had a kid, but it was all very much under wraps. You know how much he likes his privacy. And there you stand before her, a spitting image of the man you'd told yourself you wouldn't feel anything for. A man you swore not to miss. "I tink I'm...lost..." She looks around, so desperately trying to spot her father, an exaggerated pout forming on her face by the second. "I..I'm here with Uncle Kyle Kirkwood. Need to find dada."
"Hey, we'll find your dad for you, okay? He's a friend of mine." You reach out for her, holding out your arms for her to run in to. She assesses you, judging whether you're trustworthy or not. She looks at the camera filming the whole interaction, the mic in your hands and gently walks into your arms, letting you lift her.
"Is your daddy Logan Sargeant, my dear?" She nods idly, eyes zeroing in on the camera.
"Am I...Is this...TV?" Her pout seems to disappear at the realisation, a twinkle in her eyes. Quite the opposite of her father, who didn't enjoy media attention. But this girl seems to love the limelight.
"Indeed it is, darling. Do you have something to say to the world?"
"Y-Yes. I...Hi world, I'm Raya Sargeant. I like...cars. And Goldfish snacks," the cameraman chuckles, unable to resist the charm this girl has. "My dada...is Logan Sargeant and he's faster than Lightning McQueen."
"That's pretty fast," you nod at her remark, her innocence tugging on your heart.
"Hey," she blinks in realisation, "maybe you can get him to be teammates with Uncle Kyle!" A brief silence. A lip being bitten. Obviously, you were just a commentator, but you know people. And you know Logan's worth. It hurt to see wasted potential. Soul-crushing.
"Why do you want him to be teammates with Uncle Kyle?"
"So that...well...we could see Uncle Kyle all the time! I like Uncle Kyle, he buys me toys that Dada says no to!"
"Is that so?"
"Yes. And dada loves racing. And F1 didn't like him. Maybe...Maybe Uncle Kyle's race friends would? Dada's very good!" You hear soft sighs and whispers of 'awws' around you, the little girl capturing everyone's hearts with her tender words. It's clear that she's very young but shows empathetic skills some adults lack.
"I'll see what I can do, sweethea-" You're cut off by frantic yells, a voice booming 'Raya!' through the crowd. Logan emerges out of the herd, and you have to remind yourself to breathe at the sight of him. He looks better than ever. And yet, still the same. Your Logan.
"Raya!" The look that crosses his face when he sees his daughter can't just be described relief. It was something stronger. Like he gained his life back. He doesn't even look at you, eyes laser-focused on his girl. He takes her from your arms, holding her close to his chest, his breathing frantic. "You scared the shit out of me, holy...Oh god..." His hand travels over her back as he shuts his eyes, feeling his daughter, making sure she was real and not something he's imagining. "Never do that to me. Never again. You don't know what I'd have done if I lost you..."
"Sorry, Dada." He pulls his face back, expression and voice turning stern.
"We do NOT leave Daddy's hand. You know this. Do you understand me?!" She nods, quieting, knowing she was at fault. He softens before pulling her to his chest again. And he finally looks up at you. And he looks. He falters. He can't process it. He finally manages a whisper of your name, taking a step closer. You look over at your cameraman, dragging a hand across your neck to signal him to stop filming. When you turn back at Logan, he's closer, disbelief etched into his features. "Thank you for uh...looking after her." You offer him a a soft nod of the head, staring up at the familiar eyes his daughter's inherited.
"Ah, she found me, really. Was chasing Marcus Armstrong."
"All the girls chase Marcus," he attempts a small laugh, but it falls flat. "You look...good." It's a damn near crack of the voice. "How've you been?"
"Good, good...Moved on to the Indy paddock."
"Yeah, well, things seem better out here." You let out a soft chuckle in agreement, just looking at him in silence. It was hard not to have flashes of your intimate moments from long ago. Him on top of you, tracing your wrist, muttering into your ear, kissing your nose. Oh, how you ache for him.
"She didn't...Say anything embarrassing, did she?"
"Ah, well...depends on what you deem embarrassing..." His face goes pale. "I'm messing with you. She was an angel. Played manager for you."
"How do you mean?"
"She did announce to the entire Indy paddock that you would love to work here," He goes red, muttering a curse under his breath. He runs his free hand through his hair, huffing.
"That's the cat out the bag, I guess. You work here every race weekend?"
"Yeah."
"Ah. Okay. Cool. Cool." Silence.
"Listen, I should get going..." You have nothing to do, but you need to minute to sort out the storm of feelings in you.
"Of course, of course, don't let us keep you." Raya peeks out from his chest, giving you a little wave. You turn and take a few steps down, letting out a shuddering breath before hearing a yell behind you. "Hey! Is your number still the same?" It's the last thing you expect but you give him a thumbs up anyway. Maybe it wasn't an entirely lost cause. "Cool, thanks!"
You come out of the shower, towel wrapped around you and hair dripping wet when you hear your phone ding. Curious, you check the notification.
He's waiting for you outside your hotel room the next day. Kyle has secured pole, brightening Logan's mood instantly. You were preoccupied in interviewing the pole-sitter, which makes you late to meet Logan. But he doesn't seem to mind. He stands there politely with a bouquet of flowers in hand—your favourites, somehow remembered from what felt like a lifetime ago. Maybe he wasn’t all that bad.
"Hey there..." he exhales, his gaze trailing down your figure. Not in a leering way, but with a quiet sense of longing. "You look... just... God..." You can almost see him mentally kicking himself as he stepped a little closer. "These are for you," he whispers, thrusting the flowers forward, his palm slick with nerves. You accepted them with a smile, ignoring the clammy touch.
"That's very kind, Logan. Thank you."
"Actually, I... I should be thanking you."
"How come?" you ask, tilting your head as you brought the flowers to your nose. Sweet.
"Ah, well, Andretti called me earlier today. They want to give me a test drive," he grins, running a hand through his hair.
"You’re serious?!" A small, shy nod from him. "Holy shit, Logan, congrats!" You throw your arms around him, and he holds you tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. When he pulls away, his eyes linger on yours for a beat too long before he clea rshis throat and steps back.
"You ready to go?"
"Not even close," you scoff, gesturing to your casual clothes. "This isn't exactly date-worthy."
"R-Really, you look... stunning." Your cheeks dust a light shade of pink, about to respond when tiny footsteps echo down the hall. A squeal following. Raya comes running toward you both, full speed. Logan’s brows lift as he crouches down.
"What are you doing here, darling? I thought you were with Uncle Kyle."
"I ran away to say bye to you, Dada!" she chirps.
Heavier footsteps round the corner. Kyle comes into view, breathless and red-faced.
"I couldn’t keep up... holy shit..." he wheezes, leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath—an amusing sight for someone who calls himself an athlete.
"Whoa!" Raya beams up at you, tugging on your pants. "Dada said he’s excited to kiss you tonight!"
Logan's face turns beet red.
"Let's get you to bed, my darling."
"Is that true?" you giggle before he can leave with his little girl.
could you write some sargebon smut where they meet up some time during the 2025 season (after alexs dnf stream) and alex starts to complain to logan and maybe takes out his frustration on him iykwim? thank you :)
idk where this came from, not proofread as always but idk what took over me while writing this, i promise i am not watching gay goon. if you notice any mistakes, please comment them :)
Private Debrief ᵃᵃ²³ ˡˢ²
✧. ┊ PAIRING: logan sargeant x alex albon
I figured I'd help Alex. Not that I had any valuable advice to give him. But during those nightmare months at Williams, I think he was the only moral support I got. James didn't talk to me. I had no time or will in between races to phone my brother. Kyle had his own races to worry about. Oscar and I felt more like acquaintances than friends. In a way, I was alone. Alone with Alex. The way I liked it.
I'd told myself I wouldn't watch any races after I got dropped. And at first I didn't. Because it fucking stung. Seeing Colapinto in my seat, driving my car, talking to my engineer, laughing with my Alex. But then I heard about Alex's less-than-fortunate DNF streak. And yeah. I knew how that felt. And he turned to me for advice because i'd been through it. He turned to me for advice as I turned to him when the team who I thought loved me back dropped me. And yeah, Alex knew how that felt.
I wake up the morning of his arrival with a cum stain in my pants and a rock-solid dick. I hadn't been thinking about him on purpose, of course. But it seems no one can control wet dreams. So I shower like nothing happened and wash my sweatpants like nothing happened and clean the house like nothing happened because the last thing I needed today was to be bricked up while seeing my old teammate. Friend. Teammate.
Alex arrives with the dimples that I found comfort in between races and the damned eyebrow creases that complement his warm smile. The very ones I used to look at through blurry eyes and shaky breaths. The ones that came with a hand on a shoulder, a kiss to the forehead and a giggly voice telling me it'd be alright. And in the end, he was right. It is alright. I'm alright.
"There's my favourite American," he steps into my home without me asking him to, already owning the space. His suitcase is immediately forgotten, discarded on the floor like I wish his pants were. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me in for a hug. He smells like comfort. He smells like burnt rubber and fuel.
"Careful, mate, your girlfriend's American," I don't let go of him. Not until he pulls away, letting out a chuckle.
"You know what I mean. Besides, I don't see her here, do you?" He bends down to pick up his dropped suitcase, revealing the band of his Calvin Kleins. Fuck. Don't get hard, don't get hard, don't get fucking hard- "So this is your place?" His eyes curiously search the room. Like he's not eyeing the decor. Like he's looking for another sign of life. Like he's assessing if I have a secret flame the world doesn't know about. Or a one night stand that hadn't left yet.
"It's not much. But...it's my home. My London home, anyway. I'll show you the Florida one later."
"I mean to visit during this year's Miami GP, actually. You didn't text me back."
For a fucking reason, yeah. I didn't want him visiting my place like I'm some side chick. Didn't want him to gloat about his top 10 finishes. Didn't want him to parade in my home and show his girlfriend off.
"Ah, I was out, sorry. Just clearing the head and all."
"Really? Thought you were out golfing." There's no snark in his voice but I know it's meant to attack me. Biting words disguised as jokes. Classic Alex.
"You keep tabs on me."
"Only because you disappear from the face of the Earth." I can't argue with that. I find solace in his life outside of social media. Golf, surf, sail. Nothing good comes out of being online. Not for me, anyway.
"Sit," I mutter, gesturing to my comfy living room chairs. Alex's eyes travel over me. Slowly, assessing the way I look. It's no secret I look skinnier. A thinner neck. I haven't been to the gym properly in a while, anyway. I don't need to. No G force to withstand anymore.
"Tea, coffee?"
"Oh, save the formalities, mate. You look like a housewife." I manage a little smile. "Just need you." That very sentence makes me throb. In more ways than one. I give him a terse nod and obey, sitting in front of him. His eyes dart down to my abs. So I think. For a brief second. I sub-consciously put my arms over my stomach.
"So what've you been up to?" A desperate attempt to appear normal. Rejected by him.
"Like you don't know what I've been up to. It's no secret I've been fucking shit, mate." Fuck. Knew it. Fuck.
"Eh, you had a good streak not too long ago, it's just a rough patch, it'll pass." I wasn't very good at comforting. Not like he was to me.
"Maybe it will. I feel like all I care is being better than Carlos." His soft eyes meet mine. "You get what that's like, don't you?"
"What, being better than my teammate?" A nod from him. Not the giggly, light one I was so used to from him. One with his jaw clenched, Adam's apple protruding. Like he could burst at any moment. "Maybe in Carlin. Me and Liam used to go against each other a lot. But, not with you, no."
"What, you never wanted to out-qualify me?"
"No," I whisper and it's true. It's true because I was madly in love with him. I could never rob him off the smile that graced his face when he'd get into points. "I just wanted to prove James wrong. Guess I couldn't." I don't elaborate. I don't want to elaborate either. I think about anything else because I don't want to break in front of him.
"You're a better man than me, then. This shit fucking stings." I nod. I know that feeling all too well. Constantly being in the dumps and wondering if it's your place. Stepping into the garage and feeling guilty for existing. Seeing everyone greet you with a smile but having that fear that deep down, they fucking hate you. They think you're a waste of space. "I've tried to let my stress out. By going to the gym like the others do. Went fishing the other day like you do. Didn't work. I just don't know what fucking else to do." He damn near growls.
I just watch him.
I watch his eyes dart to mine. Then drop to my neck. Then to my abs. Then my...
"Logan?" He clears his throat.
"Ye-yeah?"
"Stop manspreading."
"I'm not-"
"Do it or I swear I'll fucking jump you."
The wind gets knocked out of me. Jump me? My Alex? Yes. Yes. God yes. I spread my legs even further.
"I'm warning you, Logan, I've got a lot of pent up tension."
"And I'm yours for the taking." it comes out more needy than I intended it to. But fuck, I don't care. I don't even finish my line of thoughts before he's straddling me, pinning me to the couch with his huge legs. I always loved how Alex was taller than me. Heavier. Many a times, I'd imagined being helpless under him. And I'd seen his cock enough times through race suits to know he was huge. And I wanted to feel it hurt.
"Pl-Please-"
"That's right, you pathetic boy, beg." He spits. It's so different from the Alex I'm used to. The one that could cure your mood with a smile. The one that talks your ear off. But I think I like this Alex more.
"God, Alex, fuck..." He grabs a hold of my hands, pinning them to the head of the couch. My shirt rides up, my v-line suddenly cold and exposed. He thrusts forward, our bulges meeting each other. I let out an otherworldly groan, mind hazy from lust. Love? I can't tell at this moment.
"Are you a blowjob guy or a handjob guy?" He whispers into my ear. I had revealed every bit of myself to him through time. Answering this question will unlock a dark part of myself I'd been denying existed. A part that wanted Alex's cock in my throat so bad-
"Blowjob, definitely," I breathlessly huff, chest rising and falling, dick twitching in my pants. "I jerk off to your photos anyway, I need your mouth."
"You do that, huh?" He lets out a soft chuckle, clenching his jaw as he rolls his dick against mine, earning an eye roll to the skull from me. "I had a feeling you liked me. Just a shame you never told me how horny you were. I would've molded your asshole to my dick shape by now."
"Alex..." I whisper, my head thrown against the headrest of the couch. He slides off me, moving to his knees in front of me. He nudges my weak, failing legs apart. I let out a soft whimper of a plea, brain systems already shutting down. I don't notice when my pants are off. All I feel is my cock twitching when he pulls it out and swirls his tongue around my tip. "Ngh...mmph...."
"Shh, my love, easy does it..." He strokes my cock, a gentle hand tracing my veins, saliva dripping down the length of it. More whimpers from me. I'm a complete mess but can you blame me. He throats me slow at first, with the tenderness that comes from finally having someone you've wanted for a long time and the knowledge of it being your first gay experience.
And then it's harsh.
He fondles my balls, damn near chokes on my dick. I'm crying. He is too. I lube his throat with my cum, sensitive to every touch and every blow of the wind in the room.
"Alex, that's enough, please..."
"Enough? And leave here without nutting inside you? You're crazy, mate." He gingerly flips me over, ass up in the air. His large, slim hands roam over the bare pale flash, kneading and squeezing wherever he sees fit. I can't see much else than the fabric of the couch my face is buried in. My whimpers are muffled too, hands tugging on the fabric for leverage. "Do you have lube?"
"No," I mutter. I preferred fucking my girls raw. We never did it up the backdoor anyway and they were usually soaked by the time their panties came off. Never did I think I'd need it before my asshole got pounded by my old teammate.
"Useless," he scoffs. I turn my head around to get a glimpse of him spitting my cum back into his hand, the one I release down his throat. It's proper slimey and frothy by now. He smears the liquid all over his huge dick (just as I'd predicted), jerking himself a little to let it settle in. I only feel a brush of his tip against my tight hole before he rams himself in me. And I fucking scream. A proper, high-pitched, horror scream. The pain is worse than I could've imagined. He doesn't move for the first bit, letting himself sink in, letting me adjust. He always cared about me a little too much. A hand on my shoulder before he starts to roughly pound. I can feel his balls slapping against my own, the couch creaking with every thrust. My head repeatedly hits the back of the couch and I pray I don't get whiplash.
The pace is excruciatingly fast. He's pent up and needs this. I don't realise my mouth is hung open, saliva dripping down my chin and onto the seat of the couch. Which I needed to clean later. Can't have my parents seeing this shit.
"Alex...!"
"Take it. And just keep quiet, I don't wanna hear your whining."
"It's too much"
"What did I just say, mate?" The use of 'mate' when he's practically ripping me into shreds is a cruel irony.
"O-Okay, Alex. Sorry, Alex." He decides to grab my hanging cock, jerking it off as he keeps thrusting into into into. I can't breathe. I can't think. The space in between my legs is burning. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My teeth grab a hold of the couch's fabric as he shoots his load into me, feeling fuller and fuller as he leaks his aggravation into me. It doesn't take me long to shoot my own cum, painting Alex's hand and the couch alike.
I don't know what happens after. I'm in an entirely different world. I don't notice when he pulls out and cleans himself up. When he zips up his pants or turns me over. I find myself sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, head hung, breathing taking it's time to steady. He sits next to me, putting my head on his shoulder.
There's that comfort that was my reason for survival.
My Alex.
"So much better than girls," I manage to pant out.
"I know, right?"
"You've...been with a man before?" The thought fills me with an unreasonable sense of jealousy. The idea of him with his girlfriend doesn't rouse me in the slightest. But to be with a man in the way same way he was with me? It stings. It makes me angry.
"What do you think George and I did in our free time at the shared hotel rooms?" George Russell. Should've seen that one coming. Flashes of their mouths against each other's run through my mind. And I start to get harder.
Against my better judgement, I speak, "Have you ever been in a threesome?"
Can i request an isack hadjar fic where reader is isacks best friend. She’s quite inexperienced and is interested in this other guy so she asks isack to teach her how to kiss and other spicy stuff.
She’s secretly harboured a crush for isack since before they were friends but she didn’t think he liked her back so doing this teaching thing is blurring the lines between how she feels for him and she starts to realise maybe she’s not that interested in the guy she liked. At a party one in one of the drivers hotel rooms she sees another girl flirting with isack and it makes her jealous and she realises she does in fact like him. She excuses herself from the party and he notices and follows her to her hotel room and he asks her what’s wrong. And she confesses she was jealous and he laughs saying you don’t think i was jealous when you were talking to the guy he though she has a crush on and they have sex and he’s being super possessive.
i cant even justify my disappearance. i should be back. (hopefully) i had a birthday yaay!
Isack had a horrible habit of leaving his room messy. The impressive thing was that it didn’t even take him time to make a perfect hotel room look like it’d been burned to the ground. And for me, who was a bit more of a perfectionist, this was utter hell. Utter hell when I have to share a hotel room with my best friend purely for his races. You’d think one would get used to it after 17 years.
Time doesn’t make the sight any less painful.
So I fold the lazy ass’s laundry while he sits on the bed with his shoes on (filthy), scrolling on his phone and occasionally giggling at the mind-numbing Italian brain rot his fellow rookies had sent him. I get down to the last shirt when i hear the familiar lock sound of his phone. There’s silence for a beat. Two. A soft chuckle from him.
“You do not have to treat me like a kid, you know,” he takes the shirt from my hands and begins folding it himself.
“Oh please. If i stop all this, you’d be living in a pigsty.”
“What is ‘pigsty?’”
“Like…a dirty room. Ones pigs may live in.”
“Ah.”
A few moments of comfortable, familiar silence.
Until my phone dings.
And he can tell by the smile gracing my face that it's him. Ollie.
Ollie had been a natural part of our lives. Growing up in the same junior racing environment, he and I had become good friends. When Isack had been occupied with hours in the sim, or cautious night outs with girls who he was "just friends" with, it was Ollie who kept me company. And it would be foolish to claim that I don't feel anything for him.
Isack doesn’t say anything at first, but I catch the way his hands falter slightly on the fold. He smooths the shirt out twice, unnecessarily, then sets it down with a little more force than needed.
I glance up, still smiling, still caught in that light, floaty feeling that always follows a text from Ollie.
"So I'll see you tonight then?"
Yes. Of course he would. I'd been aching to hear that sweet Brit accent of his.
“You’re texting him again?” Isack says. Light. Airy. The kind of tone that tries a little too hard not to sound like it means something.
“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate.
He nods. Stands up and walks to his suitcase, fiddling with the zipper like he’s looking for something. Probably nothing. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.” He shrugs. “Just…didn’t know you guys were that close.”
“We weren’t.” I pause. “We are now.”
Isack hums. That kind of passive sound that people make when they’re trying to hold back an opinion. He doesn’t look at me, and it’s weird. He always looks at me. Especially when he’s trying to prove a point.
I stare at the heart that pops up when Ollie likes my text.
So it's settled. I'm seeing him tonight.
In his room.
Which would mean....
Fuck.
Supporting Isack's career meant a lot of travel.
And a lack of travel meant the lack of stable relationships.
And lack of stable relationships meant lack of...experience.
I'd kissed a boy, of course.
But only once.
And it was at a party, the kind where everyone’s too drunk to remember who they kissed and too proud to admit they cared. His name was Luca or Logan or something with an L, and it had tasted like vodka and sour lollies. It didn’t count. Not really.
I swallow hard. The little heart on my phone screen pulses, pink and harmless, but it might as well be a siren.
Isack shifts beside me, still not looking. He’s scrolling through something on his phone with his thumb moving slower than usual—deliberate. Controlled.
“You okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Automatic.
“Yeah.” His voice is clipped. That kind of "yeah" that means no. That means you know I’m not, so why’d you ask?
I look away from him. Back to my phone. Back to that text:
"You sure you're okay with this?"
Ollie had sent it just after I told him I’d come over.
I'd replied too quickly.
"Of course. Can’t wait."
Isack finally puts his phone down, and I feel him watching me now. It burns at the edge of my vision.
“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.” His voice is lower now. Quiet, like he’s afraid of breaking something between us.
“I know.” I tap the side of my phone with my thumbnail. “I want to.”
It’s not a lie. Not really.
But it’s not the truth, either.
He nods, slow and unreadable. Then, softer, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
I blink. “What, go to a guy’s room?”
He doesn’t smile. Just shakes his head once. “You know what I mean.”
Silence stretches. Not awkward—just tense. Like the pause before a question you’re scared to ask.
“No,” I say finally. “I haven’t.”
He nods again, and something in his face softens. He turns his eyes away like that makes it easier to say, “Then don’t let it be with someone who makes you feel like you have to prove anything.”
My chest tightens.
The room feels too full of things unsaid.
It's stupid and a lost cause, what I'm about to say.
"You have experience."
His body stills, irises darting across my face. But he does not breathe too loud, like he's afraid he'll say what he wants to. Like he'll let his inner thoughts slip.
"I do."
Short. Sweet. Simple. Not letting on too much.
I shift closer, voice dropping in volume, tone becoming velvety. "Will you teach me?"
His lips part. Just slightly. Barely. But enough.
Enough for me to see the exact moment his composure falters.
He blinks once, slow and heavy, like he’s rebooting. Like the question short-circuited something in him.
"Don’t say things like that," he says. His voice isn’t harsh, but there’s a rawness to it, something frayed at the edges. “Not if you don’t mean them.”
I tilt my head. “Who said I didn’t?”
A breath hitches in his throat. That’s all the answer I need.
The silence between us tightens—elastic and dangerous. He looks at me then, really looks, the kind of look that leaves nowhere to hide.
"I’m not a game," he murmurs. “Not some trial run before you go to him.”
I don’t flinch. But my heart does. Loud and fast, betraying every illusion of calm.
"Neither am I," I whisper. "But you’re the only person I’d trust with this."
His jaw tenses. He swallows, eyes falling to my lips and then flicking back up like it burned him to look too long.
"This is a bad idea," he says, more to himself than to me.
“Maybe,” I say, inching closer, “but it’s still an idea.”
A beat. Another.
Then, quietly, he says: “Say it again.”
I blink. “What?”
His voice is almost a breath, but there’s heat coiled underneath.
“Ask me again.”
So I do.
“Will you teach me?”
This time, he doesn’t look away.
A nod. A hitch in his breath.
And then he moves.
Not with urgency, but with intention. His hand hovers just above my knee, fingers curled slightly, hesitating like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
"You don’t get to take this back," he says. His voice is quiet, steadier than I expected. Not a warning to scare me off, more like a reminder that this means something. To him. Maybe more than I realised.
"I know," I say. My voice is softer than his. But certain. "I won’t."
His hand settles on me then, warm and grounding. Not possessive. Just real.
There’s a moment where he just looks at me, like he’s memorising something he doesn’t want to forget. And then...
"Come here."
It’s barely more than a breath. But I go.
And when he touches my face, it’s with a kind of gentleness I didn’t know I needed. His thumb grazes the skin under my eye, featherlight, like he’s checking if I’ll vanish.
My chest tightens. But not with fear. Not with nerves.
With something else.
He leans in slowly, giving me time, giving me space. I don’t pull back. I don’t blink. I just close the distance.
And when his lips touch mine, it’s nothing like that party kiss I’d tried so hard to convince myself was enough.
This isn’t messy or thoughtless or something we’ll pretend didn’t happen.
This is patient. Intentional. Earned.
It’s a lesson, yes, but not the kind I expected.
He isn’t just teaching me how to be kissed.
He’s teaching me what it feels like to be chosen.
His palm cups my cheek, and the kiss deepens. Slowly, carefully, like he’s still asking, still listening to every breath I take, every shift of my body against his.
His thumb brushes along my skin, anchoring me, grounding me, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. The pressure of his mouth grows more certain, not rushed but purposeful, like he’s giving me space to lean in or pull away. Like every part of him is waiting on me.
And I do lean in.
Because I want more. Not just of the kiss, but of him, this version of him I don’t get when he’s driving, or teasing, or pretending he doesn’t feel things as deeply as he does. This version, the quiet one, the one who touches like a promise and kisses like he means it.
His fingers slip into my hair, the kiss deepening again, warmer now, more open. He still doesn’t push. He still doesn’t rush. But there’s heat beneath the patience, like he’s been holding back longer than he’ll ever admit.
And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m behind. Like I’m lacking or learning too late.
I just feel wanted. Completely. As I am.
I don't feel that way with Ollie. Not when I kiss him.
Maybe I did it wrong?
I go back to Isack's room after the night. I intended to stay over, yes. But my disappointment with how the night turned out just pushed me towards something more comforting. Familiar. Isack.
It's the last race of the year. Abu Dhabi. Glitz and glamour. Bittersweet endings. Fireworks for the championship winner. Champagne for the ones with trophies. A driver's party for Isack and I. I haven't spoken to Ollie since. I don't think I have the privilege to, anyway.
It starts off as any regular party. No one on the dance floor, everyone causing a stampede near the bar. Men and women flirting with each other, eyeing each other, hoping that the alcohol entering their system will grant them the courage. Usual shitty party routine. I don't expect seeing Isack partake in it.
She's a pretty blonde across the club. The one who you'd typically see swinging off of Leclerc's and every other lower Formula driver. I didn't, however, expect my best friend to be into them.
He doesn't look at me when he dances with me. His head is always turned away, eyes roaming her long legs and bare waist.
It fucking hurts.
After a drink or two, I've lost all sight of him. I meet Ollie's eyes a few times in the club but all I can fucking think about is where he is. And then I catch sight of him
Her hand on his shoulder, her lips in an overly sweet smile. That annoying giggle ringing through the air that's bound to make a guy's pants tight. A lean in and peck on the cheek.
And my body burns. Not from the alcohol. From the jealousy that engulfs me like a wildfire. From the tears in my eyes that threaten to fall. From the ache of my heart that beats for him.
I can't stop the tear from falling. And it's suffocating.
Out. Now. I grab my bag and head straight for the door. Liam must've noticed me, for he heads over to Isack and nudges him to me. I don't see what happens after. My vision is too blurry and my head too foggy to care.
I go where my feet carry me. They know the way. My hands autonomously swiping the room key and heading inside the room. The door doesn't even get a chance to shut before he bolts in, holding me as I fall to the floor.
Still struggling to figure out whether it's alcohol or feelings.
"What's wrong?" His voice is a soothing whisper, cutting through the turmoil in me. "Talk to me, my love, what is wrong?"
"That girl...she..." I manage to croak. It's silent and it's broken and it's incoherent but he knows.
"She's no one, nobody, I do not even know her name..."
"How could you? In front of me, too." God, it sounds so pathetic, so selfish. I couldn't care less.
"Oh, mon coeur," he lets out a soft chuckle. Not mocking, not ill-intended. Disbelieving. "How do you think I have felt all this time you've wanted Ollie?"
"That's the think, Isack, I don't." My voice shudders. "He doesn't make me feel like you do."
"Yeah?" he leans in, voice raspy. "And what do I make you feel?"
I can't say it, the word, the feeling too forbidden.
He unbuttons his shirt slightly, whispering. "Give me your consent. And I'll teach you what it's like to love."
One gaze into his caramel eyes and I nod. He hooks his arms around my thighs and practically throws me on the bed.
"Fuck, don't have protection." He curses, taking off the belt holding his pants up.
"Well, pull out in time, then." He smirks, amused by my insistence. I won't pretend this hasn't been on my mind for a while. Going all my life without sex drove me insane.
He takes his time with me, teasingly stripping me, his thumbs brushing against my bare skin like I'm something to be treasured. An experience to last. He's seen me naked before but not in this light. Not when I'm all his. Not when we both know what's yet to come.
He lays on his stomach, putting my legs on his shoulders, his hands shimmying the fabric of my panties off my legs. He kisses every new bit of skin revealed, tongue flicking at anything but the clit. I get desperate enough to let out a pathetic whine. A chuckle, a murmur in French and then a tender kiss to my core. It's better than I'd envisioned. Better than my own fingers could ever do. Better than wet dreams. Better than makeshift sex toys. He eats me like I'm a fine dish. Something served at a high-end restaurant, something to take your time with. His tongue swirls, his lips nibble, his hands squeeze the flesh of my thighs. It's no secret he's skilled. I don't want to know where he got the practice from.
"You're so beautiful. My little girl." Smacks of lips against wet flesh, fingers teasingly brushing my pulsating core. I immediately grab a hold of his hair, fighting the need to scream. His mouth keeps working, a diversion from the fingertips that dive in to me. And it is too much to contain. "Shh, shh. Don't want your dearest Bearman finding out."
"Oh, I have a feeling he knows- FUCK!" He curls his fingers, hitting a spot inside me that makes my lungs tighten and eyes wet.
"Your legs are shaking. Wow." He keeps up his newfound movement, curling and curling and hitting and hitting until I squirt, the golden liquid wetting his shirt, letting the fabric cling to his abs. I pant, the feeling similar to after an intense workout, which this was. I lie there, dazed, blissful, in love.
"Shh, you're okay." He makes a move to lie beside me, letting me into his arms. My first time, and the feeling was too intense for me to comprehend. "That's enough, yeah, you're good. We don't have to do anything else, just relax." A soft kiss to the top of my head. And the words I've waited to hear my whole life.
maybe something with logan where his partner is a f1 driver (too & still even after he got fired) & drives for a top team (mclaren, merc, ferrari or red bull) & everyone is just super mean online because they think reader deserves better than a unemployed bum without future. from then on i let you decide what you would wanna write :)
thought this would be fun as a SMAU :)
Would it be enough if I could never give you peace? ˡˢ²
✧. ┊ PAIRING: Logan Sargeant x gender-neutral!reader
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: coarse language, hate. some images used are not mine and the credits go to their rightful owners. this is a work of fiction.
┊
user1: Expected, but a harsh decision for sure. The pressure in F1 is relentless!
user2: This sport is savage. Perform or you are out.
user3: Well, that’s one less bum in F1. He stayed way longer than he should’ve.
user4: @yourusername deserves fucking better than this sad piece of shit. at least he's gone.
yourusername made a new post!
liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon, logansargeant, charlesleclerc, alexdunne, tomass_stolcermanis and 881,223 others
yourusername: lucky number 3. thanks to the team.
┊
user1: YOU ATE
user2: Best in the world
user3: LMAO YOU WINNING A RACE AND YOUR USELESS EXCUSE OF A BOYFRIEND GETTING DROPPED ON THE SAME WEEKEND
user4: deserved. he was a shitbag. good for williams.
user5: proof you don't deserve logan lol. i heard lando was single
logansargeant posted a new photo!
liked by kylekirkwood, callumbradshaw, oscarpiastri, samanthatan, alexalbon, landonorris, yourusername and 567, 948 others
logansargeant: no place like home
┊
user1: good to see you happy
user2: WE MISSED YOU
user3: you don't deserve to date your partner btw. got more wins than you have points
user4: can’t believe a multi-race winner is dating… this. Unemployed AND delusional.
user5: partner's winning races and you’re winning… what, pity likes?
user6: this is literally charity work
user7: funny how someone so brilliant can be blind enough to love a failure
Formula1 posted a new photo!
yourusername posted a new photo!
liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon, logansargeant, arthur_leclerc, victormartins and 881,223 others
yourusername: i have everything i need right here
┊
user1: he’s just a placeholder until you realise you can do way better
user2: ur carrying everything. the career, the looks, the emotional labor 💀
user3: this is actually sad to see. ur winning trophies and he’s doing nothing but vibing in ur shadow.
yourusername: i understand not everyone will support our relationship. that's fine. we don't need it. disrespect, however, isn't.
user4: no because this was the most graceful slap i’ve ever seen
user5: oh they’re not breaking up ever. this is real.
user6: he must be doing something right cause damn ur fighting for him
┊
user1: bet you guys feel real fuckin dumb rn
user2: omg "yourusername reposted" EEEKKKK
user3: call me parasocial but i'm in love with their love
user4: impressive addition to his resume
┊
user1: oh my goodness
yourusername: cool. but i'm still faster
logansargeant: we'll see about that, my love
user3: WE PROVED THE HATERS WRONG
user4: he's got a lot in store for him. talented lad.
i loveee ur stuff, i was wondering if u could write a arthur x fem!reader smut, where she works on charles team (not on ferrari, but like personal photographer or smth, like she travels with charles basically) n she and arthur have like veryyy big tension (like non stop banter, snarky comment, teasing, barks). Then at an after party (monaco 24?) she ends up in his room and they fuck.
hope this is something along the lines of what you were looking for :) also it isn’t proofread so i apologise for any mistakes!
Most Ardently ᴬᴸ
✧. ┊ PAIRING: arthur leclerc x fem!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 2.5k words
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, enemies to lovers, coarse language, taunts, unprotected sex
There were a lot of perks that came with being Charles Leclerc’s personal photographer.
It wasn’t the career path I imagined back when I was a broke uni student shooting blurry portraits of my friends in exchange for takeaway, but somehow, through a chaotic mix of luck, timing, and a shared love of vintage lenses, I ended up with a dream job I never knew I wanted. Private planes stocked with champagne, hotel suites bigger than my entire apartment back home, and front-row access to the kind of glamour most people only glimpse through a screen.
And, of course, Charles himself.
A vision of a man who looked like he stepped straight out of a black-and-white film reel. The kind of subject photographers would kill for.And honestly? One of the kindest clients I’d ever had.
But there was a downside.
A very loud, very smug, very infuriating downside.
His motherfucking brother.
Arthur Leclerc.
The most demonic Leclerc there was.
Arthur Leclerc was a menace.
Not in the villainous, tabloid-scandal kind of way—no, that would’ve been too easy. Arthur was worse. He was charming. The kind of charming that made people forgive him for everything, from stealing your towel when you were in the swimming pool to “accidentally” locking you out of your hotel room at 2AM barefoot. Which he’d done. Twice.
He took one look at me, day one on the job, and decided I was going to be his favorite new toy. Not in a romantic way (though he flirted just enough to keep me constantly confused), and not in a cruel way either. It was worse. He teased.
Endlessly.
Relentlessly.
Like it was his full-time job.
“Your lens cap is still on, Picasso,” he’d say, even when it wasn’t.
"Do men not get with you because of your face or your personality?"
“You hang around Charles too much. You’ll start talking in italics and heartbreak soon.”
Just constant yapping.
We were in Monco that weekend. Sun-drenched and stupidly beautiful. Charles had disappeared into a meeting with the team, leaving me with a golden hour and a memory card begging to be filled.
I was crouched near the harbour, fiddling with exposure settings, when a shadow loomed over me.
“Careful,” Arthur’s voice drawled. “You might fall in. Not that anyone would notice.”
I didn’t look up. I didn't need to see him to know who it was. “And yet, somehow, I always know when you’re nearby. Must be the smell of arrogance and body spray.”
He tsked. “That is rich, coming from someone wearing a shirt that says ‘Pentax 4 Life’. You are realising it makes you look like a cult member?”
I finally looked up, squinting at him through the sun. He was wearing that ridiculous smirk again—the one that made people hand him drinks or forgiveness without thinking. Not me. I knew better.
“You don’t have to stand here, you know,” I said. “There’s a whole country for you to go be irritating in.”
“Ah, ange, you are the most fun to irritate,” he said, crouching beside me like he belonged in the frame. “Besides, Charles said I should try being helpful.”
I paused, suspicious. “Helpful how?”
He reached over and—without asking—tilted my camera up a fraction. “There. Better composition. Rule of thirds, no?”
I swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch my camera.”
“Relax, Picasso. You will still get your moody shot of a yacht.”
“It’s a catamaran, you Philistine.”
He grinned wider, and for a second, I hated how good his eyes looked in this light. Gold-flecked. Unfair.
“You know,” he said casually, “for someone whose job it is to observe, you are much terrible at hiding things.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Arthur stood up, brushing nonexistent dust off his shorts. “Nothing. Just that you get really flustered when I’m around. It is cute. Like a kicked puppy.”
“I don’t get flustered,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “I get annoyed. Because you never shut up, and you always assume everything is about you.”
“Because it usually is.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
He leaned in then—too close, the heat of him sudden and sharp in the salt air. His voice dropped low, almost amused. “And yet, you never walk away.”
That shut me up.
Only for a moment.
“Because I don’t lose,” I said, chin lifted. “And if I walk away, you win.”
Arthur blinked, something sparking behind his gaze.
For once, he didn’t have a comeback.
Just a half-smile, a beat of silence, and a slow, measured step back.
“Well then,” he murmured. “Let the games continue.”
The afterparty was a blur of champagne flutes, flashing cameras, and the sound of Charles’ name being chanted like a hymn. He’d won. Finally. Monaco. His home race.
I was happy for him. Ecstatic, even. But also bone-tired and overstimulated, wedged between celebrities and sponsors and too many people who thought owning a Leica made them a creative.
And I was clinging to the edge of the dance floor, counting the seconds until I could leave.
Until he found me.
Arthur.
His shirt half-buttoned, a drink in one hand and mischief in his eyes.
Of course.
He sidled up, shameless. “You look like you would rather be at a funeral.”
“I’d rather be anywhere you’re not,” I muttered.
“Yet you are watching me,” he said, stepping closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Is it the shirt? It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”
I turned to face him, glaring. “It’s the fact that you’ve been following me around like a lost kitten all night.”
“I prefer ‘charming menace.’”
“I prefer ‘walking red flag.’”
He grinned, leaning in so our noses nearly touched. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”
I opened my mouth to fire back. Something scathing. Something final—but his hand brushed my waist, possessive and sudden.
I froze.
We were tucked into a corner of the club, the shadows flickering just enough to make it feel hidden, but not enough to be safe. Not really. People were all around us, drinks sloshing, cameras flashing, music pulsing like a heartbeat.
“You keep looking at me like you want to slap me,” Arthur said, voice low.
“Maybe I do.”
“Or maybe you want to do something else.”
He didn’t wait for permission. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across my hip. Not subtle. Not coy.
I shoved him back, hard.
“What is wrong with you?”
That got his attention. His jaw tensed, sharp under the flashing lights. “What, now you are pretending like you don’t want this?”
“I don’t want you—”
“Ah, c'est conneries!”
We were nose to nose again. Breathing hard. Both of us trembling with something hot and ugly and undeniable.
And then—
I kissed him.
Or maybe he kissed me. It didn’t matter. We crashed into each other, mouths colliding like a car crash, hot and reckless, all teeth and tongue and fury.
Someone bumped into us, laughed, maybe even whistled. I didn’t care. Arthur’s hands were gripping my waist, my jaw, my hair, like he didn’t know where to hold first. Like he couldn’t decide which part of me he wanted most.
“You’re out of your mind,” I whispered against his lips.
He grinned, wild and breathless. “You make me that way.”
And when his hand slid under the hem of my dress, low, possessive, there, I didn’t stop him.
I should’ve.
But instead, I tipped my head back and let him.
Let him claim me, right there in the corner of that stupid glittering club, with Monaco spinning around us like a dream we couldn’t wake up from.
The moment the hotel room door slammed shut behind us, it started.
“You’re impossible,” I snapped, walking in ahead of him. “You don’t know when to quit.”
Arthur’s laugh was sharp. “And you don’t know when to admit you liked it.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
He paused. “So say you did.”
I turned around slowly. “Why? So you can gloat? Add it to your list of wins?”
“I am not keeping score!"
“You’re a Leclerc. Of course you are.”
He stepped closer, the heat between us flickering back to life. “You kissed me first. You grabbed my hair. You moaned my name in the middle of a fucking club.”
“And you let me.” My voice dropped. “You wanted me to.”
He didn’t deny it.
He just stared at me like he was trying to figure out if this was real—or if he’d imagined the way I came apart in his hands.
I kicked off my shoes, backing toward the bed. “So what now, Arthur? You want a round two just to prove something?”
He shrugged off his jacket, eyes still locked on me. “I want a round two because I can’t stop thinking about how you looked when I had your thighs shaking.”
My breath caught. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.
“You’re such a cocky little shit,” I muttered.
“And you’re still here.”
He crossed the room in two strides. Grabbed my waist. Kissed me like he was punishing me for every word I hadn’t said.
We tumbled backward onto the bed, all teeth and hands and heat.
“I hate how good you are at this,” I whispered against his throat.
“Good?” he scoffed. “You were begging.”
I shoved his shoulder. “You’re delusional.”
He pinned my wrists above my head, smirking. “Say you didn’t like it. Go on.”
I didn’t.
I bit his lip instead.
His groan was low, broken. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
“And you’re obsessed with me.”
He didn’t argue.
He just kissed me again—deeper, hungrier, like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and stay there.
There was no pretending it was casual this time. No drunken excuse, no blurry club lights to hide behind.
Just us.
Sharp edges. Fast hands. Bruised mouths.
He peeled my dress off like he’d imagined it a hundred times. Maybe he had. Maybe I had too. His hands weren’t soft. They were sure. Greedy. Mapping skin like he didn’t believe it was real.
I shoved his shirt off and dragged my nails down his back, marking him. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”
Arthur’s breath caught, then he smiled, dark and wrecked. “Then show me.”
I pushed him onto the bed, climbed over him, settled myself over his hips without breaking eye contact.
For a second, neither of us moved.
He stared up at me like I’d just ruined him. And maybe I had.
“You don’t get to ruin this,” I whispered, breath shaking.
“I would not dream of it,” he said, voice raw. “Just tell me you want this.”
I didn’t say it.
I showed him.
His hands were on my waist, guiding me, grounding me. My mouth on his shoulder, his jaw, his throat. The sharp gasp he let out when I rolled my hips harder made something twist low in my stomach.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel—god, you feel unreal.”
I pressed my forehead against his. “You talk too much.”
He flipped us, pushed me down into the mattress with a quiet, breathless laugh. “Then shut me up.”
He pulled himself out of his tight jeans, manhood springing free like he hadn't let himself release in months.
He shucked off his jeans, cursing softly when they caught at the knees. I watched him through half-lidded eyes, every inch of him flushed and trembling, like the moment itself was too much to hold.
And then—
"I do not have protection..." he muttered, like this information could stop him from all he's every wanted.
"I don't care."
"But ma chérie..."
"Just put it in, God!"
And he sank, letting out a deep groan emanating from low in his throat. He took it inch by inch, careful to take it easy and not hurt me. Not when he'd just got me.
"You've been fucked before, yes?" God, he really did let his mouth run.
"Yeah." His jaw clenched at my answer, thrusts growing harsher. "What, you expect me to be a virgin?"
"No," he exhaled, eyes shut tight as he changed his angle, grunting. "Do not like that you have had another man inside you."
"Whoever said anything about a man?"
"Don't tease me, coucou." Thrust. One. Two. A whine from me.
"I'm gonna..."
"I can feel you clenching."
“Arthur—”
He leaned down, lips brushing my jaw, my cheek, my mouth. “Come for me,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”
I broke with a cry, the tension snapping like a string pulled too tight. My body arched up into him, shaking, legs wrapped tight around his waist. My nails dug into his back, anchoring me to him as he fucked me through it, slow and deep and possessive.
“That is it,” he growled, breath ragged. “That’s my girl.”
His pace faltered. His hips jerked once, twice more, and then he was spilling inside me with a stuttering groan, his forehead pressed against mine, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurt.
We lay there for a moment, gasping, sweat-slicked and silent. The only sound was the hum of the city through the hotel windows, far away and irrelevant.
Then Arthur pulled out gently, collapsing beside me on the bed, arm flung over his eyes.
I stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving. “Well. That was...”
“A mistake?” he offered, voice muffled.
“No,” I said, too fast. Then softer: “No. Just... unexpected.”
He turned his head to look at me, lips still parted, hair sticking to his forehead. “You going to regret this tomorrow?”
“Are you?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’m only going to regret stopping.”
I turned toward him, tracing a lazy line along his shoulder. “We fight too much.”
“We flirt too much,” he corrected. “And then we pretend it’s fighting.”
A silence bloomed between us. Not awkward—just full. Full of all the things we hadn’t said. All the things we were too afraid to admit out loud.
He reached for my hand. Twined our fingers together without asking.
eeeeeek the single dad arthur au is so cute? can I request a little add on of like the first they confess the love each other?
FUCK YEAH more single-dad!arthur. i love him. i love freddy. so glad you asked this anon.
pt 1 pt 2.1
Parenthesis ᴬᴸ pt 2.2
✧. ┊ PAIRING: single dad!arthur leclerc x gender-neutral!reader
✧. ┊ WORDS: 1.1k
✧. ┊ TAGS/WARNINGS: fluff, maybe a curse word here and there. kids. love.
It didn’t happen with fireworks. Not with a kiss in the rain or a dramatic declaration. No violins or candlelight.
It happened on a Tuesday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings, the kind that smelled like jasmine and earth and the last stretch of daylight. I was helping Freddy glue macaroni to a shoebox. Some kind of diorama for school. He insisted it was a spaceship, though it looked more like a pasta crime scene.
Arthur was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a bit of flour on his jaw from the pizza dough we hadn’t even finished rolling out. He’d offered to cook, as he sometimes did now. "You shouldn't have to cook for me," he said. I didn’t even pretend to say no anymore.
“You’re putting too much glue, Fred,” I told Freddy, nudging the bottle out of his determined little hand.
He frowned. “Papa says more is always better.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Does he now?”
Before Freddy could defend his father’s honour, Arthur appeared beside us with a bowl of grated cheese. “Only with cheese,” he clarified, placing it on the table. Then, to Freddy, “Not glue, mon cœur. That’s why your robot from last week is still stuck to the dining chair.”
Freddy giggled.
I met Arthur’s soft eyes over the mess of macaroni and glitter glue and felt it again. That quiet knowing. The one I kept stumbling into, week after week, like a secret I was still learning how to keep.
After bedtime, after the toothbrush battle and two storybooks and Freddy’s usual stalling routine (“One more hug. Okay, now one more for my foot. Papa, my other foot”)—Arthur and I were left in the living room. Just us. The light was dim, the TV quietly playing some wildlife documentary no one was really watching. His feet were bare. I was in one of his old sweatshirts because I’d spilled juice on mine and he insisted. Said it smelled like soap and racing fuel. I said it smelled like him.
I'd gotten up to grab a warm drink.
No, it didn’t happen with fireworks. Not with a kiss in the rain or a sweeping declaration at the foot of the bed.
It happened in the kitchen.
And it started with a fight.
I was already in the kitchen when he came back, leaning against the counter, nursing a half-cup of now-cold tea. The lights were off except for the stove hood and the dim yellow bulb above the sink. The city outside was quiet. We weren’t.
Arthur stepped in, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. His voice was low when he said it. Casual, almost. Like he was commenting on the weather.
“You do not have to keep doing this.”
I looked up. “Doing what?”
“This.” He gestured vaguely. “Coming over. Staying late. Pretending like you belong here.”
My heart thudded. “Pretending?”
He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “I just—maybe it is unfair. Of me. To let you keep coming back. Like this is something it’s not.”
I blinked. Slowly. “Where is this coming from?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared past me, jaw tight. That look he got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. Or maybe when he was trying not to want too much.
I set the cup down harder than I meant to. “Arthur. If you have something to say, say it.”
“You are not a part of this,” he said. Quiet. But firm. “You are not his parent. You are not his family. This, us, it is messy! And I see the way you are looking at all of it. Like you are waiting for the moment you regretting to stay.”
My stomach twisted. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t have to fix me. Or him. I never asked for that.”
I pushed off the counter. “I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m just here.”
“For now,” he snapped. “But what happens when you decide it’s too much? When you realise I’m not some charming broken thing you can save with bedtime stories and glue sticks?”
I stepped toward him. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into some sob story where you push me out before I get the chance to leave.”
His expression cracked. Just slightly. “I have a son. I don’t get to gamble. I don’t get to be selfish. If I let you in, for real, and you walk away, it is not just me who pays for it.”
I felt like I’d been slapped. “You think I haven’t thought about that every single day I’m here?”
He flinched. “Then why stay?”
“Because I love him. And I love you. God, Arthur, do you really think I’d put myself through this if I didn’t?”
Silence.
I hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not mid-argument. Not with my heart on fire and my voice too loud. But there it was, hanging in the air between us, raw and irreversible.
Arthur’s face went completely still.
I swallowed, throat tight. “I’ve been in love with you for months. You and your stupid overcooked pasta and your tired eyes and the way you hum when you fold laundry. I’m not pretending to belong. I want to.”
He stared at me like he didn’t know whether to yell or cry.
“I know it’s messy,” I went on. “I know you’ve been hurt, and scared, and alone. But don’t punish me for showing up. Don’t act like I’m doing you some favour just by loving you.”
He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward slowly. One step. Then another.
“I do not know how to do this,” he said hoarsely. “I do not know how to be with someone and not ruin it.”
“Neither do I!,” I said. My voice was shaking. “But it doesn't mean you can't learn! Let’s ruin it and rebuild it and get it wrong a hundred times until we get it right. But stop pushing me away like I’m fragile. I’m not.”
He reached for me like he wasn’t sure I’d let him. Fingers trembling. Palming the side of my face like he needed to feel something solid.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid you’d stop choosing us.”
I shook my head, felt my throat ache. “I’m afraid too. But I’m still here.”
His forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling between the space of almost and always. The anger hadn’t disappeared—it never does that fast. But it shifted. Softened. Turned into something that could be carried together.
“I love you,” he said.
This time, it didn’t feel like panic. It felt like surrender.
I let my hands curl into the fabric of his shirt. “I know,” I said, quietly. “I love you too.”
And just like that, the fight was over. Not because everything was solved. But because we’d named it. Given the fear a shape. And then handed each other the truth, even with shaking hands.
He kissed me then. Slow, sure. Not desperate. Just real.
