lucy-literates

[lucy-literates]

Read at 2:14am

You and Malachi have been texting for weeks, but haven’t met yet. After a messy night out, you accidentally send a risky voice note — and he replies, immediately.

You and Malachi had been texting for weeks.

Late-night conversations that started with memes and ended with half-serious confessions. Flirty jabs. Ridiculous hypotheticals. Just enough teasing to feel like something was building — slow, steady, a spark waiting to ignite.

But you hadn’t met in person. Not yet. You’d been skimming around it, saying “soon” like it was a promise neither of you wanted to rush. But tonight?

Tonight, you were tipsy.

Your group had dragged you out for drinks, and four cocktails later, you were walking barefoot back to your friend’s apartment, heels in one hand, phone in the other, buzzing with that electric kind of confidence only gin can conjure.

You opened Malachi’s thread. A simple message sat at the bottom, unread:

what are you up to tonight?

You smiled. And without thinking — without overthinking, for once — you hit record instead of typing. It was meant to be flirty. Maybe a little teasing. A cute, breathy voice note like you’d practiced a million times in your head.

But what came out?

“God, I shouldn’t say this, but…I keep wondering what your hands would feel like on my hips. I’m so stupid. Delete this. Forget I said anything. Oh my god—”

You dropped your phone onto the couch as if it were cursed.

Your heart immediately kicked into panic mode. You scrambled to delete the message, but it was already marked as Sent. And then, before you could scream into the void, those three little dots appeared at the bottom of the screen.

Malachi was replying.

You barely had time to breathe when his voice message popped through.

“Say that again.”

His voice was lower than usual. Rougher. Like he’d just rolled over in bed and hit record, or maybe like he’d been hoping you'd say something just like that.

You blinked, heat crawling up your neck.

Then he texted:

Come see me. Tomorrow. Or tonight. I don’t care anymore.

You said it. You don’t get to take it back now. 😌

You stared at your screen, pulse fluttering in your throat.

And underneath all the embarrassment, all the adrenaline?

You were grinning.

Tag List:

@laylayschipzz

[lucy-literates]

Practice Makes Perfect

Synopsis: You joke about being bad at kissing and Malachi offers to teach you. “Just for fun,” he says. Just for fun, until it’s very much not.

It started as a joke.

You were lounging in the grass behind the cabin, the sun barely setting behind the trees, casting gold across Malachi’s curls as he chewed on a blade of grass and stared up at the sky. You were talking about nothing and everything — camp crushes, embarrassing middle school moments, the questionable cafeteria spaghetti from earlier that day.

“And anyway,” you said, tossing a pebble at his arm, “I’d be the worst first kiss. Like, tragically bad. Clumsy and awkward. Maybe even some accidental teeth.”

Malachi turned his head toward you slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Seriously?”

“I’m just saying,” you shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Don’t expect fireworks if it ever happens. Expect…fizzling sparklers and regret.”

He laughed — that soft, warm chuckle that always started in his chest and ended with a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I could teach you, you know.”

You blinked. “What?”

He sat up, brushing grass off his elbows. “Kissing. I could show you how it’s done. Just for fun.”

Your stomach did a somersault. “Just for fun?”

“Yeah,” he said casually, even though his voice was a little quieter now. “Like practice. For when it really matters.”

You stared at him. His face was unreadable, except for the slight curve in his smile and the way he suddenly wasn’t meeting your eyes.

“You’d be okay with that?” you asked, trying to sound equally chill. “You kissing me. Just for…practice?”

He glanced back up, eyes steady now. “Only if you want me to.”

And you did. God, you did.

So you nodded. “Okay. For educational purposes.”

Malachi leaned in, his hand brushing the side of your face like he was worried you might vanish. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a second, and when he kissed you — it was slow. Careful. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth.

There were no fireworks.

No, it was worse than that. It was warmth spreading through your ribs, blooming like something that had always been buried just beneath the surface, waiting for this moment. You melted into him, forgetting every joke, every dumb line you’d ever said.

When he finally pulled back, neither of you spoke.

Your breaths were shallow. Your forehead almost touched his.

“That didn’t feel like practice,” you whispered.

Malachi shook his head. “No. It really didn’t.”

You smiled, just a little. “So…still just for fun?”

He leaned in again, slower this time, thumb stroking your cheek. “Not even close.”

Tag List:

@laylayschipzz

[lucy-literates]

Flirtatious

A/N: First Victor/Malachi request, thank you @laylayschipzz !! I also love this gif, just for his cute little smile. I was also thinking about writing for Colby, form Villains of Valley View. I feel like i could come up with some real fun ones. Anyway, if you have any requests, send them my way!! Enjoy :)

Based off this comment/request: "Yess, (this is Vic x reader) so reader is a vampire and has a sort of flirty personality, they don’t mean too it’s just in their nature. Victor isn’t the biggest fan of it, and when they teamed up with the daywalkers reader started teasing them and that got Victor upset #goodendingplease"

Victor had been your childhood best friend. You'd met when you had gone out to explore what was beyond the village, only to find Victor doing the same. You're yearning to leave the village is what brought you two so close. So, when you both found out you had been picked to help with the harvest, you had secretly celebrated with a DragonFruit he had gotten from who knows where.

You both had your "icks" about each other, his biggest one for you is your constant flirting. He loves it when you flirt with him, it's mostly with him, but he hates when he sees you flirting with anyone else. He knows you don't do it on purpose, but he can't help feeling a tang of jealousy when he sees it.

On the trek to the orchard, you ran into a white-haired half alien cheer thing, who was extremely peppy. She came with you, only find the daylighters halfway to the orchard.

After the half alien, two zombies, and the werewolf call a temporary treaty, both groups trudged off to camp.

As the vampires and the daylighters were starting to get along, you and Ray started to become close. Your natural flirtation had revealed itself and Ray was basking in it. Victor however, was in the corner glaring at you as you interacted with the daywalkers.

Ray’s laugh echoed through the clearing, light and bright as he offered you another piece of dried fruit from his rations. You took it with a wink, teasing, “Trying to win me over with snacks, Ray? Dangerous game.”

Victor shifted against the trunk of the tree he was leaning on, arms crossed tight, jaw set even tighter. You felt his eyes burning into you, but you didn’t look over — not yet.

“Maybe I am,” Ray grinned, undeterred. “Is it working?”

You were about to throw back a playful response when Victor’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Shouldn’t you be sharpening your spear or something?” he snapped, not even bothering to mask the venom in his tone.

Ray raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Easy, man. We’re all on the same side now, remember?”

Victor didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on you now — not angry, not amused — just raw. Like something inside him had cracked open.

You finally stood, brushing off your hands and walking over to him slowly. The others kept talking behind you, but the world felt quieter here.

“Vic,” you said, soft, careful. “What’s your deal?”

He didn’t speak right away. He looked at you like he was still debating whether to say it. Whether he was allowed to. Whether you wanted to hear it.

Then, finally: “You flirt with everyone like it doesn’t mean anything,” he said, voice low. “But it does mean something. To me.”

You blinked. “Victor—”

“I’ve watched you make everyone feel like they’re the only one in the room. Hell, I’ve felt it myself. And maybe I’m an idiot for thinking it was different when it was me. But I’ve had enough of standing in the corner while someone else gets to feel special just because they happened to catch your eye that day.”

His words hung heavy in the air between you. For once, you had no clever comeback. Just the truth starting to stir inside your chest.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “It is different with you.”

Victor looked up, eyes flickering with hope he didn’t quite dare show.

“I flirt with Ray because it’s fun,” you admitted. “But I flirt with you because I can’t not. You’re not just some game to me, Victor. You never have been.”

And in the quiet beat that followed, something changed. Something shifted. Maybe it was the way he finally uncrossed his arms. Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours without thinking. Maybe it was just the truth, at long last, settling between you like roots taking hold in the earth.

He didn’t kiss you — not yet. But the promise of it hung in the air like ripened fruit, waiting to be picked.

And for once, you didn’t feel like running. Not from the village. Not from the orchard. Not from him.

Not anymore.

Victor didn’t speak to you for the rest of the evening. Not during dinner, not when the group gathered around the campfire, and not even when you sat beside him and offered him a piece of toasted bread you’d managed not to burn. He just stared into the fire, jaw tight, fingers laced together in his lap. You knew that look — he'd worn it every time you did something reckless or dangerous growing up. But this time, it felt deeper. Like something inside him was unraveling.

You didn’t flirt with Ray again after that.

Later that night, you couldn’t sleep. The stars were too bright, the silence too loud. You found yourself wandering away from the camp and sitting on a smooth boulder just outside the trees, your arms curled around your knees.

“I thought I’d find you out here.”

You turned at the sound of his voice. Victor.

He didn’t wait for permission — he just sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“For what?” His voice was quiet, but not cold.

“For being careless. With you. With your heart.”

He let out a breath, long and slow. “You weren’t careless. You’re just…you. That’s what makes you shine so much. I just—I’ve loved you for a long time, and sometimes, it’s hard watching you give your light to everyone else.”

You blinked at him. “Victor…”

He finally turned to look at you, eyes soft, no longer angry. “But I realized something tonight. It doesn’t matter how many people you smile at. It doesn’t matter how many people think you’re magic. I’ll always be the one who knew you first. The one who climbed trees with you. Who ran through fields with you. Who shared a DragonFruit behind the barn and laughed so hard we cried.”

Your throat tightened.

He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “And if you’ll let me…I want to be the one who walks beside you when we finally leave this place for good.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You already are.”

And under the stars, with the soft hum of night creatures around you and the weight of his hand finding yours, you both stayed there — not as childhood best friends, not as harvest helpers, not even as flirt and jealous protector.

Just as two souls who had finally stopped running — because they’d found home in each other.

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[lucy-literates]

Hey! I just wanted to check if you still write for Malachi /Victor? If not that fine!

Hey hey, I absolutely do! Do you have an idea?

[lucy-literates]

so it’s obvious that alex and charlotte all love jade and how all of them are close with the family i was thinking about some arthur angst about how reader breaks up with him because she didn’t feel comfortable especially maybe because she doesn’t come from money or live a lavish lifestyle like them and felt like she could tell his family missed his ex and loved her better how it ends it’s up to you

A/N: We love a little angst, enjoy!

Not Like Her

You loved Arthur.

That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was everything that came with Arthur.

Luxury dinners you never felt comfortable ordering at. Invitations to Monaco events where you stood awkwardly in Zara heels next to women in Chanel. The quiet moments in his apartment where the silence echoed with memories that didn’t belong to you—didn’t feel like you could ever fill them.

But the worst part?

His family was lovely. Too lovely. Too perfect. Too close.

Especially when they talked about her.

“Charlotte still texts her sometimes,” Alex had said offhandedly once. “You remember how tight they were, right?”

You had smiled, nodded, laughed even. But it stayed with you—like a splinter under your skin.

It wasn’t that they were cruel. They just... adored her. And you? You were a guest. Temporary. A quiet presence who sat beside Arthur at family brunches and didn’t know which spoon to use for dessert.

And the thing that really shattered you?

They didn’t mean to make you feel that way.

Which made it worse.

“I don’t belong in your world,” you said one night, arms crossed, voice already cracking. “And I think we both know it.”

Arthur stood frozen, lips parted, like he didn’t know whether to shout or fall apart.

“Is this about something someone said? Did something happen?”

“No,” you whispered. “That’s the problem. No one had to say anything. I just feel it… every time we walk into a room. Every time they mention her. I’m not her, Arthur. I’ll never be her.”

He moved toward you like a man desperate to stop a car crash. “I don’t want her. I want you.”

“But your life still has pieces of her in it. In them. In all of it.”

He grabbed your hands, tight, as if afraid you’d slip through his fingers. “I never meant to make you feel like this.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t care if you don’t come from money, or if you get overwhelmed at those events—none of that matters to me.”

“But it matters to me,” you said softly. “Because I feel like I’m always a step behind. Always trying to catch up. Always wondering if everyone else wishes I was someone else.”

His hands loosened around yours.

You looked up at him, tears stinging. “I’m tired, Arthur. And I don’t want to keep trying to fit into a life that doesn’t feel like mine.”

ENDING OPTION 1: Bittersweet Breakup

He didn’t fight you.

He wanted to—but he saw it in your eyes. That you weren’t doing this out of drama or punishment. You were doing it because it hurt to stay.

So he let you go.

He kissed your forehead, hands trembling, and said nothing as you closed the door behind you.

And when his family asked where you were next week, he didn’t answer. Because even though he had the money, the pedigree, the history...

He didn’t have you.

ENDING OPTION 2: She leaves… but he follows

Two weeks passed.

And then you heard the knock.

You opened the door to find Arthur, standing on your crumbling apartment steps in a hoodie and track pants, no cameras, no pretense—just him.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “And I don’t give a fuck if you ever step into another gala or meet another sponsor. I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

You swallowed. “What about your family?”

“They’ll love whoever I love. Eventually. And if they don’t? That’s their problem. Because I’m not spending my life loving someone who feels like they have to hide to survive in it.”

He took a step closer.

“And if we don’t belong in either world, then we’ll make our own one. Just us.”

You didn’t speak.

You just stepped forward, and this time—you kissed him.

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@astrlape

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[lucy-literates]

Postcard Promises

You and Malachi meet while volunteering at a summer camp — you’re assigned to different cabins but keep crossing paths. Between late-night walks, talent shows, and postcards he secretly writes you but never sends, something sweet starts to bloom.

The first day of camp always smelled like bug spray and sunscreen.

You dragged your duffel bag across the uneven dirt path toward your assigned cabin, sweat already clinging to your neck despite the early morning chill. Camp Willowlight wasn’t glamorous — bunk beds creaked, showers barely worked, and the dining hall served some version of grilled cheese three days a week — but something about it still felt like magic. Or maybe nostalgia. Or maybe the strange little butterfly flutter in your chest when your eyes caught on the boy laughing by the canoe racks.

He was wearing socks with slides. His shirt had paint on it. And his sunglasses were crooked.

You tried not to stare.

You officially met Malachi on Day Three.

You were elbow-deep in glitter glue, helping a group of third-grade girls make friendship bracelets when a blur of movement crashed through the arts and crafts tent.

"Heads up! Incoming chaos!"

Three boys — older, loud, clearly from Cabin Hawk — sprinted past the tables, one of them trailing streamers behind his back. Malachi appeared right after, slightly out of breath and entirely unfazed.

"I swear they have sugar for blood," he muttered, then offered you a sheepish grin. "Sorry about the stampede. I tried to bribe them with popsicles and lost."

You snorted. "I’d offer you glitter glue as a weapon, but I don’t think it’ll help."

He mock-shuddered. "Glitter’s more dangerous than fire. Noted."

That was the beginning. The start of a string of moments that didn't feel like much individually — shared sunscreen at the lake, standing beside each other during the morning announcements, trading knowing glances every time a camper said something weirdly profound — but they built something. Something quiet and sweet.

He made you laugh. You made him calm.

You started to seek him out without realizing.

And he noticed.

One night, during week two, the camp organized a talent show. You were tasked with backstage coordination; he’d somehow ended up as the emcee.

He looked stupidly good in the oversized Camp Willowlight shirt and too-short cargo shorts. Confident. Bright-eyed. You tried not to look.

But when you bent to adjust the mic for a camper, he watched you instead of the stage. When you laughed at a kid’s joke, he laughed with you — even when he didn’t hear the punchline. And when you leaned close to pin a paper star to his shirt before the final act, your hands brushing over his chest, his voice hitched just slightly.

"You’re gonna make me forget my lines."

You blinked up. "What?"

He shook his head, smile soft. "Nothing. Just — you’re good at this. With them. With... everything."

He meant you. He didn’t say it.

Some nights, after lights out, when the stars hung heavy and the lake was still, you found yourself wandering. So did he.

He claimed it was to "check the perimeter." You claimed you were looking for marshmallow skewers.

But more often than not, you ended up on the same path, walking beside each other in quiet, your shoulders brushing occasionally. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t.

Sometimes he’d pick wildflowers and offer them to you dramatically, like a knight presenting a sword. Sometimes you’d trip over tree roots and he’d catch your elbow without comment.

You never brought flashlights. It always felt better in the dark.

You didn’t know about the postcards.

Every night, after your walks — when you went back to your cabins and pretended your skin wasn’t tingling — he’d pull out a stack of old, blank postcards he found in the camp supply shed. And he’d write to you.

He never signed them. Never planned to give them to you. But they helped. Like whispering things into a void that might someday whisper back.

"Saw you dancing with the kids today. You were laughing so hard I forgot the sun was even out."

"You hummed a song I didn’t know while tying your shoes. I wish I knew the words."

"I want to ask if you’d stay when summer ends. But I’m scared you’ll say no."

Until one night —

You found one.

You were helping the girls from your cabin make bookmarks, raiding the lost-and-found box for scraps of paper. That’s where you saw it — tucked between two forgotten library books. A postcard. With your name on it.

Your throat went dry.

The handwriting was his. You recognized the messy scrawl from camp duty charts.

Your hands trembled as you read it.

"You looked at me today like maybe I wasn’t invisible. I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I think I’d tell you if I wasn’t so terrified of messing it up."

You didn’t confront him right away.

But you stopped pretending.

You smiled longer when he looked your way. You found excuses to stand beside him at campfire. You let your shoulder lean against his just a second too long.

And finally, on the very last night of camp — when the kids were asleep and the lake glowed silver in the moonlight — you found him sitting on the dock.

You sat beside him.

He didn’t speak.

You pulled the postcard from your pocket and laid it in his lap.

His ears went pink.

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

"I’m glad I did."

He looked at you.

You leaned in.

And this time, you kissed him.

Soft. Sure. Like you'd both been waiting all summer to do it.

When you finally pulled back, breath catching, he grinned.

"I have a whole stack of those. Just so you know."

You smiled.

"Good. Because summer might be ending. But I’m not going anywhere."

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[lucy-literates]

Risk It All

Synopsis: You’re his stylist on a shoot. He keeps staring while you fix his collar, his rings, his belt. You pretend not to notice — until he finally calls your bluff.

You were just his stylist.

At least, that’s how it started. One of the new hires — recommended for your eye for detail, your calm under pressure, and your stubborn refusal to let celebrities walk out looking less than perfect. Malachi Barton was a name you'd heard plenty before, and when his management asked for someone "discreet, grounded, and with strong hands," they meant it.

He wasn’t what you expected.

Not full of himself. Not above talking to crew. Not afraid to laugh until his shoulders shook and he wiped his eyes with the edge of his hoodie sleeve. And not subtle — at all — when he watched you.

At first, it was a glance. Then two. Then you started catching them in the mirror — his reflection watching yours while you fussed with a button or rolled his sleeves. He didn’t try to hide it. He just looked. Like he was cataloguing you — your mouth when you frowned, the way your hands moved, how you chewed your pen cap when you were concentrating.

It was week three when it shifted.

“Hold still,” you muttered, smoothing down the collar of his jacket, fingers brushing the nape of his neck. He was dressed in all black — leather, silver, the usual layered rings and that belt you had to tighten just so. You leaned in, tugging it into place, eyes locked on the buckle. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.

Because he was staring.

The kind of stare that made your stomach clench. That made your cheeks burn. That made you want to look up — just to see how far he’d let this go.

You didn’t. But you knew.

He chuckled. Low. Private. Just for you.

“You always this focused?” he asked, voice softer than usual. Deeper.

You shrugged. “When the fit matters.”

“And it does?”

“It always does.”

You took a step back. Too fast.

“Good.” He was still watching you. “I like when you touch me.”

You swallowed. “It’s my job.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head. “Then you’re really good at it.”

You ignored him. Or tried to. But that comment sat with you for hours, echoing in your head while you packed up wardrobe. You could still smell his cologne. Feel the press of his belt under your knuckles.

The next shoot was worse.

He was shirtless.

Not the entire time — just for a few transitions. Just enough to leave you wondering why the room felt ten degrees hotter than normal. His stylist assistant handed you oil — "just for a light glow on camera" — and you hesitated.

You could have passed it off. Asked someone else.

But you didn’t.

You stepped in front of him, fingers dipping into the balm. You avoided his eyes.

“You don’t have to do that if it makes you nervous,” he said, smug.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Liar.”

Your eyes snapped to his. He grinned.

“You think I don’t notice?” he whispered. “How you stop breathing when I look at you?”

You said nothing. Just started rubbing oil along his shoulder. Slowly. Deliberately. He watched your hands like they were the most interesting thing in the room. His breath hitched when you hit the line of his collarbone.

“You’re enjoying this,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” he admitted, eyes dark. “A little too much.”

It didn’t end there.

There were coffee runs that turned into accidental strolls. Post-wrap drinks with the crew that somehow always left the two of you alone at the bar. Then, one late night — after fittings ran long and he refused to let you Uber alone — he invited you up to his hotel room to "check how the new outfits hung in real lighting."

You laughed. “Malachi.”

“Don’t say my name like that unless you want something to happen.”

You froze. He leaned against the doorframe, hair a little messy, chain glinting under the soft hallway lights.

“Do you?” he asked.

You licked your lips. “Want what to happen?”

He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Me,” he said. “And you. Somewhere quiet. With no cameras. No crew. Just my hands on your skin.”

You felt your knees weaken.

“Still just your stylist?” he teased.

“I don’t mix work and—”

He kissed you.

Hard. Desperate. Like he’d been holding back since the second you walked onto set. His hands found your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you gasped against his mouth.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn’t.

Instead, you tugged him inside the room, slammed the door shut with your foot, and finally let go.

The next morning was soft. Too soft.

You woke up tangled in white hotel sheets, his arm wrapped around your waist, head buried in your chest.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered.

He groaned. “Can’t help it.”

“Why is it always them you look at?” you teased, glancing down at where his hand cupped your breast.

“They’re perfect,” he said, completely serious. “Soft. Warm. Mine.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing.

He looked up at you. “You know I had a crush before we even met?”

“What?”

He sat up slightly. “Saw your work on another artist. Asked around. Found a photo of you in a behind-the-scenes shot. Saved it.”

“You did not.”

“I did. In my wallet. Like a loser.”

You kissed him, slow and sweet. “You’re a loser who’s about to be late for his shoot.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll be late again if you keep looking at me like that.”

You laughed. “Get dressed.”

He pouted. “But I like when you dress me.”

You sighed, already moving to grab his clothes. As you reached for his belt, he leaned down and whispered:

“If you get distracted again, we’re staying here another hour.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re the one with a thing for me touching your—”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “Guess we’re staying.”

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[lucy-literates]

could you do arthur and a reader who hates physical touch but she only takes it from him and the readers sister points it out and he stops but she tells him she only likes hugs and touches from him

A/N: Love this! Inbox is open :)

Only You

You weren’t a touchy person.

Everyone knew that. Your sister especially.

You flinched when people hugged you unexpectedly, hated when strangers brushed past too closely, and never liked holding hands—not even as a kid. But Arthur… Arthur was different.

You didn’t just tolerate his touch.

You needed it.

You loved when he wrapped his arms around you from behind while you were reading. You melted when he tucked his hand under your shirt to rub slow, lazy circles on your lower back as you drifted off. When his thumb brushed your knuckles absentmindedly, when he played with the ends of your hair… it wasn’t just okay. It was home.

But your sister didn’t see that. Not the nuance.

“You don’t even let me hug you,” she teased one afternoon when Arthur leaned over to press a kiss to your cheek while you were making tea. “But he gets to drape himself all over you like a weighted blanket?”

Arthur’s hand stilled on your waist.

You didn’t say anything at first—just passed your sister her mug with a tight smile, trying to shrug it off. But you felt Arthur pull back slightly. He gave you a bit more space for the rest of the afternoon. Still kind, still attentive—but… less there. Physically.

It made your chest ache.

Later that night, curled up in bed beside him, you noticed he hadn’t touched you once since you got home.

He just lay there, hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

“Are you okay?” you whispered.

He glanced over with a soft smile. “Yeah, just giving you some space.”

Your heart dropped.

“Is this… because of what my sister said?”

Arthur looked away. “I didn’t mean to cross a boundary. I know you don’t like being touched much and maybe I—”

You sat up immediately, reaching for him without thinking, your hand curling around his wrist.

“I don’t like being touched,” you said softly, “but you’re the exception.”

His eyes met yours, surprised.

“I never liked it before you,” you whispered. “I hate hugs from almost everyone. But when you hold me… it doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like breathing.”

Arthur’s expression shattered—his face softening with something that looked a lot like wonder. He sat up too, reaching for your hand.

“So when I touch you, it doesn’t—”

“It makes me feel safe,” you said honestly. “You’re the only one I want to be close to like that.”

He exhaled, shoulders relaxing, and pulled you into his lap like you weighed nothing. “Mon ange,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve kissed you stupid on the spot.”

You laughed into his chest, already curling into him, tucking your head under his chin. “You still can.”

His arms wrapped around you again, warm and firm, no hesitation this time. “I don’t take it for granted, you know,” he murmured. “That I get this part of you no one else does.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut.

“You earned it.”

Tag list:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@astrlape

[lucy-literates]

DMs and Daydreams

Synopsis: You accidentally tag Malachi in a thirst trap— and he likes it. You joke in your story, he replies. And the rest? Spirals into a secret situationship no one sees coming.

You had grown a bit of a following since starting your thirst trap TikTok account. You had started it 2 years ago and kicked off with a thirst trap of Milo Manheim, raising up to 25k followers. Little did you know that Malachi Barton had been following you for a while. He had watched all your thirst traps, but never liked.

Until you posted your first thirst of him.

And accidentally tagged him.

And didn’t know about it.

Within an hour, the notification popped up.

~ MalachiBarton liked your post

Fear rushed through your body. You never thought anyone you had made an edit about see it.

You clicked on the notification, hoping he had seen a different one. He had not.

You took a screenshot of the like notification and went to your Instagram story, where you post all the same content. You opened up to a new story, included the screenshot and captioned it “Busted!”

You posted the story, not thinking Malachi would be following you across both platforms.

About 15 minutes later, you’ve started rewatching Zombies 4 again (I’ve seen it 9 times) when your phone pings.

You check it to see a message.

From Malachi.

——————————

Malachi: 👀 So you’re the one thirst-trapping half the internet with my face, huh? I gotta admit… The “Busted!” story made me laugh. Also, thanks? I think? Didn’t realize I’d made it to thirst trap status. You: ohmygod I didn’t think you’d actually see that. I didn’t even mean to tag you I SWEAR 😭 Malachi: Sureee you didn’t. 😏 You just accidentally made an edit, posted it, and tagged me. You: Okay maybe I meant to post it but not for you to see it omg I’m gonna hide now Malachi: Too late. I’ve seen it. And honestly? You’ve got great taste. Also… I may or may not have watched a few of your other edits. You’re funny as hell. You: are you—are you flirting with me? Malachi: That depends. Is it working?

——————————

Butterflies erupted in your stomach. Malachi Barton was flirting.

With you!

——————————

You: Maybe. So what if it was? Malachi: I’d ask if you were close enough for us to hangout

——————————

Your heart panged a little, already knowing you weren’t (for my own sake, I’m gonna say reader is living in Australia (cuz I’m Aussie :)))

——————————

You: I don’t think we are. Malachi: How about FaceTime then? You: Absolutely! When? Malachi: How about now? You: Now?! I look like a gremlin rn 😭 Malachi: Gremlin or not, I wanna see you. Besides, I've already seen your thirst trap side, remember? You: YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT 😩 Malachi: Yeah, and yet here I am. Still thinking you're cute.

----------------------

Your cheeks flushed so hot, you swore you wore about to combust. Your heart hammered as the screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime request

-----------------------

Incoming call: Malachi Barton [accept] [decline]

------------------------

You hesitate for half a second, before thinking "screw it" and tapping accept.

The screen flickered for a moment before settling on Malachi's face, softly lit, messy curls flopped over his forehead, and a lazy grin spread across his face when he sees you.

"Hey, Gremlin" he grins

"I told you I look like rubbish right now" you sigh.

"Nah" he chuckled "You look like someone I would want to hang out with at midnight. Or... 3pm, I guess, for you?"

"Jeez, the time difference is wild"

"Worth it" he said as he shifted under his blanket, propping himself up on one arm "So... what do girls like you do for fun at this hour?"

"Cry over timezones and try not to flirt back when a cute guy FaceTimes me in bed"

His smile widened with your answer. You knew he caught the implication, and the little twinkle in his eyes said he liked it.

"Try harder" he replied "I'm dangerously close to making this a daily thing"

You flushed, suddenly very aware of how close his face was on the screen. His voice was lower now, softer, like he was letting the moment stretch a bit longer, just to see what you'd do with it.

"Then I guess I'll have to start setting alarms" you tell him

"For FaceTime? Or for when I finally fly over there?"

You blinked, caught off guard "wait, what?"

"I mean what I said" he admits "you're not just a screen to me"

Your stomach flipped so hard your thought your legs might collapse beneath the weight of your feelings.

"You barely know me"

"Yet here I am" he said "FaceTiming you, at 3am, in my bed, because your thirst trap was once of the best things I've ever seen"

"I think I can actually see the size of your ego from here" you joked "I still can't believe you FaceTimed me first"

"Thats why I like you" he confessed "you're weird, in a good way"

There was a short pause, nor awkward, just soft. Safe. You adjusted the camera slightly and saw he had settled further into his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

"I could stay on here forever, you know. It feels easy with you."

Your heart skipped.

"It really does."

"And I don’t know what this is…" he started "but I like it."

"Same. A lot more than I should."

"Wanna break every rule and see where it goes?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Only if you promise not to ghost me when I inevitably do something embarrassing like snort-laugh in public."

"You snort-laugh?" he teased "That’s it. I’m in love."

"Oh my god, stop" you whined a little

"Make me"

--------------------

You and Malachi had spent the past 2 months texting and FaceTiming, talking about anything and everything, getting to know each other inside and out.

It was a random Friday night when another FaceTime came in from him, and you hit accept.

Malachi’s hoodie sleeves were bunched in his fists as he leaned toward the screen, grin half-hidden.

“So… what if you came over this weekend?”

You blinked. “Wait. Like… came over over?”

“Yes. Over over." he said with a laugh "To my place. We hang out, eat too many snacks, watch movies we won’t pay attention to.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. I already made a playlist called ‘if she lets me kiss her.’”

“Malachi.?”

“I’m a planner, what can I say?” he said with a smirk.

You tried not to smile too hard but gave up halfway. “What if I’m awkward in person?”

“Then I’ll be awkward too. I’ll wear two different socks in solidarity.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Look—if you walk through my door and trip on your shoelace, or say something weird, or even forget your own name—guess what? I’m still gonna think about kissing you.”

You went completely silent for a second. “That was… bold.”

“Only 'cause I mean it.” he said softly

“Okay. I’ll come over.” you said shakily

He lit up like a sunrise. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just… don’t be disappointed when I’m shorter in real life.”

“I’m gonna hug you like I waited my whole life for it. Be ready.” he said with the biggest grin you had ever seen.

-----------------------

You stood outside his door, heart pounding so hard you could hear it. You raised your hand to knock, then pulled it back.

Then knocked anyway.

A few seconds. Then the door creaked open.

Malachi was standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, curls slightly messy like he’d been pacing.

You both froze.

No screen between you. No camera filter. Just him, and you, and silence stretching like it might burst.

Then

“Hi.” he said softly

You laughed under your breath. “Hi.”

He stepped forward, hesitated, then opened his arms. “Can I?”

You nodded. He wrapped his arms around you so gently, like you were something he wasn’t quite sure was real yet.

But when you melted into him?

That was it.

You both exhaled at the same time.

Malachi: whispering into your hair “You’re even better in real life.”

“So are you.”

And you stayed like that, just holding each other. No rush. No nerves. Just warmth.

And the start of something.

---------------------

It wasn’t supposed to feel this easy.

Curled up on the couch together, your knees tucked under his blanket, his arm slung casually across the back of the couch, there were only a few inches between you, but they buzzed like they were lit up.

The movie played on. Something funny, neither of you were really watching it.

You yawned and shifted slightly, and without thinking, your head bumped his shoulder.

“Oops—sorry—”

“Don’t be.” he said quietly

He turned just enough so that your head could rest properly on his shoulder. You felt his fingers brush against your wrist as he pulled the blanket over the both of you.

God. His warmth. His scent. You could get drunk on it.

“Comfy?”

“Mhm.” you mumbled

A few minutes passed.

He adjusted slightly again, this time his hand lightly brushing your arm, his pinky grazing yours, like he was testing the air between you.

Then he spoke, his voice low, almost nervous. “You know… I’ve been thinking about this moment since that first call.”

Your breath caught. “This?”

“You, here. Next to me. Trying not to fall asleep during a movie you didn’t pick.” Malachi said, smiling to himself.

You laughed softly, your voice hushed. “Well, you picked a really boring one.”

“Hey, I needed an excuse to do this.” he teased

He turned toward you, heart in his throat, and gently touched your chin. Guiding you to look up at him.

His expression shifted, sincere, a little vulnerable, completely captivated.

“Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words. Just nodded, barely, and watched the smile tug at his lips right before they met yours.

It was soft. Careful. Almost reverent.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting, not just for today, but for you.

And when he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice came out like a whisper.

“You’re real. "He reveled "This is real.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

You stayed like that, tangled in each other under a blanket, the movie long forgotten. As if the world had shrunk down to the space between your heart and his.

And for the first time in forever, everything felt exactly where it was meant to be.

Tag List:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[lucy-literates]

Hey you 😊

Glad your laptop works again 😊

I have another idea for Lewis, him and the younger reader have a fight, because he acts different in public and the reader thinks it is because of the age gap (28 - 40).

He storms off to the Silverstone GP and the reader decides to flight there too, even after a fight. Fred and Charles see her sad at the Garage and speak to her and When Lewis drivers over the finish line, Fred lets her speak to him and he realizes that she will be always there for him.

At home they make up with 🔥please 😊

Greetings 😊

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long, I hope you enjoy it. Requests are open.

Always There

You weren’t sure when it started—when the shift happened. When the version of Lewis you had in private began to disappear the second cameras were on.

At home, he was soft, affectionate, always touching you like he needed the reassurance of your skin against his.

But in public?

He stepped three feet away, gave rehearsed smiles, answered press questions like you were just part of the entourage, not his. It made your chest twist.

And finally, last night, you’d said something.

“You act like I’m an embarrassment.”

He had flinched. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No one knows I’m your girlfriend, Lewis,” you snapped, crossing your arms. “You never post me. You barely look at me when we’re at events. It’s like I’m a dirty secret. Is it the age gap?”

He had exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching. “That’s what this is about?”

You had nodded, tears threatening. “Do you even want me anymore?”

That had been the last straw. He’d stormed out, muttering something about being late for Silverstone.

Still, even after all that—after the yelling and the way he left—you booked the flight.

Because love doesn’t just switch off. Even when your heart aches.

You didn’t have a paddock pass this time. You weren’t on the guest list. But you managed to slip in under the radar, kept to the back of the garage where the noise might drown out the storm inside you.

Charles spotted you first.

“Y/N?” He looked shocked, then softened. “You okay?”

You tried to fake a smile. “Just watching.”

He exchanged a glance with Fred Vasseur, who subtly nodded. The next thing you knew, Charles passed you his jacket to help you blend in more, and Fred leaned in close.

“If you want to talk to him… I’ll make sure you can.”

Your heart clenched. “Really?”

“You’re here. That means something.”

The race blurred. Your chest tightened every time Lewis’s car passed. You kept biting your lip, wondering if he even knew you’d come.

When he crossed the finish line—third place, but hard-fought—you couldn’t help the tears that slipped free.

And then Fred gently guided you forward.

“Go,” he whispered, nodding toward the waiting area behind the garage. “I’ll cover for you.”

Lewis was pulling off his helmet, sweat-slick and flushed, tugging off his gloves—when he saw you.

His entire face changed.

“Y/N—?”

You ran to him, not caring about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that he still reeked of fuel and adrenaline.

“I came,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Even after the fight. Because I’m still yours, even when it hurts.”

Lewis dropped everything.

Helmet. Gloves. Ego.

He stepped into you and wrapped you up in his arms so tight it knocked the air from your lungs.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he breathed into your hair. “You shouldn’t have had to come find me. I should’ve never walked away.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“Do you even want people to know about us?”

“Yes. God, yes,” he said fiercely. “I was trying to protect you. The press, the age gap… I thought I was keeping you safe, but I ended up making you feel like a secret. That’s on me.”

Your hands cradled his face. “I don’t want safe. I want real. You.”

And he kissed you, right there, in front of everyone.

Back Home – That Night

You barely made it through the front door before his hands were on you.

“Bedroom. Now,” he growled, voice low, eyes blazing with the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

You tugged him by the collar instead. “No. Here.”

He kissed you like he was making up for every second he’d been away. Desperate. Rough. Needy.

He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, pulling your thighs apart with shaking hands. “I don’t deserve you.”

You yanked his shirt off, fingers sliding down his chest. “You’re right. But I’m still here.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Clothes fell to the floor.

He filled you slowly, one arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like you were something breakable.

You gasped as he started to move, deep and unrelenting, forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips. “I’ll never walk away like that again.”

You held him tighter. “Good. Because next time, I’m dragging you back.”

He chuckled, thrusts quickening, and your moan got swallowed by his kiss. The fight faded into nothing. Only love remained. And heat. And the ache of wanting someone too much, even when they’re right in front of you.

You came first, body arching, sobbing his name.

He followed seconds later, face buried in your neck, whispering I’m sorry like a prayer between kisses.

Later, curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, you looked up at him.

“Post me tomorrow.”

He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I’ll post you right now.”

[lucy-literates]

Can you write one for arthur leclerc where him and the reader are having sex and he overstimulates her to much and she has to use the safe word and he instantly stops n you hide under the blanket feeling too embarrassed and he panics.

When u come out from under the blanket your crying and he cuddles you and then cleans you up.

I dont know if that makes sense??? 😂😂

Thank you x

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long, hope you enjoy. Requests are open.

Too Much

Your thighs were shaking, your body flushed with heat, and your voice was already hoarse from all the sounds he’d wrung out of you.

Arthur was everywhere—his mouth on your neck, his hands gripping your waist, his hips rolling with firm, deliberate thrusts that had long since turned your thoughts into mush.

“You’re taking me so well, mon ange,” he murmured, breathless, drunk on the way your body arched under him. “So perfect like this… just for me.”

Your nails dug into his back as another wave of pleasure surged through you, too intense, too sharp—and then it just didn’t stop.

“Arthur—” your voice cracked. “I—I can’t—”

But he kissed you, whispered something sweet in French you couldn’t even translate through the haze.

Another thrust.

Another shiver down your spine.

Another gasp that sounded more like a sob.

And that’s when you said it. Your safe word. Barely a whisper, but it was enough.

“Red.”

Arthur froze instantly.

He pulled back like he’d been burned, hands hovering but not touching, eyes wide with alarm. “Shit. Shit—baby, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you slipped out from under him, retreating under the blanket like you could disappear into the fabric, hiding your face, your tears, your trembling hands.

He blinked in shock for a second. “Mon amour?”

The silence killed him.

“Hey,” he said gently, crawling closer but not touching you. “Talk to me, please.”

You didn’t mean to cry, but once the tears started, you couldn’t stop. The intensity, the pleasure, the sudden shutdown—it was too much. And now all you felt was... small. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” you finally choked out from under the covers. “I just—I couldn’t... it was too much and now I feel stupid and—”

The blanket shifted as Arthur carefully lifted the edge. His face appeared, worried and soft.

“You’re not stupid.” His voice cracked, panic laced in it. “You scared me, baby. But I’m so glad you used the word. That’s what it’s for. You did nothing wrong.”

When you peeked out, eyes watery and lashes damp, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He reached for you, slow and patient, waiting for your nod before wrapping you in his arms.

You clung to him, letting yourself cry properly now, your face pressed to his bare chest as he held you close, whispering apologies and affirmations over and over again.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re okay. I’m so proud of you for saying stop.”

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your temple—anywhere he could reach without overwhelming you.

When your breathing finally steadied, he pulled away just enough to grab a warm, damp cloth. “Let me clean you up, mon cœur. Then we’ll cuddle all night, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded, sniffling, eyes tired but trusting.

And he did just that—gentle hands, soft kisses, and a hundred whispered reassurances as he cleaned you up, tucked you in, and wrapped his arms back around you like he’d never let go.

[lucy-literates]

Please don’t forget about the dark smut with the Leclerc brothers i sent some time ago 👉🏻👈🏻

I promise I havent forgotten. I've been writing 2 fics at the same time and I'm finishing both today. Give me to minutes and it'll be posted.

[lucy-literates]

Layover

A/N: I decided to try something a little different. I watched Malachi in Stuck in the Middle, and now Zombies 4. I got got how much of a crush I used to have on him as a kid. I did find out he’s actually a year younger than me, crazy. Anyway, I am going to write up the request I have, this idea has just been floating around my head for a couple days. Requests are also open! Please enjoy (and let me know if it’s rubbish) 🫶🏻

You wasn’t expecting much from your layover — just overpriced coffee, an uncomfortable gate chair, and hopefully not missing her flight.

What you definitely wasn’t expecting was to slam straight into someone mid-turn, nearly knocking you both over.

“Whoa—sorry, I didn’t see—“

“No, no, that was totally my bad.”

You looked up. And up. Into the unmistakable face of Malachi Barton.

“Wait…” you blinked. “Aren’t you—”

“…Running late, apparently,” he grinned.

That smile. You'd seen it in posters, reels, and the shows he did as a kid. But in person, it was less polished, more real.

"I think I just shoulder checked a Disney prince" you joked, shifting your back to your other shoulder.

"Honestly, that's the best hit I've taken all week" he said "the tour is brutal."

"Hang on, are you coming back from the Descendants Zombies thing?" You had seen the reels about it but weren't able to get any tickets.

"Yeah, just landed. And already tackled by a fan in Terminal B" he said with teasing in his voice, and a wink to punctuate.

You raised your eyebrow "Tackled? I barely touched you"

"Emotionally tackled" he said with a grin "Devastating"

You both laughed, it was the kind of laughter that made time hiccup.

"Are you staying here?" He asked you, a hint of hopefulness in his voice.

"Ah no, I'm not" you answered. "This is just a layover"

"Oooooh" he said "Where are you going?"

"On a holiday" you replied "to Salem" (I only say Salem because that's my next holiday)

"Very... witchy" he replied with a chuckle "I'm going home to laundry and post-tour blues"

"You really are living the dream" you joked

His laugh was soft, raw, real. Something about it made your chest pinch and your breath short.

You were about to say something when the Airport intercom came on "Flight 3213 to Boston is now boarding, that's Flight 3213 to Boston boarding"

You sigh and make sure you have all your things, "that's my flight, I should get going. It was nice meeting you, I'm sorry for emotionally tackling you. I hope you can recover" you said with a laugh

Malachi chuckled "would you, maybe, want to stay in touch?"

You paused for a moment, then answered "As in like, text?"

"Yeah. Or call. Or send goofy selfies. Whatever you're into"

You give a small nod and slow smile, as you pull out your phone "ok Disney prince, you go". You gave him your phone and watched as he typed his number. He was about to hand it back when you said "Wait! I need a profile picture for you"

You opened your camera and pointed it at Malachi, who promptly took your phone, turned the camera around, and pulled you in for a selfie together.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and held the phone out. You wrapped your arm around his waist and rested your head on his shoulder. He rested his head on top of yours, said "smile" and took the photo.

He set it as the profile photo, and then used your phone to send the photo to himself. You heard his phone ping, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He grinned at you from the side as he unlocked his phone, went into his messages. He changed your name to Princess and set the same photo as your profile.

"Thank you" he said.

"No worries" you responded.

"This is the final call for Flight 3213 to Boston, that's the final call for Flight 3213 to Boston boarding"

"You gotta go" he realised "like now"

"Crap, I do"

"I'll walk you to your gate" he said as he took your suitcase and your bag from you, and led the way.

You chuckled and said "My gate is that way"

He turned to see you pointing in the opposite direction from where he was walking "oh, this way then."

He helped you get your bags sorted and walked you as far as he could, bid you goodbye and told you to "text me when you get there"

You thanked him and waved as you walked down the hallway to the plane.

---------------

Malachi: Did you make it to Salem alive? Or were you tragically defeated by airport vending machines?

You: Alive and sleep-deprived. But I did get attacked by a rogue suitcase in baggage claim. I’m limping dramatically for attention.

Malachi: You’re really thriving.

You: Main character energy, tbh. Current status: walking along Chestnut Street listening to sad music like I’m in a breakup montage.

Malachi: You're not even heartbroken and you're still being cinematic. I respect that. Send me a pic so I can rate your brooding skills.

You: <<photo of you with sunglasses, slight pout, graveyard in background>> How’s that?

Malachi: 8.5/10. Would’ve been a 10 if you had dramatic wind in your hair.

You: Rude. The wind was busy.

---------------------

You: Went to the She-Varoy Hills today. Pretty sure I saw your ego from up there.

Malachi: Wow. And I thought I was being charming. I’ve been practicing restraint, you know. I haven’t even sent you a selfie in, like, 36 hours.

You: That’s tragic. Want me to send you a candle or something?

Malachi: Only if you come light it yourself.

You: That sounds vaguely threatening.

Malachi: Good. Keeps you intrigued.

--------------------------

Malachi: You’re fun, you know that?

You: You said that like you’re surprised.

Malachi: I just thought you’d be normal. But you’re not. You’re like… actually cool. Real. Not fake-nice.

You: Are you flirting with me, Barton?

Malachi: I’m considering it. Depends. What’s your stance on missing return flights?

You: Bold of you to assume I’d risk airport chaos for a guy I barely know 😌

Malachi: Bold of me to assume you wouldn’t? -----------------------

These message chains you had with Malachi were adding more and more to your holiday, like you didn't even know you needed it until it happened. Then, you got the one text you had kind of been hoping for.

-----------------------

Malachi: Okay. Serious question. Your layover back is in LA again, right?

You: Yeah. Same gate and everything. (Which feels suspiciously like fate.)

Malachi: What if you… didn’t keep flying? What if you changed your flight and stayed here for like a week? I’ll show you around. Be normal. Be respectful. You can even run if I turn out to be secretly unhinged.

You: What if I say yes and you regret it?

Malachi: Impossible. I already don’t want this to be over when you get on that plane.

----------------------

You had barely slept. Not from the nerves, which were definitely here now, but because you couldn't stop replaying the moment you said yes.

One minute, you were staring at yourself in mirror like a lunatic, making sure you didn't look exhausted. The next, you were standing outside LAX with a wheeled suitcase, a half-melted chocolate bar in your hand, and Malachi Barton waving at you from the curb like he hadn't just rewritten the past week.

“You actually came,” he said, smiling in that stupid, disarming way that should’ve come with a warning label.

"You asked" you shrugged, though your heart was doing more pounding then shrugging.

-------------------

You woke up the next morning, grateful for the sleep you had gotten. He doesn't live in a crazy mansion, but in a cozy house that's half full of unpacked boxes from the tour. He gave you the spare room, fresh towels, and a full bottle of purple shampoo because he "didn't know your hair needs and panicked" even though you had packed shampoo for your original holiday.

You walked out in an oversized tshirt, no makeup and bed head. You found Malachi at the bench drinking orange juice from the bottle.

He spots you and freezes mid sip.

"Morning" you say

“Wow,” he says.

“Wow what?”

“You look like someone who’s about to steal my heart and the last cinnamon roll.”

You raises an eyebrow. “Only one of those things is true.”

He hops off the counter, barefoot, hair messy, shirt inside-out.

“Okay,” he says, clapping once. “Here’s the plan. First, breakfast. Then I’m taking you on the very official Malachi Barton Tour of LA.”

“Does that involve paparazzi and overpriced green juice?”

“Nope. It involves the beach, tacos, a record store that smells like actual dust, and me proving that I’m not just a dude with a blue checkmark.”

You smile, softer this time.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” you say.

He pauses. “Maybe. But I kinda want to.”

---------------------

You're walking through the local street market, hands brushing against each other but never fully touching. He tells you stories about filming, and you tease him about his hair product obsession. You end up at a smoothie place and he orders for you without asking what you would like, and he got it exactly right.

"How'd you know" you ask him, suspicion in your voice.

"Lucky guess" he says, even though he definitely went through your texts to find it.

----------------------

You end up sitting on a roof later that night, with some cheap takeout and string lights above you. That weird electric stillness between friends who might kiss but don't want to risk ruining had settled around you.

"This is insane" you whisper.

"You staying?"

'No, I mean this whole thing. You. Me. Here"

"Yeah" he murmurs, leaning back on his elbows. "And yet, you're here"

----------------------

It's late.

You're curled up together on his couch, the kind of squishy, lived-in thing that sinks too much when you sit on one side. Some Disney movie plays softly on the screen, chosen because neither of you planned on paying attention anyway.

You're tucked against his side, legs stretched out, a blanket half draped over both of you. Malachi's arm is slung lazily on the back of the couch, his fingertips ghosting over your shoulder every now and again.

Your cheek was resting on your chest. You could hear the steady thump of his heart under your ear and, for once, your thoughts aren't racing, they're still.

“You tired?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s scared to break the moment.

“A little,” you murmur. “But I don’t want to move.”

He smiles, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching.

“Good. Cause I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

You shifts slightly, just enough to look up at him — and finds him already looking down.

That soft, melting silence.

That electricity in the space between them.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I know.”

He doesn’t move right away. He waits — giving you time, space, choice. And that’s what makes you fall for him a little more.

So you lean up first, slow and sure.

And he meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft, not rushed, not dramatic. Just lips brushing lips, the warmth of his hand slipping gently under your jaw. The kind of kiss that makes your stomach ache in the best way. Like the start of something. Like safety and butterflies and yes.

When you finally pull back, barely inches between you both, he’s smiling. That small, secret smile he only seems to give you.

“So…” he whispers.

“So,” you echo.

“What does that mean?”

You pretend to think and flash him a cheeky grin.

“Means you’re in trouble,” you say, nudging your nose against his.

“Worth it,” he murmurs, kissing you again.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[lucy-literates]

New ideea 👉🏻👈🏻

YN staying for the summer at Arthur s home, and for some reason she starts to be really horny and every night starts to play with her toys, just trying to cum but one night when she was playing and moaning too loud, she didn’t heard when Arthur came home (she was thinking that going to a party will result with Arthur spending the night at some random girl ) so while she was having her eyes closed and screaming having a vibrator in her pussy, Arthur opens her room and starts to look at her , so when yn opens her eyes she got scared and take out the vibretor and close her legs.

Arthur comes to her and say sth like “you should be ashamed for using this useless thing when you have me all for yourself “ that while taking the toy and putting it back inside her and playing with her pussy .

You can make yn really desperate to cum and Arthur making her cum several times (with every thing he has)

Maybe when he turn her on 4, he sees a buttplug in her and his eyes darken even more so at one time he is removing it and places it with his dick and play with the vibrator in her pussy

Clothes : an oversized shirt (or used from him because she got crazy about the smell when she found it somewhere in the house) , black lace lingerine

Love you ❤️❤️❤️

A/N: This was such an intense ask to read at 10:45 in the morning, but omg I love it!!! I hope this is what you had in mind, thank you so much for all the detail! I really hope you enjoy it! Inbox is open :)

Heatwave

You should’ve known better than to wear his shirt.

It had been lying carelessly on the back of the couch, freshly worn and warm from his skin. You didn’t even think—just buried your nose in the collar and let the scent wrap around you like a second skin. Of course you ended up slipping it on, pairing it with black lace panties and the matching bra you always reached for when you felt a little... desperate.

Arthur had gone out for the night. Some party. Some girl, probably. You told yourself that’s why your chest ached. That it wasn’t jealousy—just loneliness.

The heat had been building all day. Not just the summer air, but you. Everything in this house smelled like him. Looked like him. Felt like him.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

So you laid back in his bed, spread your thighs, and let the vibrator hum to life against your already soaked panties. The lace clung to you like second skin, vibrating in time with your heartbeat.

Your fingers curled, your back arched, and you whispered his name.

You didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear his footsteps.

But you heard his voice.

“Mon ange...”

Your eyes flew open.

Arthur stood in the doorway, lips parted, chest rising slowly with each breath. His gaze was locked on the toy buzzing against your lace-covered core, and the damp patch spreading under it.

You froze. “Arthur— I thought you were—”

“Out?” he finished, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind him. “I was. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He moved closer. The air changed.

“You in my shirt,” he said, eyes raking over you. “Touching yourself. Crying out my name like that.”

You tried to close your legs, humiliated, but he caught your knee.

“No,” he said softly, firmly. “Show me.”

You whimpered as he kneeled between your thighs, peeling the toy from your fingers. He studied it—wet and buzzing in his hand—then looked back at you, pupils blown wide.

“You really think this can fuck you the way I can?” he murmured.

“Arthur, I—” you gasped as he dragged the tip of it down your slit, right over your underwear. “I needed— I didn’t think you wanted me.”

He leaned down, his mouth hovering just over your navel.

“I own you.”

You moaned, head falling back. And then he turned the toy back on and pressed it straight to your clit over your panties—slow, deliberate pressure that made your legs tremble.

“I’ve wanted you since the first night you walked in here,” he whispered. “Wearing nothing but your attitude and that pretty little perfume.”

You whimpered again, your hips rolling involuntarily. His fingers hooked into your panties and slid them down, dragging the toy over your slick folds. The vibrations made you cry out.

“Arthur—please—”

“You’ll take everything I give you,” he said, breath hot against your thigh. “You’ll come when I tell you. Not a second sooner.”

The first orgasm hit hard. You arched off the bed with a strangled sound, but he didn’t stop.

He kept the toy moving.

“You’re not done,” he said. “I said everything.”

The second orgasm crashed over you faster than the first, and still—still—he didn’t stop. Your thighs trembled, toes curled, vision blurred.

Then—

“What’s this?”

You felt him pause, then press his thumb lightly against your backside.

He pulled gently. You gasped.

He held up the plug you’d tucked in earlier—just for the fantasy. For the ache of it. You hadn't thought he'd ever see it.

But now, Arthur’s expression shifted. Darkened.

“You’ve been walking around like this all week?” he said, voice wrecked with want. “And you really thought I wouldn’t touch you?”

He pressed you flat, flipped you over, and nudged your knees apart.

The stretch of him replacing the plug was too much. Too full. Too hot.

But he didn’t give you a moment to breathe—because the toy was back against your clit, and his name was all you could say.

“Arthur, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled. “Give it to me. Again. All of it.”

Your body obeyed before your brain did.

He fucked you through your next orgasm—then another—until you were shaking, babbling, clenching around him like he was the only thing keeping you together.

And then he slowed. Kissed your neck. Your shoulder. Pulled you up into his lap and held you there, still trembling.

“Next time,” he whispered into your ear, “you ask for me first.”

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[lucy-literates]

Hey you, hope you are good😊

I have a new idea for Lewis :)

So the reader is twenty-eight again and owns a Restaurant. One evening the drivers have their annual dinner there and Lewis totally falls for her and the all the drivers make hints and these him the whole evening 😊

Of course the reader notices this and gives Lewis her number at the end 🤭

Greetings 😊

A/N: I love these requests, they're so cute. Sorry it took me so long, I finally got a laptop that can actually function. I hope you enjoy it, my requests are open :)

The Special on the Menu

You were wiping down the counter when you heard the unmistakable buzz of high-profile energy flood your restaurant.

The F1 grid had arrived.

Every year, the drivers hosted a private end-of-season dinner, and this time they’d chosen your restaurant—you—to cater it. You weren’t sure who had recommended the place, but with the way they filled out the private dining room in tailored suits and mischievous grins, you had a feeling it was more than just a coincidence.

You liked to think you were used to confident men.

Until he walked in.

Lewis Hamilton. Even more stunning in person. He carried himself like calm power wrapped in velvet—quiet, watchful, magnetic. And he kept looking at you like you were the only thing on the menu.

You noticed it right away. He’d glance up from his glass, fingers curled loose around the stem like he was too distracted to drink. He watched as you greeted staff, gave instructions, smiled politely at guests—but his gaze never lingered long enough to be rude.

Just long enough to warm your skin.

At some point, Charles turned his head, saw where Lewis was looking, and elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

"Tu la regardes comme un homme affamé, mec," Charles teased. You’re looking at her like a starving man.

Lewis muttered something back, cheeks already going pink.

"Do it properly, then," Lando added, leaning over with a grin. "Ask her what the dessert special is. Bet it’s her number."

You pretended not to hear—but the blush crept up your neck anyway.

It didn’t stop there. The teasing was relentless. George fake-coughed the words “Missed connection” when Lewis didn’t speak up during the wine pairing. Oscar raised his glass with a sly, “To unexpected love at first sight!” Carlos told you at one point, half-drunk and charming, “He’s pretending not to stare, but he’s tragically bad at it.”

But Lewis? He didn’t say much. Just gave you a soft smile whenever you passed. Held your gaze a moment too long when you topped off his glass. And when you handed out the last course—caramelised pear tartlets with gold dust—he murmured, “Did you make these?”

“I make everything,” you said, proud and amused.

He smiled again, and that time it lingered. “Figured. Nothing this good happens by accident.”

You turned away before your smile could give you away.

By the end of the night, the room was buzzing with warmth and full stomachs. Drivers drifted out in pairs, suits loosened, voices loud and happy. You stood near the front, saying goodnight, and noticed that Lewis was lagging behind.

He was near the door, rubbing the back of his neck like he was working up the courage to say something.

“Go on,” Charles said behind him, nudging him forward. “She’ll say yes.”

Lewis rolled his eyes, but walked up to the bar. You were just finishing up the register.

He hesitated. “Tonight was… incredible. Your place, I mean. The food. You.”

“Thank you,” you said, leaning on your elbows. “You didn’t say much all night.”

“Didn’t need to. The whole table said it for me.”

You laughed, and he looked like he wanted to bottle the sound.

“I was going to ask,” he continued, a little sheepish now, “if I could—"

“Here,” you interrupted, sliding a small receipt across the counter. Written on the back in your neat handwriting:

"Next time, don’t just stare. Text me. — [Your Name]"

He looked down at it, lips parting in surprise—then curling into the kind of smile that made your knees weak.

“Guess I’m ordering the chef’s special,” he said softly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You better text me before it sells out.”

Later That Night

Your phone buzzed as you locked up.

Unknown Number: So… what’s your policy on chefs dating their guests? Unknown Number: Asking for a friend. Unknown Number: Okay, it’s me. Lewis.

You grinned.

You: Depends. Is the guest still shy in person, or just over text?

Lewis: Only shy when you’re looking at me like that.

You: You’ll have to show me what that means.

Lewis: Dinner tomorrow. Just us. No teammates. No teasing.

You: Make me something sweet and I’ll think about it.

Lewis: I was going to say the same to you.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-BLpv0xQYd1bTlaP7l1gAg8AgCyLE_yvrtljpCzlJhY/edit?usp=sharing

[lucy-literates]

hi baby🤍how are you?

i wanted to ask you if you would like to write about lance stroll,i know a lot of people don't like it, but i love it.😔💚

Hey love, I’m good! How are you? To be fair, I’m not the biggest fan of Stroll but I’d be happy write him for you 🫶🏻

[lucy-literates]

hi! i was widening if you can write something along the lines of readers first ever relationship being with either lando, charles or arthur? like i turn 25 next week and ive never been in a relationship before let alone had any firsts (kiss etc) due to never being a first choice or a choice overall and has been told their unattractive and have to change their entire life while people her age and are getting married and having multiple kids already?

A/N: Hey love! Speaking from personal experience (I’m 19 so I don’t have much of it), dating is not all that it’s cracked up to be. I know people my age having children and getting married and honestly, it’s overrated. I’ve had 3 “relationships” in my life and it was just dickhead after dickhead. They were all selfish or abusive in their own way. You will find the right person. I would recommend to distance yourself from the people who say negative things to you, they are harming you in ways you may not know. You should be you in your most confident form, whether that includes a full face of make up or a bare face, jeans or trakkies. You should live your life the way you want to. You could join social groups in your area if you’re looking to make new connections. If you’d like to talk, feel free to flick me a message (if you’re comfortable and willing) :) I hope this fic gives you a bit of comfort, and you enjoy it 🫶🏻

First Times and Fast Hearts

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

You weren’t sure when it stopped feeling like a crush and started becoming something real.

Lando was loud in all the ways you weren’t — quick with his jokes, easy in his body, flirty like it was second nature. And yet… he was quiet when it mattered. When you fumbled with your words. When you blushed too hard. When you admitted, hesitantly, one night over FaceTime with your knees pulled to your chest, “I’ve never done this before.”

Lando paused. His face flickered — surprise, then softness.

“You mean… dated?”

You nodded, cheeks heating instantly. “Like… at all. You’re the first.”

The silence sat for a second too long. Your stomach churned. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You rushed to cover it up.

“It’s not like I’ve never liked anyone— I just— I don’t know. I didn’t grow up doing hookups. Or dating around. It just never felt right. And now I’m older and somehow it feels weird that you’re the first.”

Lando didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t say anything to make it worse.

Instead, he leaned forward, phone camera wobbling slightly in his hand.

“Thank you for trusting me with that,” he said. “It’s not weird. It’s you. And I like you.”

⸻

It didn’t mean the nerves disappeared. Not even close.

Your first real date — a low-key dinner, no cameras, no pressure — had your stomach in knots for hours before. You changed outfits three times. Googled “what do people talk about on dates.” Told yourself you weren’t going to be weird and awkward, and then were weird and awkward anyway.

Lando held your hand at the end of the night. Lightly. Like he was asking, not assuming.

“I had fun,” he said, voice a little shy.

You smiled. “Me too.”

And that was it.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t lean in like a rom-com. Just rubbed his thumb across your knuckles like you were something precious. Something breakable.

It made you want to kiss him more than anything ever had.

⸻

The first kiss came two weeks later.

In his hotel room. After race day. He was exhausted and still a little sweaty, hair damp from the shower, wearing soft grey joggers and an old hoodie that smelled like him.

You didn’t even remember how the conversation turned. One moment, you were talking about the track. The next, you were talking about your childhood. How you hated birthday parties. How you only ever went to one school dance. How you never really got asked out — and you never really minded, until now.

Lando’s voice had gone quiet again. “You ever feel like you missed out on stuff?”

You nodded. “Kind of. But also… if I didn’t wait, I wouldn’t have you.”

That’s when he kissed you.

Slow. Intentional. No tongue, no pressure. Just his hands cupping your jaw and the warmth of his mouth on yours.

When he pulled back, he whispered, “Was that okay?”

You blinked. “More than okay.”

⸻

You told him once, months later, that you were scared of being bad at all of it — dating, kissing, being someone’s person. You weren’t used to emotional vulnerability. You didn’t know how to flirt. You overthought everything.

Lando kissed your forehead that time, pulling you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t need to be good at anything,” he said, voice low in your ear. “Just honest. Just you.”

⸻

He made it easy.

Your first time sleeping in the same bed. First time staying over. First time seeing each other cry. The first time you got overwhelmed and he didn’t flinch — just held you tighter and asked what you needed.

Every time felt like new territory. But with him, it didn’t feel like a battlefield. It felt like learning. Soft discovery. Like you were both building something together, one small brick at a time.

⸻

One night, curled on his chest after another chaotic travel day, you murmured, “Do you ever wish I had more experience?”

He glanced down at you, brow furrowing. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone else would know what they were doing. Wouldn’t overthink everything.”

“Someone else,” he said, gently, “wouldn’t be you.”

You stayed quiet.

“I like that this is your first,” he continued. “That I get to show you how it should feel. That I get to watch you light up when something’s new. I don’t want polished or perfect. I want real. I want you.”

You buried your face into his hoodie, heart too full.

It wasn’t about being anyone’s first, you realized.

It was about being someone’s safe.

And Lando — loud, fast, reckless Lando — was the safest thing you’d ever known.

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