lvrspiastri

[lvrspiastri]

le mans commentators claim that logan is studying! whilst unconfirmed, i hope he's really fucking happy. unlike you. after reading this fic. why did i end it like that? honestly, i had a good ending plan but the fic got too long so i was like eh lets just leave it there. lmk if you want a proper happily-ever-after ending. or if you'd let yourself rot in heartbreak.

important: one thing with this is that in third person, it got hard to make the fic gender-neutral. so i made a male!reader and female!reader version. this is the female version. here is the male one.

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

Always an angel, never a God. ˡˢ²

✧. ┊     PAIRING: uni!logan x fem!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 4.7k (sorry)

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: heartbreak, hurt no comfort, coarse language, depressing shit.

No, it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. Getting into the MSR car, the ELMS car. None of it made it okay.

Standing face to face with the very thing that shattered him from the inside out didn’t magically fix anything.

Getting back behind the wheel didn’t mean he was healed. This wasn’t a cramp Logan could just “walk off.” This was deeper—cutting, lingering, consuming. And pretending otherwise only made it worse.

So he tried partying.

On yachts.

Private islands.

Clubs.

The overthinking during the hangovers just made it a lot worse.

And all his friends didn't fall out of love for the sport like he had. Everyone used to praise him. Everyone used him as an example.

"God, Kyle, look at Logan! He's already made it to F1! He's made us all so damn proud."

"The kid's bound to succeed. He's had a track record that isn't something to laugh at."

"Oh, Logie, you know we're very proud of you. You've done something that's gonna make our family name shine."

How quickly that got taken away. How quickly you wake up from the daydream. How quickly the loud praises turned into pitiful reassurances.

"Ah, the car was shit anyway. Look at Colapinto, he's not doing much better."

"Oh, it's not your fault, Logie, you tried your best and that's what matters."

"F1's a shitshow. You'd be better off in endurance racing. You've already won before."

None of it worked.

Except golfing.

He went golfing a lot. He’d always liked it—enjoyed the quiet, the rhythm. But never like this. Never with this kind of fixation.

Maybe something in him just wanted to be better than his old Williams teammate. Alex.

Alex, who’d mocked his shitty golf swing with a laugh too smug to forget. Alex, who’d outqualified him every. fucking. race. Alex, who ended up in his car—not through merit, not through malice, but through the cruel chaos of timing.

Alex. The golden boy.

And yes, Logan loved him. Of course he did. Alex had been the only one who stayed. The only one who talked him through the hell that was Williams. The only one who knew what it did to you. But Alex hadn’t been thrown out like yesterday’s mistake. Not like Logan.

So yeah—maybe swinging a club with blistered hands and a too-tight jaw was some twisted form of rebellion. Maybe if he became a master at this, he’d finally win. Win against Vowles. Win against the narrative. Win against every single fucker who had smiled while tearing him down.

It didn't make sense, he knew that. But it seemed to be the only thing stopping him from...

Spiralling.

But he was no Tiger Woods. The wretched drive, the fatal determination in Logan screamed at him to do more. To do.

Logan was not one of those people who 'played it by ear' or 'went with the wind.' No. Sitting there and waiting for life to happen to you was bullshit. He'd always had a plan in his head. Drive for Williams. Make his way up into Mercedes. Win Races. WDCs. Then retire. And go back to school. He'd expected to be pushing 40 by the time this happened. But when does anything ever go according to plan.

What if he started learning? Now?

It's not that he'd switch careers forever. He just wants to have a sense of purpose for once. He'd come back to racing. Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully.

He'd always been proud of finishing school. It didn't sound like a great feat but in the racing world, finishing school is worth a lot more than it is to normal people. So with a high school diploma, the world was his.

Maybe business. Yeah. Business. Like Dad.

So he did business.

So he went to uni in his mid twenties and did business.

So here he is. Outside the uni. Gripping his bag strap like some sort of freshman. His knuckles are white and he's bitten his lip to the point of it bleeding. Oh well.

The building is grand. With architecture that makes tourists flock like sheep. He didn't care for it. He'd seen bigger. Better. Italy. France. Milan. London. But he'd never felt this nervous. Racing was his domain. School? School wasn't.

He pulls out his google maps, typing in the room number because this uni was fucking huge. He seemed to be at where he was meant to be. But he couldn't locate his class. With a sigh and face buried in his phone, he charges ahead, following the blue dots on google maps, probably looking like an idiot. Or worse, a senior citizen.

"You're walking really slow." The sweet voice floats in from behind, and he turns sharply to locate the source.

Then he just... freezes.

Standing a few steps away is a girl who seems almost unreal. Light catching just right, presence quietly magnetic. Ethereal. He stares longer than socially acceptable, momentarily forgetting that normal people respond when spoken to.

"...Are you good?"

He jerks out of his daze, nodding so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t pull something. "Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Uh...would you happen to know where room 402 is?" He fumbles to angle his phone, hoping the map could carry the weight of his awkwardness.

A small smile spreads across her face. "Actually, I do. I’m headed there too. BUS1001?"

He nods again, more composed this time. "Yeah. That one."

"Follow me."

The walk continues in a kind of gentle quiet, the kind that doesn’t press for words but still hums with awareness.

Every so often, he risks a glance. Just enough to catch little things—the rhythm of her easy stride, the tilt of her head when listening, the faint trace of some scent he can’t name but knows he’ll remember.

"So," he says, breaking the silence before it swallows him whole, "have you taken any classes here before?"

"First year."

He nods. "Same. I don’t know, I thought uni would feel more… right."

She hums softly. "Still early. Give it time."

Their shoulders brush for a second. Barely a touch. But it sends a spark all the way down to his fingertips. He tries to play it cool. He absolutely does not succeed.

"You know, you look quite old for a first year."

"Is that meant to be a jab at me?" He attempts a chuckle, knowing exactly what that's supposed to mean.

"No, not at all, it's just... I’m not used to people actually looking like they belong here."

"Well, I am 24, so… no surprise you thought that."

"Ah, that makes sense. I suppose most first years are eighteen, like myself." She grins. Light, teasing, but not unkind. And she doesn’t judge.

That, more than anything, makes his shoulders drop in quiet relief.

"I’m, uh… Logan, by the way." He doesn’t offer his last name. Not yet. He knows what happens when people hear it. They either sneer like he’s some entitled waste of space, or they bring up his name—his uncle and that stupid company and all the weight that comes with it.

But she tilts her head slightly, curious. "Logan? Hm. Logan what?"

There it is.

He hesitates. Brief, but enough to feel it in his chest. “Uh… Sargeant. Logan Sargeant.”

He braces himself. Watches her face like it holds the verdict to his entire day.

Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No loaded silence. No careful step back.

Just a slow blink and a soft nod.

Then she offers her name. Sweet. Soft. It suits her. But he barely catches it, too stunned by her lack of reaction.

It unsettles him in the best way.

They make their way to the seminar room, people having already secured places on desks, chatting. Laughing. Something aches in Logan's heart.

Memories of being on the bus during the driver's parade.

Alone.

Quiet.

On the verge of tears.

Drivers greeting him by his last name, never his first. An indicator of distance. Unfamiliarity. He expects the same here. Profound loneliness.

He turns to her.

"Right, I can't thank you enough. I appreciate you," he swallows thickly, breath shaky upon exhale. He didn't want to leave her, not really. He wants that soft voice of hers to keep being a balm for him. He wouldn't have the courage to start chatting with people he doesn't know. He didn't want her to go.

"Do you know anyone in there?" She curiously inquires. Like she thinks he's only bidding her farewell because he has other, better people.

"No. No, I don't..." He looks at the floor, probably being perceived as an idiot by her now.

Her expression softens. There’s a beat of silence where she just looks at him, like she’s weighing something quietly in her mind. Then she smiles—gentle, easy. Like it costs her nothing.

"Well," she says, shifting her bag on her shoulder, "you do now."

His eyes snap up. The words land so softly, but they knock the wind out of him. He swears something in his chest rearranges itself at that moment. A tether forms, invisible but real, anchoring him to something that feels suspiciously like hope.

She gestures toward the door. "Come on. Let’s sit at the back. Less intimidating."

He follows. Of course he follows.

Inside, the room is a low murmur of voices, the kind of chatter that fills awkward silences and makes everything feel just a little too loud. Logan scans the space automatically, muscle memory from press conferences and team briefings kicking in.

Pick the corners.

Stay quiet.

Be forgettable.

But this time, he’s not alone.

She finds a seat by the window and drops into it casually, leaving the one beside her open. No grand gestures. No announcements. Just a quiet sort of presence that makes the seat feel like it was always meant for him.

He sits, clutching the strap of his backpack a little tighter than necessary, then loosening it. He feels clunky in his own skin, like a bad actor in someone else's scene. But then she turns to him again, and he forgets how to be anything but present.

"You okay?" she asks, not like someone who’s just being polite. More like someone who’d actually care about the answer.

"Yeah," he says, though his voice comes out a little hoarse. He clears his throat. "Just... been a while since I’ve done anything like this."

"Like uni?"

"Like starting over."

She nods slowly. "Yeah. That can be scary."

He watches her pull out a notebook, one of those thick, spiral-bound ones with a few pages already filled. Her pen is tucked neatly into the rings. There’s something deeply grounding about it. Tangible. Real.

"So what made you choose business?" she asks, flipping to a fresh page.

He stares at his desk for a moment. "I guess I wanted something that made sense. Racing... it stopped making sense."

A small frown tugs at the edge of her lips. "Did something happen?"

Too much. Everything. He shakes his head lightly. "It just... didn’t love me back."

That makes her pause. Then she nods, slowly, like she understands even if she doesn’t know the full story.

"Well," she says softly, "I hope this does."

He turns to her, something fragile and grateful rising in his chest. "Me too."

The lecturer walks in. The class quiets. Slides light up on the projector. The kind of lecture he should care about begins. And he tries—really, he does—but it’s hard to focus when there’s still a tremor under his skin. An echo of everything he’s lost. Everything he’s trying to rebuild.

But beside him, there’s a pen clicking softly. A page turning. A presence solid and kind.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

Maybe, for once, not being okay is okay.

Because he’s here. He’s trying. And someone saw him. Really saw him. Not as a driver. Not as a headline. Not as a disappointment.

Just as Logan.

By week seven, she knows his order at the uni café without asking. Large long black, two sugars, even though he always grimaces after the first sip like he forgot how bitter it would be.

He never complains, though. Just takes it, like he takes most things. Quietly. Shoulders squared.

She thinks he’s tough. He thinks he’s pretending well.

They study together almost every other day now. Sometimes in the library. Sometimes sprawled out on the grass, his jacket acting as a buffer between her jeans and the damp lawn. Chivalrous. Other times they’re in empty lecture halls, staying long after class to finish assignments, share playlists, and complain about group projects.

He finds comfort in her. Not just because she’s kind. But because she’s real.

And she listens—really listens. When he talks about business theory and feels like a fraud. When he zones out halfway through tutorials and has to ask her what the hell just happened. When he can’t sleep again, not because of parties, not anymore, but because his brain keeps replaying Zandvoort '24 FP3 and every mistake he’s ever made in the rain.

She never asks for more than he can give.

One night, they’re sitting in the common room, a laptop playing something vaguely academic between them, half-forgotten. She’s curled up, socked feet tucked under her, sipping tea with both hands like she’s trying to soak in warmth.

He looks at her and it just hits him—again.

The softness of her. The way she laughs at the dumbest videos on her feed. The way she taps her pen against her lower lip when she’s thinking. The way she says his name like it isn’t something heavy.

Logan.

Like it’s just a name, not a headline.

She looks over and catches him staring. He looks away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

"You okay?" she asks, voice dipped in quiet concern.

"Yeah," he lies.

She doesn't push. She never does. It’s infuriating and comforting all at once.

He spends the night spiraling, not over racing this time, but over her. Over what it means to want someone like this when you’re still trying to rebuild your life. Over what it means to be her friend when he’s already too far gone.

He deletes half a message at 2 AM. Something vague and cowardly.

You make me feel like—

No. Backspace. Gone.

She sends him a picture the next morning of the sky over campus. It's pink and gold and impossibly soft.

Figured you’d appreciate the colour gradient. Nerd.

He stares at it for longer than he should.

Mid-semester break sneaks up on them. They both stay in the city, too lazy or too poor to fly home. And so the days stretch out, comfortable and unstructured.

They make a bucket list of things to do in the break. Most of it’s stupid—museum crawling, getting lost on trains, watching every Fast & Furious movie even though she hates cars and he has opinions so strong they become arguments. They go anyway.

He watches her more than he should. Tries not to. Fails.

At the museum, she pretends to be a tour guide for the contemporary art section, narrating with such absurd seriousness that he has to leave the room to stop from laughing too loud.

On the train, she falls asleep with her head against the window. He watches the reflection of her face instead of the view. Her eyelashes twitch in her sleep. He memorizes the curve of her cheek, the faint scar near her lip she says is from falling off a swing.

He wonders what it would be like to touch her hand. Just gently. Just once.

But he doesn't.

Because she doesn’t see him that way. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And because she’s happy. That’s what matters. That’s what he tells himself.

One night, it rains hard. The streets are gleaming, slick with reflections. She’s over at his place because her heater broke, and his couch, she insists, is "perfect for existential crises." Dumbass.

They watch some stupid movie. He doesn’t remember the plot. Just her leaning into his side, her head finding his shoulder like it belongs there.

He holds his breath for an hour.

When she leaves, he stands in the hallway for a long time after the door closes, forehead pressed to the wood, trying to breathe again.

He tells himself it's okay. That it's enough.

But it isn’t. Not really.

By the time the second semester starts, she’s everywhere.

Her laughter rings out from the other end of campus and he instinctively turns his head.

She sends him memes during lectures and he smiles like an idiot in the back row, ignoring the professor entirely.

She plops down next to him in tutorials without asking, steals his highlighters, finishes his sentences, and looks at him like he’s always been a part of her life.

She’s everywhere.

And he still hasn’t told her a thing.

It’s not cowardice. Not really. It’s preservation.

Because if he says it—if he tells her that he’s falling for her, that she makes the noise in his head go quiet, that her voice is the only thing that grounds him when everything else spins...then the spell breaks.

Then she might look at him differently. Not fondly. Not kindly. But carefully.

He knows that look too well. That edge of discomfort. The retreat masked as politeness.

He couldn’t handle that from her.

So he keeps it to himself.

Buries it under jokes and shared notes and cups of bad vending machine coffee.

They study for midterms together. Again.

Her bedroom is a soft chaos of textbooks, blankets, and the faint scent of citrus. Logan’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, textbook open on his lap.

She’s curled up on the bed, glasses sliding down her nose as she reads.

He looks up from his notes to find her staring at the ceiling, expression far away.

"You okay?" he asks, voice low.

She blinks slowly, then turns her head toward him. Smiles. "Yeah. Just tired." A beat. Two. Three. Whispered voice. "You ever feel like you’re running, but you’re not getting anywhere?"

He almost laughs.

"Constantly," he murmurs. Then adds, "You’re still miles ahead of everyone else, though."

She snorts. "Liar."

But she smiles again, and that’s enough.

After midterms, they go out with their classmates. A rare night of noise and neon lights. He’s not drunk, not really, but the bass thuds in his chest like a second heartbeat and her presence is overwhelming.

She’s dancing, half-laughing, hair swinging loose. Not with him. With a guy from their tutorial.

Logan stays seated.

Watches.

Something clenches in his stomach. Jealousy? Maybe. But not sharp. Not ugly. Just this hollow, aching feeling of being left behind.

He slips out before midnight.

She texts him an hour later.

Hey, where’d you go?

He types and deletes his answer twice.

Finally sends:

Was tired. Needed air.

No reply that night. But the next morning, she shows up at his door with greasy takeaway and a sheepish expression.

"Movie day?"

He lets her in without a word. She doesn’t bring up last night. Neither does he.

It’s easier that way.

He doesn’t know when it becomes routine.

But he starts walking her home. Every time.

Doesn’t matter if it’s 3 PM or midnight. If it’s raining or sweltering. He walks with her.

She never asks him to. Just glances at him like it’s the most natural thing in the world when they start down the path together.

Sometimes they talk.

Sometimes they don’t.

One night, they linger under her porch light. She fidgets with her keys. He kicks a stone at his feet. Their shoulders brush. Not accidentally.

"You don’t have to walk me every time," she says softly, not looking at him.

"I know," he replies, just as soft. "I want to."

She glances at him then. Looks.

And for a moment, just one quiet second, he thinks maybe she knows. Maybe...Maybe she'll reach out and brush her soft lips against his. Maybe he'll be awoken. Maybe his heart will start beating again.

But she just nods. "Goodnight, Logan."

"Night."

He stands there after the door clicks shut. Hand in his pocket. Jaw tight.

Then walks home in the dark.

By the time finals approach, the library becomes their second home. They sit across from each other, headphones in, typing in sync. Every so often, one of them sends a stupid doodle on a post-it note across the table. Dumb. Unnecessary. A way of saying "i'm here."

He has a whole collection now. Tucked into a textbook. He doesn’t know why he keeps them.

Actually—he does.

They’re his proof.

Proof that this happened. That she was here. That they were something.

Maybe not lovers. Maybe not a grand romance. But something.

And for now, it’s enough.

He tells himself that.

Again and again and again.

It starts in a group assignment.

They’d been paired together, of course. End-of-term presentation. They’d been working on it for weeks. She’d taken care of the research, the slides, the structuring. Logan had handled the case study breakdown, the industry relevance bit, and, reluctantly, the conclusion. It had gone well. Surprisingly well.

After the class ends, their tutor says, offhandedly, "Great work. I’d have thought Logan was just tagging along, but you really carried your weight."

It’s said with a smile. A joke. Meant to be harmless.

But something flickers in Logan’s eyes. A slight narrowing. He laughs it off, but it’s not real.

They walk out in silence. She’s smiling, buzzing with the relief of having it done, until she notices his shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he mutters.

"You sure?"

He doesn't answer.

"Hey," she tries again, softer now. "Seriously. You were great in there. That stat comparison in the market trends section? Clean. Clear. Way better than mine."

He doesn’t look at her. “Doesn’t matter. Apparently I was just tagging along.”

“Oh my god, you’re not seriously letting that get to you?”

There’s a beat.

"A joke, Lo, it was a joke..." her voice is softer. Apologetic. The kind of voice he'd started hearing after he got dropped. Fucking pitiful.

Then he turns. Not angry yet. Just tight around the edges.

"Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? That I’m just here by luck? That someone else carried me? Even in F1—"

He cuts himself off. Immediately regretting saying that much.

Her brow furrows. “Okay, but I wasn’t agreeing with him. I was defending you.”

"Yeah, well, I don’t need defending," he snaps.

She flinches, just barely. Then straightens.

"You know what?" she says, sharper now. "Fine. I’ll stop trying."

"That’s not what I—"

"No, clearly it is." Her voice wavers, but she holds her ground. "You’re pissed off because someone said something rude and I tried to lighten it and suddenly I’m the bad guy? What do you want from me, Logan?"

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth is...he doesn’t know either.

"I don’t need pity," he finally says, low.

"Jesus. That’s what you think this is? Pity?"

He shrugs. Defensive. Arms crossed.

"You think I spend all this time with you, walk you to class, hang out between lectures, send you study notes, because I pity you?"

“You’re nice. You’re like that with everyone.”

“No, Logan.” Her voice is quiet now. Tight. “I’m not.”

That silences him. For a second.

And then, because it’s too much and he’s too tired and too scared of what that might mean, he says the worst thing he could.

"Well, maybe you should stop."

She flinches like he’s slapped her.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even know why he said it.

She blinks. Her jaw tightens. And then, without a word, she turns and walks down the corridor, her footsteps fast and sharp and not slowing down.

He watches her go.

His chest aches in that terrible, familiar way.

And just like after every crash he’s ever had, Logan stands there and wonders if it’s already too late to fix the damage he’s caused.

Logan doesn’t move for a long moment after she storms off. The hallway feels suddenly colder, emptier. Like it swallowed all the warmth and left only the sharp edges of his own mistakes.

His fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, but he can’t summon the courage to follow. He knows it won’t be that simple. She’s angry. Hurt. And maybe she doesn’t want to see him right now.

He lowers his head and exhales slowly, breath catching in his throat.

What the hell did I just do?

The words he said hang in the air like poison. They weren’t fair. Not to her. Not to himself.

He’s so used to bottling everything up, locking it tight behind a forced smile and a joke. But tonight, it slipped out—the frustration, the fear, the bitterness he’s carried since Williams turned on him.

Now, all he’s done is push away the one person who might have been able to hold it with him.

He should say something. Apologize. Fix it. But the silence inside him is thick, suffocating.

Instead, he slides down the wall, fingers trembling, knees pulled close.

The next morning, he walks into uni with the weight of a thousand unspoken words dragging him down.

He sees her from across the courtyard. She’s surrounded by friends, laughing easily. Not a care in the world.

Logan’s stomach twists. She looks so far away.

She's better off without him.

He debates. Go over, say something, break the silence...or just keep walking.

He chooses the latter.

His footsteps echo hollowly on the pavement.

For days, they pass each other in hallways and classrooms, a wall between them made of unsaid apologies and wounded pride.

Logan tries to catch her eye once or twice but looks away before she can respond.

At night, he lies awake, turning every word over in his mind.

She didn’t deserve that.

Why do I keep sabotaging things?

The loneliness claws deeper than ever.

He sits alone, unlike her. He sits alone unlike her, who's surrounded by people from class.

It doesn't get better. It didn't get better. He cries while he scrolls on Instagram. Hoodie up. He doesn't want others to see. He glances over at her giggling. The sound of that laugh that was reserved for him cuts through the quiet like a knife, sharp and unbearable, reminding him exactly what he’s lost and what still aches deep inside.

The ache twists tighter in his chest. He wants to look away, to shut it out, but he can’t. The way she laughs—the way she looks so easy, so alive—makes him feel like he’s been left behind in a shadow.

He swipes the screen, trying to lose himself in meaningless pictures, but the noise around him fades until all he hears is that laugh again.

A laugh that was once his secret.

His phone slips from his fingers, screen darkening like his thoughts.

He leans forward, head bowed, hands covering his face.

Because some silences aren’t just empty spaces.

They’re the loudest kind of breaking.

No, it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. Watching her laugh with others, knowing that laugh was never for him again. None of it made it okay.

Standing face to face with the ruin he’d made, with the part of himself that shattered and refused to heal, didn’t change a goddamn thing.

She was gone. Not just gone, but gone from him—like everything else he ever wanted, slipping through his fingers while he stood frozen, too broken to hold on.

He lost her. Just like he lost the car. The races. The future he thought he had.

And the worst part? He was the one who threw it all away.

This wasn’t a bruise he could hide or a pain that would fade. It was a raw, ragged hole inside him that bled out every time he thought maybe, just maybe, he could fix it.

But he couldn’t. He never could.

And that truth—so sharp and unforgiving—cut deeper than any crash ever could.

It tore him apart.

And pretending otherwise only made it worse.

[lvrspiastri]

le mans commentators claim that logan is studying! whilst unconfirmed, i hope he's really fucking happy. unlike you. after reading this fic. why did i end it like that? honestly, i had a good ending plan but the fic got too long so i was like eh lets just leave it there. lmk if you want a proper happily-ever-after ending. or if you'd let yourself rot in heartbreak.

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

Always an angel, never a God. ˡˢ²

✧. ┊     PAIRING: uni!logan x male!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 4.7k (sorry)

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: heartbreak, hurt no comfort, coarse language, depressing shit.

No, it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. Getting into the MSR car, the ELMS car. None of it made it okay.

Standing face to face with the very thing that shattered him from the inside out didn’t magically fix anything.

Getting back behind the wheel didn’t mean he was healed. This wasn’t a cramp Logan could just “walk off.” This was deeper—cutting, lingering, consuming. And pretending otherwise only made it worse.

So he tried partying.

On yachts.

Private islands.

Clubs.

The overthinking during the hangovers just made it a lot worse.

And all his friends didn't fall out of love for the sport like he had. Everyone used to praise him. Everyone used him as an example.

"God, Kyle, look at Logan! He's already made it to F1! He's made us all so damn proud."

"The kid's bound to succeed. He's had a track record that isn't something to laugh at."

"Oh, Logie, you know we're very proud of you. You've done something that's gonna make our family name shine."

How quickly that got taken away. How quickly you wake up from the daydream. How quickly the loud praises turned into pitiful reassurances.

"Ah, the car was shit anyway. Look at Colapinto, he's not doing much better."

"Oh, it's not your fault, Logie, you tried your best and that's what matters."

"F1's a shitshow. You'd be better off in endurance racing. You've already won before."

None of it worked.

Except golfing.

He went golfing a lot. He’d always liked it—enjoyed the quiet, the rhythm. But never like this. Never with this kind of fixation.

Maybe something in him just wanted to be better than his old Williams teammate. Alex.

Alex, who’d mocked his shitty golf swing with a laugh too smug to forget. Alex, who’d outqualified him every. fucking. race. Alex, who ended up in his car—not through merit, not through malice, but through the cruel chaos of timing.

Alex. The golden boy.

And yes, Logan loved him. Of course he did. Alex had been the only one who stayed. The only one who talked him through the hell that was Williams. The only one who knew what it did to you. But Alex hadn’t been thrown out like yesterday’s mistake. Not like Logan.

So yeah—maybe swinging a club with blistered hands and a too-tight jaw was some twisted form of rebellion. Maybe if he became a master at this, he’d finally win. Win against Vowles. Win against the narrative. Win against every single fucker who had smiled while tearing him down.

It didn't make sense, he knew that. But it seemed to be the only thing stopping him from...

Spiralling.

But he was no Tiger Woods. The wretched drive, the fatal determination in Logan screamed at him to do more. To do.

Logan was not one of those people who 'played it by ear' or 'went with the wind.' No. Sitting there and waiting for life to happen to you was bullshit. He'd always had a plan in his head. Drive for Williams. Make his way up into Mercedes. Win Races. WDCs. Then retire. And go back to school. He'd expected to be pushing 40 by the time this happened. But when does anything ever go according to plan.

What if he started learning? Now?

It's not that he'd switch careers forever. He just wants to have a sense of purpose for once. He'd come back to racing. Eventually. Maybe. Hopefully.

He'd always been proud of finishing school. It didn't sound like a great feat but in the racing world, finishing school is worth a lot more than it is to normal people. So with a high school diploma, the world was his.

Maybe business. Yeah. Business. Like Dad.

So he did business.

So he went to uni in his mid twenties and did business.

So here he is. Outside the uni. Gripping his bag strap like some sort of freshman. His knuckles are white and he's bitten his lip to the point of it bleeding. Oh well.

The building is grand. With architecture that makes tourists flock like sheep. He didn't care for it. He'd seen bigger. Better. Italy. France. Milan. London. But he'd never felt this nervous. Racing was his domain. School? School wasn't.

He pulls out his google maps, typing in the room number because this uni was fucking huge. He seemed to be at where he was meant to be. But he couldn't locate his class. With a sigh and face buried in his phone, he charges ahead, following the blue dots on google maps, probably looking like an idiot. Or worse, a senior citizen.

"You're walking really slow." The sweet voice floats in from behind, and he turns sharply to locate the source.

Then he just... freezes.

Standing a few steps away is a boy who seems almost unreal. Light catching just right, presence quietly magnetic. Ethereal. He stares longer than socially acceptable, momentarily forgetting that normal people respond when spoken to.

"...Are you good?"

He jerks out of his daze, nodding so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t pull something. "Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Uh...would you happen to know where room 402 is?" He fumbles to angle his phone, hoping the map could carry the weight of his awkwardness.

A small smile spreads across the boy's face. "Actually, I do. I’m headed there too. BUS1001?"

He nods again, more composed this time. "Yeah. That one."

"Follow me."

The walk continues in a kind of gentle quiet, the kind that doesn’t press for words but still hums with awareness.

Every so often, he risks a glance. Just enough to catch little things—the rhythm of his easy stride, the tilt of his head when listening, the faint trace of some scent he can’t name but knows he’ll remember.

"So," he says, breaking the silence before it swallows him whole, "have you taken any classes here before?"

"First year."

He nods. "Same. I don’t know, I thought uni would feel more… right."

The boy hums softly. "Still early. Give it time."

Their shoulders brush for a second. Barely a touch. But it sends a spark all the way down to his fingertips. He tries to play it cool. He absolutely does not succeed.

"You know, you look quite old for a first year."

"Is that meant to be a jab at me?" He attempts a chuckle, knowing exactly what that's supposed to mean.

"No, not at all, it's just... I’m not used to people actually looking like they belong here."

"Well, I am 24, so… no surprise you thought that."

"Ah, that makes sense. I suppose most first years are eighteen, like myself." He grins. Light, teasing, but not unkind. And he doesn’t judge.

That, more than anything, makes his shoulders drop in quiet relief.

"I’m, uh… Logan, by the way." He doesn’t offer his last name. Not yet. He knows what happens when people hear it. They either sneer like he’s some entitled waste of space, or they bring up his name—his uncle and that stupid company and all the weight that comes with it.

But the boy tilts his head slightly, curious. "Logan? Hm. Logan what?"

There it is.

He hesitates. Brief, but enough to feel it in his chest. “Uh… Sargeant. Logan Sargeant.”

He braces himself. Watches the boy’s face like it holds the verdict to his entire day.

Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No loaded silence. No careful step back.

Just a slow blink and a soft nod.

Then he offers his name. Warm. Soft. It suits him. But Logan barely catches it, too stunned by the lack of reaction.

It unsettles him in the best way.

They make their way to the seminar room, people having already secured places on desks, chatting. Laughing. Something aches in Logan's heart. Memories of being on the bus during the driver's parade. Alone. Quiet. On the verge of tears. Drivers greeting him by his last name, never his first. An indicator of distance. Unfamiliarity. He expects the same here. Profound loneliness.

He turns to him.

"Right, I can't thank you enough. I appreciate you," he swallows thickly, breath shaky upon exhale. He didn't want to leave him, not really. He wanted that soft voice of his to keep being a balm for him. He wouldn't have the courage to start chatting with people he doesn't know. He didn't want him to go.

"Do you know anyone in there?" the boy asks, head tilted, like he thinks Logan’s only bidding him farewell because he has other, better people.

"No. No, I don't..." Logan looks at the floor, probably being perceived as an idiot by him now.

His expression softens. There’s a beat of silence where he just looks at Logan, like he’s weighing something quietly in his mind. Then he smiles—gentle, easy. Like it costs him nothing.

"Well," he says, shifting his bag on his shoulder, "you do now."

Logan’s eyes snap up. The words land so softly, but they knock the wind out of him. He swears something in his chest rearranges itself at that moment. A tether forms, invisible but real, anchoring him to something that feels suspiciously like hope.

The boy gestures toward the door. "Come on. Let’s sit at the back. Less intimidating."

He follows. Of course he follows.

Inside, the room is a low murmur of voices, the kind of chatter that fills awkward silences and makes everything feel just a little too loud. Logan scans the space automatically, muscle memory from press conferences and team briefings kicking in. Pick the corners. Stay quiet. Be forgettable.

But this time, he’s not alone.

The boy finds a seat by the window and drops into it casually, leaving the one beside him open. No grand gestures. No announcements. Just a quiet sort of presence that makes the seat feel like it was always meant for Logan.

He sits, clutching the strap of his backpack a little tighter than necessary, then loosening it. He feels clunky in his own skin, like a bad actor in someone else's scene. But then the boy turns to him again, and Logan forgets how to be anything but present.

"You okay?" he asks, not like someone who’s just being polite. More like someone who’d actually care about the answer.

"Yeah," Logan says, though his voice comes out a little hoarse. He clears his throat. "Just... been a while since I’ve done anything like this."

"Like uni?"

"Like starting over."

The boy nods slowly. "Yeah. That can be scary."

Logan watches him pull out a notebook, one of those thick, spiral-bound ones with a few pages already filled. His pen is tucked neatly into the rings. There’s something deeply grounding about it. Tangible. Real.

"So what made you choose business?" the boy asks, flipping to a fresh page.

Logan stares at his desk for a moment. "I guess I wanted something that made sense. Racing... it stopped making sense."

A small frown tugs at the edge of his lips. "Did something happen?"

Too much. Everything. Logan shakes his head lightly. "It just... didn’t love me back."

That makes the boy pause. Then he nods, slowly, like he understands even if he doesn’t know the full story.

"Well," he says softly, "I hope this does."

Logan turns to him, something fragile and grateful rising in his chest. "Me too."

The lecturer walks in. The class quiets. Slides light up on the projector. The kind of lecture he should care about begins. And he tries—really, he does—but it’s hard to focus when there’s still a tremor under his skin. An echo of everything he’s lost. Everything he’s trying to rebuild.

But beside him, there’s a pen clicking softly. A page turning. A presence solid and kind.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

Maybe, for once, not being okay is okay.

Because he’s here. He’s trying. And someone saw him. Really saw him. Not as a driver. Not as a headline. Not as a disappointment.

Just as Logan.

By week seven, the boy knows his order at the uni café without asking. Large long black, two sugars, even though Logan always grimaces after the first sip like he forgot how bitter it would be.

He never complains, though. Just takes it, like he takes most things. Quietly. Shoulders squared.

They study together almost every other day now. Sometimes in the library. Sometimes sprawled out on the grass, Logan’s jacket acting as a buffer between the boy’s jeans and the damp lawn. Chivalrous. Other times they’re in empty lecture halls, staying long after class to finish assignments, share playlists, and complain about group projects.

Logan finds comfort in him. Not just because he’s kind. But because he’s real.

And he listens—really listens. When Logan talks about business theory and feels like a fraud. When he zones out halfway through tutorials and has to ask what the hell just happened. When he can’t sleep again, not because of parties, not anymore, but because his brain keeps replaying Zandvoort '24 FP3 and every mistake he’s ever made in the rain.

He never asks for more than Logan can give.

One night, they’re sitting in the common room, a laptop playing something vaguely academic between them, half-forgotten. The boy’s curled up, socked feet tucked under him, sipping tea with both hands like he’s trying to soak in warmth.

Logan looks at him and it just hits him—again.

The softness of him. The way he laughs at the dumbest videos on his feed. The way he taps his pen against his lower lip when he’s thinking. The way he says Logan’s name like it isn’t something heavy.

Logan.

Like it’s just a name, not a headline.

The boy looks over and catches him staring. Logan looks away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

"You okay?" he asks, voice dipped in quiet concern.

"Yeah," Logan lies.

He doesn't push. He never does. It’s infuriating and comforting all at once.

Logan spends the night spiraling, not over racing this time, but over him. Over what it means to want someone like this when you’re still trying to rebuild your life. Over what it means to be his friend when he’s already too far gone.

He deletes half a message at 2 AM. Something vague and cowardly.

You make me feel like—

No. Backspace. Gone.

He sends Logan a picture the next morning of the sky over campus. It's pink and gold and impossibly soft.

Figured you’d appreciate the colour gradient. Nerd.

Logan stares at it for longer than he should.

Mid-semester break sneaks up on them. They both stay in the city, too lazy or too poor to fly home. And so the days stretch out, comfortable and unstructured.

They make a bucket list of things to do in the break. Most of it’s stupid—museum crawling, getting lost on trains, watching every Fast & Furious movie even though he hates cars and Logan has opinions so strong they become arguments. They go anyway.

Logan watches him more than he should. Tries not to. Fails.

At the museum, he pretends to be a tour guide for the contemporary art section, narrating with such absurd seriousness that Logan has to leave the room to stop from laughing too loud.

On the train, he falls asleep with his head against the window. Logan watches the reflection of his face instead of the view. His eyelashes twitch in his sleep. Logan memorises the curve of his jaw, the faint scar near his lip he says is from falling off a swing.

Logan wonders what it would be like to touch his hand. Just gently. Just once.

But he doesn't.

Because he doesn’t see him that way. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And because he’s happy. That’s what matters. That’s what Logan tells himself.

One night, it rains hard. The streets are gleaming, slick with reflections. He’s over at Logan’s place because his heater broke, and his couch, he insists, is "perfect for existential crises." Dumbass.

They watch some stupid movie. Logan doesn’t remember the plot. Just him leaning into his side, his head finding Logan’s shoulder like it belongs there.

He holds his breath for an hour.

When he leaves, Logan stands in the hallway for a long time after the door closes, forehead pressed to the wood, trying to breathe again.

He tells himself it's okay. That it's enough.

But it isn’t. Not really.

By the time the second semester starts, he’s everywhere.

His laughter rings out from the other end of campus and Logan instinctively turns his head.

He sends Logan memes during lectures and Logan smiles like an idiot in the back row, ignoring the professor entirely.

He plops down next to Logan in tutorials without asking, steals his highlighters, finishes his sentences, and looks at him like he’s always been a part of his life.

He’s everywhere.

And Logan still hasn’t told him a thing.

It’s not cowardice. Not really. It’s preservation.

Because if he says it—if he tells him that he’s falling for him, that he makes the noise in his head go quiet, that his voice is the only thing that grounds him when everything else spins... then the spell breaks.

Then he might look at him differently. Not fondly. Not kindly. But carefully.

Logan knows that look too well. That edge of discomfort. The retreat masked as politeness.

He couldn’t handle that from him.

So he keeps it to himself.

Buries it under jokes and shared notes and cups of bad vending machine coffee.

They study for midterms together. Again.

His bedroom is a soft chaos of textbooks, blankets, and the faint scent of citrus. Logan’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, textbook open on his lap.

He’s curled up on the bed, glasses sliding down his nose as he reads.

Logan looks up from his notes to find him staring at the ceiling, expression far away.

"You okay?" Logan asks, voice low.

He blinks slowly, then turns his head toward him. Smiles. "Yeah. Just tired." A beat. Two. Three. Whispered voice. "You ever feel like you’re running, but you’re not getting anywhere?"

Logan almost laughs.

"Constantly," he murmurs. Then adds, "You’re still miles ahead of everyone else, though."

He snorts. "Liar."

But he smiles again, and that’s enough.

After midterms, they go out with their classmates. A rare night of noise and neon lights. Logan’s not drunk, not really, but the bass thuds in his chest like a second heartbeat and his presence is overwhelming.

He’s dancing, half-laughing, hair swinging loose. Not with Logan. With a guy from their tutorial.

Logan stays seated.

Watches.

Something clenches in his stomach. Jealousy? Maybe. But not sharp. Not ugly. Just this hollow, aching feeling of being left behind.

He slips out before midnight.

He texts Logan an hour later.

Hey, where’d you go?

Logan types and deletes his answer twice.

Finally sends:

Was tired. Needed air.

No reply that night. But the next morning, he shows up at Logan’s door with greasy takeaway and a sheepish expression.

“Movie day?”

Logan lets him in without a word. He doesn’t bring up last night. Neither does Logan.

It’s easier that way.

Logan doesn’t know when it becomes routine.

But he starts walking him home. Every time.

Doesn’t matter if it’s 3 PM or midnight. If it’s raining or sweltering. He walks with him.

He never asks Logan to. Just glances at him like it’s the most natural thing in the world when they start down the path together.

Sometimes they talk.

Sometimes they don’t.

One night, they linger under his porch light. He fidgets with his keys. Logan kicks a stone at his feet. Their shoulders brush. Not accidentally.

“You don’t have to walk me every time,” he says softly, not looking at Logan.

“I know,” Logan replies, just as soft. “I want to.”

He glances at Logan then. Looks.

And for a moment, just one quiet second, Logan thinks maybe he knows. Maybe... maybe he'll reach out and brush his soft lips against Logan’s. Maybe he’ll be awoken. Maybe Logan’s heart will start beating again.

But he just nods. “Goodnight, Lo.”

“Night.”

Logan stands there after the door clicks shut. Hand in his pocket. Jaw tight.

Then walks home in the dark.

By the time finals approach, the library becomes their second home. They sit across from each other, headphones in, typing in sync. Every so often, one of them sends a stupid doodle on a post-it note across the table. Dumb. Unnecessary. A way of saying "i'm here."

Logan has a whole collection now. Tucked into a textbook. He doesn’t know why he keeps them.

Actually—he does.

They’re his proof.

Proof that this happened. That he was here. That they were something.

Maybe not lovers. Maybe not a grand romance. But something.

And for now, it’s enough.

Logan tells himself that.

Again and again and again.

It starts in a group assignment.

They’d been paired together, of course. End-of-term presentation. They’d been working on it for weeks. He’d taken care of the research, the slides, the structuring. Logan had handled the case study breakdown, the industry relevance bit, and, reluctantly, the conclusion. It had gone well. Surprisingly well.

After the class ends, their tutor says, offhandedly, “Great work. I’d have thought Logan was just tagging along, but you really carried your weight.”

It’s said with a smile. A joke. Meant to be harmless.

But something flickers in Logan’s eyes. A slight narrowing. He laughs it off, but it’s not real.

They walk out in silence. He’s smiling, buzzing with the relief of having it done, until he notices Logan’s shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Logan mutters.

“You sure?”

He doesn't answer.

“Hey,” he tries again, softer now. “Seriously. You were great in there. That stat comparison in the market trends section? Clean. Clear. Way better than mine.”

Logan doesn’t look at him. “Doesn’t matter. Apparently I was just tagging along.”

“Oh my god, you’re not seriously letting that get to you?”

There’s a beat.

“A joke, Lo, it was a joke...” his voice is softer. Apologetic. The kind of voice Logan had started hearing after he got dropped. Fucking pitiful.

Then Logan turns. Not angry yet. Just tight around the edges.

“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? That I’m just here by luck? That someone else carried me? Even in F1—”

He cuts himself off. Immediately regretting saying that much.

His brow furrows. “Okay, but I wasn’t agreeing with him. I was defending you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need defending,” Logan snaps.

He flinches, just barely. Then straightens.

“You know what?” he says, sharper now. “Fine. I’ll stop trying.”

“That’s not what I—”

“No, clearly it is.” His voice wavers, but he holds his ground. “You’re pissed off because someone said something rude and I tried to lighten it and suddenly I’m the bad guy? What do you want from me, Logan?”

Logan doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because the truth is... he doesn’t know either.

“I don’t need pity,” he finally says, low.

“Jesus. That’s what you think this is? Pity?”

He shrugs. Defensive. Arms crossed.

“You think I spend all this time with you, walk you to class, hang out between lectures, send you study notes, because I pity you?”

“You’re nice. You’re like that with everyone.”

“No, Logan.” His voice is quiet now. Tight. “I’m not.”

That silences him. For a second.

And then, because it’s too much and he’s too tired and too scared of what that might mean, Logan says the worst thing he could.

“Well, maybe you should stop.”

He flinches like Logan’s slapped him.

And the worst part? Logan doesn’t even know why he said it.

He blinks. His jaw tightens. And then, without a word, he turns and walks down the corridor, his footsteps fast and sharp and not slowing down.

Logan watches him go.

His chest aches in that terrible, familiar way.

And just like after every crash he’s ever had, Logan stands there and wonders if it’s already too late to fix the damage he’s caused.

Logan doesn’t move for a long moment after he storms off. The hallway feels suddenly colder, emptier. Like it swallowed all the warmth and left only the sharp edges of his own mistakes.

His fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, but he can’t summon the courage to follow. He knows it won’t be that simple. He’s angry. Hurt. And maybe he doesn’t want to see Logan right now.

He lowers his head and exhales slowly, breath catching in his throat.

What the hell did I just do?

The words he said hang in the air like poison. They weren’t fair. Not to him. Not to himself.

He’s so used to bottling everything up, locking it tight behind a forced smile and a joke. But tonight, it slipped out—the frustration, the fear, the bitterness he’s carried since Williams turned on him.

Now, all he’s done is push away the one person who might have been able to hold it with him.

He should say something. Apologise. Fix it. But the silence inside him is thick, suffocating.

Instead, he slides down the wall, fingers trembling, knees pulled close.

The next morning, he walks into uni with the weight of a thousand unspoken words dragging him down.

He sees him from across the courtyard. He’s surrounded by friends, laughing easily. Not a care in the world.

Logan’s stomach twists. He looks so far away.

He’s better off without him.

Logan debates. Go over, say something, break the silence... or just keep walking.

He chooses the latter.

His footsteps echo hollowly on the pavement.

For days, they pass each other in hallways and classrooms, a wall between them made of unsaid apologies and wounded pride.

Logan tries to catch his eye once or twice but looks away before he can respond.

At night, he lies awake, turning every word over in his mind.

He didn’t deserve that.

Why do I keep sabotaging things?

The loneliness claws deeper than ever.

He sits alone, unlike him. He sits alone unlike him, who's surrounded by people from class.

It doesn't get better. It didn't get better. He cries while he scrolls on Instagram. Hoodie up. He doesn't want others to see. He glances over at him giggling. The sound of that laugh that was reserved for him cuts through the quiet like a knife, sharp and unbearable, reminding him exactly what he’s lost and what still aches deep inside.

The ache twists tighter in his chest. He wants to look away, to shut it out, but he can’t. The way he laughs—the way he looks so easy, so alive—makes him feel like he’s been left behind in a shadow.

He swipes the screen, trying to lose himself in meaningless pictures, but the noise around him fades until all he hears is that laugh again.

A laugh that was once his secret.

His phone slips from his fingers, screen darkening like his thoughts.

He leans forward, head bowed, hands covering his face.

Because some silences aren’t just empty spaces.

They’re the loudest kind of breaking.

No, it wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay. Watching him laugh with others, knowing that laugh was never for him again. None of it made it okay.

Standing face to face with the ruin he’d made, with the part of himself that shattered and refused to heal, didn’t change a goddamn thing.

He was gone. Not just gone, but gone from him—like everything else he ever wanted, slipping through his fingers while he stood frozen, too broken to hold on.

He lost him. Just like he lost the car. The races. The future he thought he had.

And the worst part? He was the one who threw it all away.

This wasn’t a bruise he could hide or a pain that would fade. It was a raw, ragged hole inside him that bled out every time he thought maybe, just maybe, he could fix it.

But he couldn’t. He never could.

And that truth—so sharp and unforgiving—cut deeper than any crash ever could.

It tore him apart.

And pretending otherwise only made it worse.

[lvrspiastri]

can i request logan x gothic!fem!reader?

shes definitely the more dominant one in their relationship, taking care of him after every bad race. (smut ofc)

i tried my best, here. im not exactly an expert on this. hope you enjoy it regardless. gonna think about whimpering logan all night.

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

Pretty Boy ˡˢ²

✧. ┊     PAIRING: sub!logan x dom!gothic!fem!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 1.3k

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, dom/sub dynamics, yearning, degradation, commanding, mirror sex, begging, edging, filthy sex. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

The Monaco night was cruel.

The lights outside the penthouse windows glared like judgmental stars, too bright, too indifferent. Logan’s keycard hit the marble floor when he entered. He didn’t bother picking it up. His cap was gone. His hair a mess. His jaw clenched like he was trying not to cry.

You watched him from your place on the velvet chaise, clad in nothing but sheer black lingerie and a silk robe that hugged your frame like smoke. Your thigh-high boots were still on — an intentional choice. He always went feral for the boots.

“You’re late,” you murmured, not unkindly.

Logan didn’t speak. He just stood there, drowning in disappointment and the echoes of every commentator who questioned his place on the grid. Usual.

You sighed and rose slowly, letting your robe fall open. His eyes finally met yours, something fragile sparking behind them. He looked like a boy lost in the woods.

But you? You were the forest. And you knew just how to devour him.

"Strip," you said softly, walking toward him with unhurried grace. "And leave the gloves on."

He obeyed. Slowly. Like every movement hurt. But by the time he was standing bare in front of you, the tension in his shoulders had started to slip.

You guided him to the floor in front of the mirror, the huge gilded one across from your hotel room bed. You could see his reflection: pale skin flushed, thighs trembling, eyes glassy.

"You're still mine, even when you lose," you whispered against his ear, lowering yourself behind him. You spread your legs and pulled him back so he was sitting between them, head resting against your chest, his hands gloved and clenched in your thighs. His hands kneaded slowly for the comfort that he so desperately wanted.

He whimpered when your hand wrapped around him.

“Watch yourself,” you ordered, nodding toward the mirror. “Look how fucking pretty you are when you're broken.”

He moaned, breath shallow, hips twitching in your grip.

“Tell me how bad it was today.”

“I—I locked up in Q1. Just—went wide. Everyone passed me like I wasn’t even there—fuck, please—”

“You gonna cry for me, pretty boy?” you whispered, voice thick with praise and sin. “Or are you gonna come all over my hand like the desperate little thing you are?”

He shuddered, whimpering, head thrown back on your shoulder.

"That's it," you cooed. "Let me ruin you a little. Make you forget every asshole on that pit wall.”

When he was close, you pulled back. He gasped — breathless and wrecked.

"Not yet. You come when I say."

You revelled in every soft cry, every whispered “please,” every time he choked on your name like it was a prayer. You edged him twice more — slow, cruel, praising him in that dark velvet voice that made him feel safe and undone all at once.

His body tensed, length twitching. But you pulled away entirely.

"What the fuck?" He cried and you gripped his chin, towering above him.

"The fuck did you just say to me, boy?" He panted, tongue hanging out.

"Sorry," he quickly murmured, realising protesting was just gonna make things worse. Your hand traveled to his hair, gripping it tightly and pressing it to your dripping core.

“You don’t get to come and you don’t get to talk back.” Your voice was low, dangerous — the kind of softness that came with knives wrapped in velvet. “You take what I give you. Understand?”

He nodded quickly, but you weren’t satisfied.

“Use your words.”

“Yes—fuck, yes. I understand.”

“Good boy.”

You forced his mouth against you, guiding him exactly where you needed him. Logan moaned like he was starved for it. Like this was the only thing that had ever fed him. His tongue licked a long stripe before you ground down harder, holding his head in place with a grip tangled in his sweat-damp hair.

"Don’t you dare stop," you hissed, rolling your hips against his face. “You’ve been sulking all damn day. You wanna feel sorry for yourself? Do it while making yourself useful.”

He groaned into you, fingers digging into your thighs like he might shatter if he let go. You rocked harder, letting yourself unravel just enough, letting the sounds spill from your lips — sounds he craved, sounds he’d probably dream about tonight when he lay in that crumpled bed beside you, sore and spent.

When you came, you didn’t let him up. You rode it out slowly, keeping him right there, tongue lapping and trembling hands gripping your thighs like an anchor.

"Messy fucking thing,” you breathed once you finally pulled back, looking down at him. His cheeks were flushed, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide.

"Did I say you could stop?"

He whimpered.

You straddled his lap now, hand gripping his jaw.

“You want to come?”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Then beg.”

He whined, hips bucking uselessly under you. “Please—fuck, please. I need it. I need you. I’ll be good. I’ll listen. I swear. I’ll do anything—”

You silenced him with a kiss — bruising, deep, claiming. Then you slid down onto him in one smooth motion. His breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut.

"Eyes open. Watch us.”

You tilted his chin toward the mirror. His reflection was a ruin — flushed, fucked-out, desperate. You rolled your hips, slow and deliberate, dragging every whimper from his chest.

“I want you to see exactly what I do to you,” you whispered. “So next time you're spiralling after a race, you’ll remember this. You’ll remember who owns you.”

He came with a strangled gasp, body shaking, hands clenching like prayer.

You didn’t stop.

You rode him through it, watching him fall apart again and again in the reflection. Your name spilled from his lips like repentance, like ritual, like he could worship his way into your mercy.

And still — you didn’t stop.

Not until he was crying.

Not until he was yours again.

The room smelled like sex, sweat, and candle wax.

Logan was trembling when you finally lifted off him. Not in fear. Never fear. In the soft, sweet kind of exhaustion that only came after surrendering every last piece of yourself to someone you trusted.

You looked down at him. Flushed skin, chest rising too fast, eyes hazy but locked onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

“Shh, baby,” you murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “You did so well for me.”

He blinked up at you, blinking slow and heavy. Still speechless.

You rose slowly and walked to the ensuite — lace clinging to your skin, your thighs still slick from him — and returned with a warm cloth. You knelt beside him, gentle now, wiping him down with all the care of someone dressing a wound. Logan flinched slightly at the sensitivity, but didn’t pull away.

“You with me?” you asked softly, tilting his chin up.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Just… floaty.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile. You kissed his temple, then the corner of his mouth.

“Come on, pretty boy. Bed.”

He let you pull him up, a little unsteady on his feet. You guided him to the sheets, coaxing him under the black silk covers like he was made of glass. He immediately curled into your side, arms wrapping tight around your waist, face buried in your chest.

You stroked his hair, letting your fingers rake through the strands slowly, rhythmically. Your voice was a whisper in the quiet room.

“You’re mine. You did everything I asked. I’m so proud of you.”

Logan let out a shaky breath, clinging tighter. “I needed this. You. I—I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

“I know,” you murmured. “I’ve got you.”

He didn’t speak after that. Just lay there, wrapped around you like you were the only real thing left in his world.

And you were.

When he started to drift, you kissed his forehead and whispered against his skin:

“Next time you doubt yourself, remember this. Remember how you begged for me. How you let go. You’re not weak, Logan. You’re mine.”

A soft sigh was his only reply. Then sleep.

[lvrspiastri]

love love love your writing! so in love with single dad!arthur, was wondering if i could request a fic in the same universe with arthur inviting reader over for a movie night ft. freddy ofc. just super fluffy and lighthearted stuff.

Parenthesis ᴬᴸ pt 2

and im glad you're in love with this AU bc i sure as hell haven't stopped thinking about it. i'm so happy to write more lol just tell me what you want and your wish is my command. i'm also done with exams so i'm about to GRIND bc i am jobless (i'm not). anyway enjoy love youuuu

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

pt 1

✧. ┊     PAIRING: single dad!arthur leclerc x gender-neutral!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 2k

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: fluff, maybe a curse word here and there. kids. love.

Love was not something that frequented my list of words. While Arthur and I had been going out for three months now, the very thought of 'loving' him seemed silly. Fairytale-like. Unreal. I know better than to crave something no more real than elves and goblins.

Then what is it I fucking feel everytime he speaks to me?

"Can you bring some collations? Like uh...popcorn?" he talks hurriedly over the phone, chasing Freddy around the house to try and get his pants on.

"Snacks?"

"Yes, mon coeur, snacks," he coos, the accent getting to me again.

"Yeah, sure, easy. I'll see you in fifteen." I hang up, driving down to the store to get an assortment of snacks. Cheap ones, obviously, no one's paying more than $2 for a packet of popcorn. Even the flithy rich Monegasques.

By the time I knock, the door’s already open. Arthur stands there with his hair slightly damp, a faded hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and Freddy perched on his hip like he’s always belonged there.

“You came,” he says, a little breathless.

“You called,” I reply, holding up the plastic bag. “Popcorn, chocolate, Doritos.”

Freddy leans forward, little eyes shimmering with excitement. “You brought chocolate?”

I nod. “I did, bud.”

Arthur steps aside to let me in, balancing Freddy with one arm as he nudges the door shut with his foot. The place smells faintly of cinnamon and laundry detergent. His apartment is as messy as always, a half-built blanket fort caved in on one side, the TV screen paused on a Pixar logo, and socks—multiple, unmatched. A detail that speaks more than words.

“I was going to clean,” Arthur says, “but Freddy was very naughty.”

“You lost, I see.”

“Badly.”

Freddy wriggles down and disappears into the cushions with the snacks. Arthur doesn’t look at me right away. Just exhales, runs a hand through his hair.

“You okay?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. Just tired. It's been a long week.”

He says it like a confession. Like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to admit it.

I sit down next to him, close enough that our knees touch. He doesn’t pull away. There’s no fanfare to it—just the weight of being near someone you trust not to ask for more than you can give.

“Want tea?” he offers after a moment. Tea is his consolation when moments get awkward. An excuse to escape.

I shake my head. “Just this is fine.”

He nods again, slower this time. Like he hears it for what it is. Not a dismissal. A choice.

Freddy’s already started the movie, humming under his breath, half-wrapped in a fleece blanket on the floor. Arthur leans back beside me, arms crossed loosely, his eyes drifting toward his son and then back to the screen.

Arthur and I aren't physical. Or affectionate. It's hard to define what exactly we are but we both play a game of caution. Of fear. One move too far, one signal misinterpreted, and it's all over. So we sit on the couch, distantly.

Not far enough to be strangers. Not close enough to be lovers. Just… close enough to feel it.

The movie starts, some animated opening sequence with a talking animal and too much colour. Freddy giggles, mouth already sticky from melted chocolate, and Arthur smiles faintly at the sound. I catch him glancing my way. Quick. Unsure. Like he's still figuring out what he's allowed to feel around me. Like he’s waiting for me to laugh first, to say this is fine, that I won’t ask him to be more than what he can be.

I don’t laugh. But I don’t move either.

“You could have said no, you know,” he murmurs eventually, voice almost lost beneath the dialogue on the screen.

“To what?”

“Coming over. Doing… this.” He gestures vaguely, like the concept of popcorn and presence is somehow overwhelming.

“I didn’t want to say no.”

He glances down at his lap. His fingers twist in the hem of his hoodie. “Sometimes, I worry you are being just nice.”

I turn, brows furrowing. “Arthur—”

“It is not easy,” he says quickly. “I know. You know. I have got Freddy, and my hours are shit, and I forget things all the time. I forget to reply to your texts. I fall asleep halfway through calls. I’m not—” He cuts himself off, breathing hard.

“Perfect?” I finish for him.

He nods, once.

“Good,” I say, softer. “I’m not either.” I inch closer cautiously, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

"Que ferais-je sans toi?" He whispers, his eyes meeting my own. They're tired. But loving.

"Um..bonjour to you too," Arthur lets out a carefree chuckle at my statement. Freddy does too. He's observant, the kid. Destined to be great.

Arthur takes a second. Two. A minute. And then he opens his arms, patting his bicep. I let myself smile, slipping into his embrace. Maybe I should stop denying what I want. Him. He wraps his arms around me, lips pressed to the top of my head. I watch the movie but I'm not really watching the movie. I'm just feeling the warmth of all this. Of him. Of his hands aimlessly tracing my skin. Freddy's giggles at the jokes. Arthur pecks my head again, the sound causing Freddy to turn and exclaim.

"Hey, I wanna cuddle too!" He grabs his blankets, waddling to us and lying across our laps.

Freddy’s weight settles across us, warm and wiggly and perfect. Arthur chuckles, shifting to make room, one hand supporting his son, the other still loosely wrapped around me. It’s clumsy, this pile of limbs and fleece and feelings. But it fits. Somehow, we all fit.

The movie hums on in the background, bright colours flickering against the walls, cheerful music underscoring a scene I’ll never remember. Because all I can focus on is this moment. This breath. This weight. Freddy sighing contentedly. Arthur's hand still tracing gentle, absentminded circles into the fabric of my shirt. My heart thudding too fast for how still I’m sitting.

I shouldn't want this as much as I do.

But I do.

And that scares the hell out of me.

I lean into Arthur without meaning to. He doesn't pull away. If anything, he draws me in closer, his chin resting against my temple like it's the most natural thing in the world. My eyes slip shut for just a second.

This isn’t what I planned. Love was not something that frequented my list of words. It wasn’t supposed to be this quiet, this real, this utterly ordinary.

But maybe that’s the thing about love.

Maybe it doesn’t arrive with violins or grand confessions. Maybe it just slips in on a Friday night, between popcorn bags and blanket forts, between tired smiles and soft French murmurs.

Maybe it’s just this.

Uncomplicated.

Unannounced.

Arthur’s fingers tighten ever so slightly on my arm. Freddy shifts, letting out a small, contented hum, and Arthur kisses my temple one last time.

I don’t say it out loud. Not yet.

But I think I love him.

And maybe. Just maybe. That isn’t silly at all.

[lvrspiastri]

Soft Launch ˡˢ²

a/n: tried very hard to make this gender neutral and used non-gendered pics. if you do come across a gendered pic, all i can say is ignore it bc i was struggling

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

✧. ┊    PAIRING: Logan Sargeant x gender-neutral!reader

✧. ┊    SUMMARY: soft launch SMAU

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: nothing it's just pure fluff. coarse language, hate. some images used are not mine and the credits go to their rightful owners. this is a work of fiction.

yourusername uploaded a new photo to their story!

┊

user1: KDJHFJKDSHF NOOOO MY CHANCE TO SHOOT MY SHOT IS GONE

user2: this could literally be anyone lol you guys are so thick

user3: HELLO?? WHAT THE FUCK??? WERE WE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SOMEONE IN MIND BECAUSE I SURE AS FUCK DID NOT!??!

user4: and for the bf, perhaps a vanilla ice cream? perhaps not.

yourusername made a new post!

liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon, killatrav, gracieabrams, niallhoran, logansargeant and 881,223 others

yourusername: no beauty standards finna stop me from being a big back can i get an amen 🙏🙏🙏

┊

user1: wtf is that caption

user3: just say amen bruv

user2: AMENNN 🙏

user4: god, whoever that is, he is so cute, you're my new parents 😭

oscarpiastri: you not gonna tell them i covered the bill for your dumb lobster?

yourusername: you owed me.

user5: liked by "niallhoran" #okay

user6: he literally has a gf mate. brain-eating bacteria would starve in your head

logansargeant: i am now a gracie truther

gracieabrams: about time

yourusername uploaded a new photo to their story!

┊comments:

user1: i could treat you sm better

user2: men.

user3: CALLING YOUR BF 'VRO' LMAOOOO

user4: pleaaaseeee give us a hint pretty pleasseeee?

user5: you wouldn't hide this new bf unless you had something to hide. weirdo

user6: ever heard of privacy?

logansargeant made a new post!

liked by kylekirkwood, callumbradshaw, oscarpiastri, samanthatan, alexalbon, landonorris, yourusername and 567, 948 others

logansargeant: this was a lot harder to make than it looks

┊

alexalbon: nah mate you're just an idiot

logansargeant: i would really like to see you do better lilymhe: he isn't much better trust me

user1: wtf is going on with everyone and their soft launches

user2: who else is soft launching? user3: @yourusername has been posting about a mystery bf user4: lol, don't they follow each other? user5: i'm pretty sure they're in the same friend circle and have liked/commented on posts but idk if they've ever interacted irl...

user1: holy fuck this is @yourusername isn't it?

user2: paps istfg

user3: MY TWO WORLDS COLLIDING THIS MEANS EVERYTHING TO ME DKSDHKFJKJD

user4: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I FUCKING KNEW IT

user5: this is a breach of their privacy. please take it down.

yourusername made a new post!

liked by ls2updates, neil.verhagen, lilymhe, robertirwinphotography and 1, 706, 309 others

yourusername: i watched crazy rich asians a total of 4 times on the plane and now he won't talk to me bc i 'ignored' him

┊

alexalbon: yeah he's uncultured thought we knew this

logansargeant: am not

alexalbon: are too

user1: you guys can hard launch now, the paps got you </3

user2: logan mention!!!!

kylekirkwood: welcome back to florida

user3: PLS BE LOGAN SARGEANT

┊

user1: lol i hope they broke up

user2: you're a sad piece of fuck. go touch grass.

user3: wait what why is this bc of the paps

user4: this is what fucking happens when you don't respect boundaries of people. you all make me sick.

user5: agreed. leaking the pics was a breach of privacy.

user6: this so so sad to hear oh my god i might scream

user7: no this cant be happening oh fuck no

user8: reputation era?

...a year on...

┊

user1: lol they weren't even dating. this is what i call prime delusion 😂

user2: help, i'm still at the restaurant...

user3: i hope they're happy, though

user4: a whole 365 days since sign of life kill me

yourusername and logansargeant made a new post!

liked by oscarpiastri, taylorswift, f1, simonebiles, kylekirkwood, maxverstappen1, arianagrande, and 9, 177, 809 others

yourusername and logansargeant: stuck with u.

┊

comments on this post have been turned off.

[lvrspiastri]

This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years. 

If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life. 

[lvrspiastri]

drew liam last night 🫶

[lvrspiastri]

"𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏?"

who's sunny anyway? ew.

;🎧.°˖✧ 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐! hi i'm sunny, 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, 23 but i can write for all drivers! most my fics are likely to be logan sargeant-centric because i fear that man has altered my brain chemistry. feel free to send requests! i've also started dabbling into fanart so expect some works soon and occasional shitposts from my twt account. you can filter fics via lvrspiastriwrites, art via lvrspiastridraws and asks via lvrspiastriasks :)

;🎧.°˖✧ 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 team principals. other than these, everything is good!

;🎧.°˖✧ 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎𝒔! formula 1, ted lasso, six of crows/shadow and bone/grishaverse, one direction, taylor swift, lockwood and co, julie and the phantoms, stranger things, spiderman, MCU, percy jackson, the wizarding world (incl hogwarts legacy), the hunger games and all spin offs.

disclaimer: i will post nsfw content including nsfw writing/fanart but they will always contain tags and disclaimers.

𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕:

(♡ = request; ✩ = sexual content, ୭ = smau)

Formula 1

Logan Sargeant

How to deal with a bad result. A comprehensive guide. ✩

Pillowtalk.✩ (OP81)

So It Goes... ✩

Soft Launch ୭

Pretty Boy ✩ ♡

Oscar Piastri

Pillowtalk. ✩ (LS2)

Arthur Leclerc

Parenthesis ♡

Parenthesis (2) ♡

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[lvrspiastri]

single dad aus always live rent free in my mind, so... single dad!arthur being so immature but still dedicated to his kid. maybe reader is friends with charles or works with kids, so thats how they meet. arthur hasnt dated since his kid was born, so he's really awkward and clumsy- but all goes well!

Parenthesis ᴬᴸ

i. love. this. i'm also so happy to get an arthur prompt because i've been obsessed with that man lately. hope this is along the lines of what you were looking for :)

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

pt 2

✧. ┊    PAIRING: single dad!arthur leclerc x gender-neutral!reader

✧. ┊    SUMMARY: the prompt except reader is arthur's son's kindergarten teacher

✧. ┊    WORDS: 2k

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: nothing at all, this is absolute fluff, maybe a curse word here and there. kids.

Having dinner with one of my kindergarten students' fathers was out of the question. Not for any official reason—it just felt fucking wrong. Still, every time Frederic's father, Arthur, walked into my classroom for a parent-teacher meeting, I found myself at a loss. Something about his soft Monegasque accent—it all made it hard to remember why the rules mattered in the first place.

He never lingered on purpose. Always polite, always a little too formal, like he’d rehearsed what to say on the drive over. He asked about Frederic’s reading, worried over handwriting, nodded earnestly when I reassured him. And maybe it should’ve been easy to brush of. Just another parent doing his best. But then he’d smile, quick and shy, and run a hand through his hair like he was apologising for taking up space.

Once, he brought a thermos of coffee and offered me some before realising how strange that might seem. “Sorry, I thought—never mind,” he said, practically shoving it back into his coat. It was ridiculous. And stupidly charming.

That was the problem.

He wasn’t trying to be anything. Not flirtatious, not magnetic. He just was. Earnest, a little awkward, with those kind eyes and the sort of accent that made even “maths homework” sound romantic. He made me laugh without meaning to. He made me nervous without trying.

And worst of all, I don’t think he had a clue.

Watching him ask me out was more embarrassing for him than it was for me. He stuttered constantly, spent too long trying to find the right words in English but finally got out what he wanted to. Dinner. 7 pm. At Ciao Cucina. And I prayed that he would cover the bill because I certainly couldn't. I put effort into the way I looked. Did my hair nicer than I usually do. Fancy shoes. Ironed my top for once. If he was taking me out to a place costlier than my weekly rent, I had to look the part. He picked me up in his motherfucking Ferrari, holding flowers and wearing an Armani suit.

The car smelled like leather and aftershave and something warm I couldn’t quite place—maybe nerves. He held the passenger door open for me (green flag), then rushed to the driver’s side so quickly he almost tripped over the curb. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too much.

Once we were inside, there was a pause. He fiddled with the air conditioning. Adjusted the volume on the radio. Turned it off again.

“You look…” he started, eyes flicking over to me before darting back to the windshield. “Nice. Very nice.”

I could’ve laughed, but didn’t. “Thank you,” I said, smoothing the hem of my top even though it didn’t need it.

He nodded, the movement terse. “I didn’t know if you would say yes.”

“You asked me to dinner, of course I would've.”

“Yes, but still.” He cleared his throat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “You are a teacher. Very professional. I'm a racer.”

“You're a parent,” I said lightly, “who just picked me up in a Ferrari.”

He went bright red. “Ah. Yes. It was… not the best choice. I had another car but it’s with the mechanic. I think it is very pretentious, no?”

“It’s completely ridiculous,” I said, deadpan. “But the flowers helped.”

Ciao Cucina was the kind of place with white tablecloths and waiters who spoke in soft, reverent tones. The lighting was low enough to feel intimate, and the menu didn’t list prices, which was always a bad sign. Arthur looked like he belonged—confident in that quiet, fidgety way of his. I, on the other hand, felt like I was walking into someone else’s life.

The hostess smiled too widely when she saw him. “Signore Leclerc...,” she said, leading us to a corner table with views of the water and the rest of the restaurant. It was private, but not hidden. Like the kind of table people who mattered were supposed to sit at.

Arthur pulled out my chair with the same clumsy formality he’d had all evening. I thanked him. He sat down, adjusted his napkin, and immediately knocked over his water glass.

It wasn’t dramatic. Barely noticeable. Just a soft clink, a quick spill, a muttered curse in French as he reached for a napkin. I bit back a laugh and handed him mine.

“I am very sorry, I haven't been doing this since...since Freddy's mother...” he muttered, eyes fixed on the tablecloth.

“It's fine,” I said, smiling. “It's already going well.”

He looked up at that. Really looked. “You are very kind to me,” he said, softly, almost like it was a fact he didn’t quite understand.

A waiter appeared and poured more water like nothing had happened. Arthur ordered in fluent Italian, and I let him—partly because I didn’t trust myself to pronounce conchigle without making a fool of myself, and partly because it was kind of hot, watching him speak a language that fit his mouth better than English ever could.

When it was my turn, I pointed at the menu and said, “That one, please.”

Arthur smiled like it was the best thing I could have done.

“So,” I said, once we were alone again. “Is this the part where you pretend to be charming, or is the nervous thing your whole brand?”

His ears turned pink. “I was hoping it go away...”

“It’s growing on me.”

He smiled at that. Subtly. Small. Crooked. “It is not intentional,” he said. “The nervous thing. I was not like this before.”

“Before what?”

He hesitated. “Before I became… single father. Before I had to talk to teachers which look like you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That was almost smooth.”

He laughed, short and embarrassed, reaching for his water like it might save him. “I do not know how to do this. Dating. I do not think I have the—how do you say—game?”

“You’re doing fine,” I said, even though everything about him was uneven and offbeat. The people I'd gone out with before came in all sorts. Cocky. Dominant. Vain. Red flags. But whatever he had worked. Because it was honest.

Our food arrived then, perfectly arranged plates that looked like art, not dinner. Arthur picked up his fork, then put it back down.

“I was very bad in school,” he said, out of nowhere. “I think the teachers did not like me. I wanted to do racing like Charles.”

“Is that why you’re overcompensating with your son’s education?”

He blinked, then laughed. “Yes. Maybe. He is clever. I don’t want to ruin that.”

“You’re not ruining anything. He’s bright, curious. A little talkative.”

He grinned. “That is genetic.”

I took a bite of my pasta. It was incredible—rich, warm, ridiculous. “God, this is good.”

He relaxed slightly at that, like the food had granted him permission to enjoy himself. “You eat too fast,” he said, not unkindly.

“I don’t get a lot of slow meals.”

“You deserve them.”

That hung in the air for a second too long.

I took another sip of water. “So do you.”

He didn’t answer, just smiled in that soft, uneven way of his. I could feel myself leaning in without meaning to. This shouldn’t have felt like anything. And yet it did.

We kept eating. Talking. Laughing. The kind of dinner that unfolds slowly, without trying to be perfect. Just enough awkwardness to feel real.

And still, in the back of my mind, a quiet, impossible thought: What am I doing?

He insisted on driving me home, but somehow the route veered—subtly, unintentionally, toward his apartment instead. “Just for a minute,” he said, almost apologetically. “Freddy’s with Alex. And she has to go back home. So I just need to check in.”

I should’ve said no. I should’ve drawn a line somewhere back between the pasta and the moment he said I deserved slow meals. But I didn’t. I nodded, and we drove the rest of the way in a silence that didn’t feel tense. Just full.

His apartment was warm, lived-in. Not what I expected from a man who drove a Ferrari and wore Armani. There were stray socks in the hallway, drawings on the fridge, a stack of unread mail on the entryway table. The kind of place held together by love and a bit of chaos.

Freddy—little Freddy—was on the couch, fast asleep in Lightning McQueen pajamas curled up under a worn fleece blanket. A book lay open beside him. His chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm only children seem to master.

I didn’t mean to stare, but I did.

“He wanted to wait,” Arthur whispered, voice low. “He likes you.”

I smiled, and something in my chest softened, dangerously. “He’s a good kid.”

“I think so too.” He walked over and gently adjusted the blanket, brushing a curl from his son’s forehead with a tenderness so instinctive it knocked the air out of me.

And then it clicked.

Not in a romantic sense. Not exactly. But something about the shape of the room, the stillness of the night, the way Arthur existed here not just as a man but as a father. It made everything slot into place. It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was the feeling of this. Of shoes by the door, colour pencils on the floor and someone making sure the blanket was still tucked in.

He turned to look at me, a little unsure. “You want tea? Or water? I have very bad beer also.”

I laughed quietly. “Tea’s good.”

He nodded, disappearing into the kitchen with all the grace of someone trying not to wake a sleeping child. And I stood there, in the soft light of a living room that wasn’t mine, staring at a sleeping boy who wasn't mine, somehow making this complicated, impossible situation feel—just for a second—safe.

He handed me the tea with both hands, like it might spill if he didn’t concentrate. He didn't bother with a saucer. Then he cleared a space on the couch beside his sleeping son, nudging aside a plastic dinosaur and a crumpled piece of paper that looked like an unfinished drawing of a treehouse.

“Sorry for the mess,” he said with a sheepish laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been wanting to look for, uh… a nanny. But I do not have much of time.”

I took the tea and sat beside him. “You don’t need to apologise. This is… homey. It’s nice.”

He smiled at that, almost relieved. “Thank you. I try. But there is days when I forget to do laundry or Freddy eats cereal for dinner three nights.”

I looked down at the little boy curled under the blanket. “He looks pretty happy to me.”

He followed my eyes, and something in his face softened again, that same quiet vulnerability I’d seen at school when he worried about spelling tests and playground friendships.

“I just don’t want to get it wrong,” he said. “There is so much I already missed.”

“You’re not getting it wrong.” I hesitated, then added, “You care. A lot. That’s more than a lot of kids ever get.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sipped his tea, eyes still on his son. Then, quietly, “I used to be someone else. Before. I had a different life. And now, it’s just... this. Him."

The weight of it landed between us—not heavy, not uncomfortable, just real. I found myself setting my tea down, turning slightly toward him. “And is that so bad? This life?”

His gaze flickered up at me then. And for once, he didn’t flinch or look away. “No,” he said. “Not bad. It’s just… hard to share with someone. Or to imagine somebody wanting it.”

“I’m here,” I blurted, before I could think better of it.

And for a long moment, neither of us moved. Freddy shifted slightly in his sleep, murmured something incomprehensible, then settled again. The quiet hummed around us.

He blinked. “Are you?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He didn’t touch me. Didn’t lean in. Just smiled. A little lopsided. A little stunned. And whispered, “Okay.”

[lvrspiastri]

i used to sob to marjorie by taylor swift but ever since logan got dropped, he's the one i think about when i listen to that song and i didn't know i could feel such agonising pain

[lvrspiastri]

he is wishing you a very happy pride month! "my pronouns are U! S! A!"

[lvrspiastri]

So It Goes...ˡˢ²

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

✧. ┊    PAIRING: Logan Sargeant x fem!reader

✧. ┊    SUMMARY: Your school takes a trip to a camp where you get to spend a night with your closest mates, including your best friend, Logan. (No use of Y/N)

✧. ┊    WORDS: 4.8k

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, sex, camp, high schoolers (18+ obvs), fingering, vaginal sex (unprotected), oral sex, thigh riding, masturbation, idiots in love, orgasm, first time, best friends, friends to lovers, panic attacks, swearing, explicit sexual content. AS ALWAYS, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

If there was anything that could be classified as simultaneously the best and worst experience ever, it would be school camp. Your heart thumped at the notion of honing your archery skills and drifting on the sea on a paddle board, the salt air rejuvenating. And not to mention the inside jokes, light banter and mocking insults that would be shared amongst you and your friends. Yet, the bland camp food and abundance of flies and mosquitoes did not entice the prospect of being outside. 

The seats on the bus were in two’s. Nobody had an assigned bus partner in your group, pairs forming themselves randomly. But your friends knew better than to take a seat next to you. Everybody knew that with you, came Logan. And anyone who had anything to say about it would be shunned. Logan was the last student to board the bus, panting as he ran in. It was not like Logan to be late as he was the most punctual man you ever came across. His eyes landed on the sole empty chair next to you, exhaling in relief. At every table, you’d save him a seat. He flopped down next to you, the smell of sweat strong in the air. 

“You’re late,” you huffed, stating the obvious. You almost thought he ditched you, deciding his bed was better than you or your friends. 

“Sorry,” he groaned, catching his breath and placing his bag under the seat in front of him. “Overslept.” 

“You never oversleep. You’re always on time,” you scoffed, watching him fiddle around with the seatbelt, looking for the buckle. 

Logan flashed a grin as he settled into his seat. "I was too excited to sleep last night," he admitted, clicking his seatbelt into place. He playfully ruffled the hair of the friend sitting in front of him, who chuckled in response. You rolled your eyes good-naturedly and handed Logan a lollipop, which he accepted with a smile. As he began to suck on it, he gazed straight ahead, allowing you to look out the window. 

Logan knew the drill on buses - silence was key. Your motion sickness made it difficult for you to ride without getting queasy, especially if someone tried to talk to you. So, he placed a gentle hand on your thigh and began to rub it with his thumb, offering a comforting presence. He invited you to rest your head on his shoulder, and you gratefully accepted.

As he quietly chatted with your shared friends, Logan's actions spoke volumes. He knew you inside and out - what made you tick, what to avoid, and how to care for you. You were his treasure, his top priority. He would go to great lengths to protect and cherish you, and he made sure you knew it in that moment. He’d go mental if you got in harm’s way, that was for sure, having proven so when you were little. 

The gentle rocking of the bus, accompanied with hushed whispers of your best friend’s soothing voice, attracted sleep, and you fell in its clutches for the entire bus ride. 

You were shaken awake when you arrived at your destination, Logan proacting and having both his your suitcases ready in his hand. You thanked him, dragging your suitcase and your ass out of the bus as he and your friends followed closely behind. 

The camp was a rustic haven, nestled among tall trees and surrounded by the soothing sounds of nature. The scent of pine and earth filled the air, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Lodges made of weathered wood and canvas tents dotted the landscape, their chimneys puffing out wisps of smoke. A central fire pit, ringed by logs and benches, served as the gathering place. The camp's dining hall, a cosy lodge with wooden beams and a crackling fireplace was located just next to the fire pit, where students were already gathering to grab a snack. Winding trails, lined with ferns and wildflowers, led to hidden clearings, a tranquil lake, and a babbling brook. 

You felt arms wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. “Not bad,” shrugged Logan. “But I’ve seen better.”

“Have you, now?” You teased, getting drawn into his side. 

“Mm,” he nodded as you followed your year group up to the lodges. “When I was 9, my family and I went to a ski camp up in the Alps. You had the flu that week.” His voice turned into a low whisper, his shades reflecting sunlight. “It was incredible. The snow was...wow. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. We'd ski through these trees, and the snow would fall off the branches."

“Yeah? That sounds nice.”

"It was. And the mountains...they were so still and quiet, except for the sound of the snow crunching under our skis. And at night, the stars would come out, and the snow would glow in the moonlight. It was like the whole world was frozen in time. I never wanted to leave." His eyes refocused on you, and he leaned in, whispering. “But it would’ve been better if you were there.”

“Apologies for having the flu and suffering while you were having the time of your life.” 

He chuckled, squeezing your shoulder. “Well let’s make the best of this trip then, hm?” 

You reach your assigned lodge, the room big enough to fit 16 people, all the sleeping arrangements in the form of bunk beds. You and Logan had the privilege of claiming your bunk first and decided to take the quiet one in the corner of the room, far away from all the others. It was right by the window, the sunlight casting a faint yet ethereal glow on the hardwood floor. 

“Bags top bunk!” You called out to Logan, stationing your suitcase under the window next to the bunk and clubbing the ladder to the top bunk, effectively claiming your spot. He simply rolled his eyes, chuckling and shaking his head. He pulled out his bedsheet and tucked it under the mattress, arranging his pillow and blanket neatly. You just watched the boy work below you, admiring how his hair glinted in the sunlight. It made him look more blonde than he normally did and made his eyes shine a lighter blue. You don’t recall ever having seen a more beautiful sight. You had always felt something for Logan. It never needed a name, that feeling. You felt it in the hushed whispers that were only for your ears, the soft grazes of fingers that provided comfort, the steady beats of his heart as you settled on his chest; it encapsulated you. It never needed a term. 

After a quick lunch, you headed to the archery range with your assigned camp group, consisting of your friendship circle and a few others, spending the morning learning to hit your mark. Your friends cheered you on as you took turns shooting arrows, and Logan offered words of encouragement, helping you improve your aim.

A few hours of archery left your fingers sore and you headed to the dining hall where they were serving snacks, devouring apples and popcorn whilst the lot of you argued over who won the rounds. Then, it was off to the lake for paddleboarding. You and Logan grabbed boards and pushed off from the shore, gliding across the calm water. The sun beat down on your skin as you paddled, taking in the breathtaking scenery surrounding you. As you reached the middle of the lake, you and Logan challenged each other to a paddleboard race, laughing and shouting as you went. You didn't care who won – the joy was in the experience, sharing it with your best friend. Afterward, you floated on your boards, chatting and enjoying the serenity of the lake.

Dinner was a quick affair—the food as revolting as you’d expected it to be. You would’ve shoved half the slop down your throat before you were positive you were going to throw up. But the taste of a rainbow paddle pop soothed your tortured tongue. 

To end day 1 on a fun note, the teachers decide to host trivia night, where the entire cohort would get into groups and answer questions on any topic. Naturally, you were with your friend group, devising a group name before the game began. 

As the trivia game heated up, the dining hall transformed into a cacophony of cheers, shouts, and clanging utensils. The air grew thick with excitement, and the noise level escalated, making your heart race. You felt a familiar, creeping sense of dread as the sounds blended together, disorienting you. Your breath caught in your throat, and your chest tightened. The room began to spin, and the lights seemed to flicker. You felt like you were drowning in the chaos. Your mind racing. You couldn't focus on the questions or the answers. The voices around you became a jumbled, terrifying mess.

Logan, sitting beside you, noticed your distress and put a reassuring hand on your arm. But even his calming presence couldn't stem the rising panic. You felt trapped, desperate to escape the overwhelming sensory assault. Your heart pounded in your ears, and your vision blurred. You pushed back your chair, trying to stand, but your legs felt like lead. The room was closing in, and you couldn't breathe. You needed to get out – now.

With a surge of adrenaline, you forced yourself to your feet, Logan's concerned voice fading into the background as you stumbled toward the exit, desperate for fresh air, silence, and a sense of safety. As you ran out of the dining hall, Logan rushed behind you, his footsteps echoing off the walls. He caught up to you on the porch, his hand gently grasping your arm.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” he said softly, his voice a calming balm to your frazzled nerves. "You're with me. You're safe." His touch sent a shiver down your spine, but it was a comforting sensation, like a warm embrace on a cold day. You felt your racing heart slow slightly, your breathing ease a fraction.

Logan's eyes, filled with concern, locked onto yours. "You're okay. I've got you," he repeated, his voice low and soothing.

As Logan's hand made contact with yours, a subtle shift occurred within you. The tremors of fear began to dissipate, replaced by a quiet hum of awareness. His presence was a gentle disruption, a soft recalibration of your senses. In that fleeting moment, the world's din and chaos receded, leaving only the quiet intensity of Logan's focus. Your heart rate slowed, then quickened, as if relearning its rhythm in tandem with his. A connection kindled, one that defied easy categorisation. It was an unspoken understanding, a shared resonance that bypassed words and rational thought. In this wordless space, fear and uncertainty gave way to a sense of synchrony, a feeling of being attuned to a hidden frequency.

“Can we stay out here? It’s too loud in there,” your sniffles made his heart ache and he nodded rapidly, voice soft.

“‘Course, love. We don’t have to go back in.” He kissed the top of your head, rubbing your arms. You stayed like that for an unfathomable amount of time, the cool night air engulfing the two of you, isolating you from the chaos erupting inside the dining hall. Once trivia night ended and the students dispersed, you calmed down fully, the noise no longer overwhelming. “How are we feeling? Good?” You nodded, eyes meeting his. His thumb reached out to wipe your dried tears. “We should probably head to the lodge before the deputy loses her shit. That sound okay?” You nod again, feeling much better, having recovered from your panic attack. The only thing that was on your mind at that moment was how close the two of you were. The scent of his aftershave seduced your nostrils, the heat from his hands teasing you through the fabric of your clothes. It was wrong to think of him that way but your mind wouldn’t let down. 

He grabbed a hold of your hand gently, leading you through darkness at camp to get to your lodge, students from your year group also returning to their beds for the night and hoping to get some rest before tomorrow. Logan knew you like it was innate knowledge. He knew how to deal with your mood swings, your hard days and your panic attacks, having been there for most of them. He knew it all. He knew you. 

You find your comfort and fun back when you enter your cabin, running to the pack of Cheetos you stashed in your suitcase. Your stomach already demanded more, not having been satisfied from dinner’s pig slop. Hell, maybe pigs ate better. Food was prohibited in the lodges, but you couldn’t give less of a shit, munching away on the Cheetos, sitting in Logan’s bed. 

“You’re getting Cheeto dust all over my damn sheets,” he scoffed, shifting your ass on the bed to make room for himself. He snuck a couple Cheetos from the packet, sucking on his fingers. The sight had you throbbing and you would’ve lost your ability to speak if your friends hadn’t formed a circle on the floor in the middle of the room, pulling out Cards Against Humanity. 

You must’ve been very engrossed in the game, for you didn’t realise how late it had gotten in the night. Your watch read one am and you looked over at Logan with your tired eyes and he nodded, reading your body. “Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” he grinned, excusing you and himself from the group and returning to your bunk. You couldn’t see or hear the group very clearly from the secluded corner, faint whispers the only reminder of their presence. You looked up at the top bunk and groaned, not wanting to make the journey up and down a dozen times. As Logan stripped off his shirt, getting ready for bed, you crawled into his tiny bottom bunk, face darkened by the top’s shadow. You looked like a hibernating bear, curling up in a ball under his blanket. He sighed, exasperated. “Love-” he began, getting cut off by your whine. 

“Please? I need someone with me. After what happened tonight,” you pleaded, your voice incredibly soft to lure him in. He huffed in annoyance but eventually gave in, nodding. 

“Fine, fine. You better not kick,” he slid in next to you, crawling under the blanket. Your breath hitched and your brain went fuzzy at the feel of him pressed up against you. It was not a new sensation, having shared beds like little kids your entire lives. But something about this moment felt different. There was an air of tension, the simple sensation feeling more adult . The lights in the room shortly went off, the voices dying. “Today was fun,” he casually commented, running a hand through your hair. “I liked today.”

“Me too,” you contributed to his confession, letting yourself fall apart underneath his comforting touch. “Except dinner, of course.” 

“Mm.” He buried his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. “You’re so warm.” The hand combing through your hair landed around your waist, pulling you in slowly. His hot breath on the gentle skin of your neck made your hairs stand on end and your body grow hot. His eyes were shut. You’d never seen him so peaceful. But you had to ruin it for your own comfort, sitting up on the bed, your hands dipping under your shirt. His head cocked to the side, eyes trailing over your form. “What’s wrong?”

“Have to take off my bra.” 

“You sleep without a bra?” 

“Yeah, I find it comfier.”

“Oh.” He eyed the newly exposed skin of your back as you tossed your bra into your bag and lay beside him again. Content with your return of warmth, he resumed his hold on you, one arm under his own head and over the fabric on your stomach. He let his fingers rub your skin through your shirt lazily, as if coaxing you to sleep. You didn’t even realise when your shirt was pushed up and his fingers splayed out over your soft skin. He was absentmindedly stroking, fingertips dancing across your skin to make the two of you find comfort in touch, despite the tough events of the day. You tilted your head up to look at, what way likely, his peaceful resting face, only to find his eyes —bright in the dark—staring back at you. He let his fingertips drag up your sides, stopping right where your breasts begin. He resumed his stroking motion, fingers massaging the bare flesh he gained access to. “I’m really tempted to just…” he whispered, not having to finish his sentence for you to catch his meaning. 

“I don’t really mind,” you shrugged, the softly spoken words granting him consent. The boy didn’t waste another moment before dragging his fingers up the peak of your breasts, fingers pinching the nipple that was hard for him. You let out a soft gasp, to which Logan responded with a smirk and a tighter squeeze. Deciding your other boob wasn’t getting as much love, he squeezed the flesh hard, staring at every reaction and microexpression you fed him with. It was only when you let out a dangerously loud groan to cause him to stop his movements, shushing you. 

“You’re being too loud,” he pulled his hand out from under your shirt, resuming his chaste touch on your stomach. “It’s best if we stop. Don’t wanna wake anyone up.” Despite the frustration at the loss of touch and pleasure, you simply nodded, knowing that he was right and it was for the better. You were immediately soothed by the tingling sensation of the back of his hand dragging across the side of your face, like a painter spreading colours onto a blank canvas. He knew you. In and out. 

Which is exactly why he must’ve unknowingly wedged his knee in between your two legs, the fabric of the shorts right around his thigh pressed up against your underwear. He only noticed it when you shifted your position to suit your body’s current needs, the feeling of your warm and surprisingly wet core making his breathing patterns erratic. So he pushed his thigh further up, revelling in the delicious, yet quiet moan you elicited. 

“I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” You breathlessly commented, the nerves in your core pulsating hard, adding fuel to the fire. 

“And if I am?” He pushed his knee up again, chuckling when you let out a shuddering moan. “Hush, love. Quiet, remember?” You nodded, hips moving on his thigh, the rocking movement coming to you naturally. You tried your best to hold back any sounds of pleasure that were so desperately begging to be set free. Logan helped you with your grinding, but you couldn’t help the little whimpers and gasps of air that threatened to wake the room, resulting in Logan’s hand to clasp around your mouth. “Shhh, shh, baby. I know it feels good, baby. But you have to stay silent.” 

You gave him a trembling nod in return, his eyes fixated on the way your tits shook. He would worship you for days on end. “Lo, can’t take it anymore…” you whined, pressing down on his thigh harder to gain much needed relief. “Need to-” your voice was cut off by a strangled moan against Logan’s hand, muffling the erotic sound that threatened to spill over. 

His grip on your mouth was almost bruising, his free hand sliding in between your shaking thighs and dipping right below the waistband of your pyjamas. He slowly ran his finger along the front of your dripping core, tentatively brushing you through the fabric of your panties. “Say the word and I’ll do it. Promise me you’ll be quiet and I’ll let you ride my fingers.” 

His fingers squeezed your lips, blocking your ability to speak. So you simply nodded, fighting a squeal when his fingers dipped inside you. Your hands latched into his skin like it was your last lifeline, burying your face into his chest. He gently stroked your hair with the hand that was previously trapping the mouth, his voice offering soothing shushes that juxtaposed his rough assault inside your core. His fingers scissored and thrusted inside you, working skilfully to take you to another world. Your heart thundered when you realised his movements elicited the softest of sounds—wet squelching and the slapping of flesh against flesh. You wished you’d given a fuck. For when he curled his fingers, you saw a blinding white. And that made you scream in his chest, the walls of your centre clenching against his fingers almost painfully so, coating his fingers with an ivory white. He shut you up by shoving his orgasm-covered fingers inside your mouth, effectively gagging you. Tears stuck to the corner of your eyes, saliva pooling around his fingers. The sight itself had his dick twitching. 

“You did so well for me,” he whispered, emphasising the exclusivity of the shared secret between you two. “So well for me, precious. I’m gonna bury my cock in you, is that okay?” His fingers pushed further into your mouth, the pads flirting with the back of your throat and making you gag. But you bobbed your head around his fingers in a nod, fighting back the sounds. “There we are. Good job, baby.” His fingers withdrew from your mouth, completely slick with the mixture of your cum and saliva. 

He used his free hand to shimmy down his shorts and boxers, freeing his throbbing cock. The tip was leaking pre-cum already, signalling just how turned on he was at the situation. He wrapped his wet hand around the dick, stroking it slowly, smearing your juices onto him. “Fuck,” he cursed silently, eyes shut tight, voice thick with desperation. “Might hurt at first but it’ll get better after, okay?” You simply nodded, barely registering his words as your attention was diverted to the cock he was jerking off. “Hey, baby. Look here.” He pointed to his eyes, your gaze directly following. “Love, I know it’s your first. It’s mine too and I know I wouldn’t do it with anyone but you. But this will hurt, okay? You have to be quiet. Can you do that for me, baby?” You nodded almost immediately, just wanting the feeling of his thick cock pounding into you. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you whispered with a hint of a whimper in your voice. “‘Til I can’t think, Lo, please…”

He chuckled low, using the hand that was pumping himself to grab your face and hold it tight. “Yeah? Want me to make you forget your own name?” He smirked, not hesitating to show just how smug he was at your willing submission. He had spent a lifetime loving you and now that he finally had you, he’d make sure he would never ever let go. 

His hand found a new position at the back of your neck, pulling you in close to his chest to muffle all and any sounds that you might emanate. He wanted to hear them so desperately; he wanted to hear his name roll off your tongue, moans leaking from your mouth. But he’d have you again one day. He was addicted. He’d go mad without you. So with a soft ‘shhh’ in your ear, he buried himself within you, taking it slow; inch by inch. He could feel the vibrations of your whines against his chest, making his cock twitch inside you. He set a slow pace, hand wrapping under your thigh and lifting your leg in the air to give him space to work with. He was right—it hurt at first, the width of his dick stretching your untainted walls out. As he thrusted, you could feel his tip hit that lovely spot inside you, and his veins drag up and down your flesh. It was a weird experience but oddly filling and satisfying. In fact, it felt so good, you dragged your nails down his back, earning a low yet hushed groan from him. It made you wetter, if possible, the sinful sounds of sex beginning to manifest and left your heart hammering in fear of getting caught. But as your heart pounded, so did he, burying himself in you completely and losing all sense of composure. 

The small twin bed rocked with the force of his assault, accompanying his quiet thrusts with small squeaks of its own. It’s a wonder no one had awoken. You were isolated in a corner, yes, but the sounds were loud enough to not go unnoticed. Your minute concerns were interrupted by Logan’s lips crashing onto yours, their gentle caress along with Logan’s cock now finding your sweet spot bringing on the inevitable release you were so desperately craving. 

“Logan,” you whispered, but the sound turned into a whimper. “Lo, need to come…” you managed to choke out, still digging your nails into him to secure your grip. He felt the delicious clench of your walls around his hard length, bringing him close to the edge too. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You can let go, baby. You’ve been doing so good for me.” You nodded, keeping your wails to a minimum as you felt bliss for the second time that night, riding out your orgasm on his sensitive cock. Before he could come inside you and make a mess of things, he pulled out, using his hand to jerk himself off. You were quick, however, sitting up immediately and wrapping your lips around his tip, feeling his warm release coat the insides of your mouth. His face looked unholy, eyes rolled to the back of his head, bottom lip contained in between his teeth. You hollowed your cheeks, milking out the last of his cum into your mouth and eagerly swallowing, the honey-like liquid trickling down your throat while you made intense eye contact with him. He let his head fall back against the headboard at the sight, pulling you into his chest. 

He felt warm. He felt safe. 

As the pleasure subsided, you relaxed into Logan's embrace, your fingers unclenching from his arms. He held you close, his chest heaving with exertion, his heartbeat syncing with yours. You nestled your face into the crook of his neck, your lips grazing his skin as you whispered, "It's too much...too good..."

Logan's hands traced gentle patterns on your back, his touch calming your still-shuddering body. "You're incredible," he murmured, his voice laced with awe. "I've got you, I'm here..."

You just lay in his arms, coming to terms with the implications of what you just did. Logan and you were intertwined in every way—he was your childhood buddy, your classmate, your best friend. He was everything but a lover. But now? Now, he was something more. The lines had blurred, and the familiarity of his touch had ignited a spark within you. But you knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The innocence of your friendship had been replaced by a newfound intimacy, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions: excitement, fear, and uncertainty.

When Logan’s arms held you closer, his hands softly skimming down the sides of your arms, the world around you melted away. The uncertainty, the fear, the doubts—all gone. All that remained was the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the soft whisper of his breath, and the warmth of his skin against yours.

In that moment, you knew that nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the future, not the what-ifs or the maybes. All that mattered was the present, and the love that pulsed between you like a heartbeat.

Logan's eyes met yours, and you saw the truth there, shining bright and clear. He was yours. Forever. Your love.

[lvrspiastri]

RUSSTAPPEN BEEF IS SO BACK

[lvrspiastri]

PILLOWTALK. ˡˢ² ᵒᵖ⁸¹

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

✧. ┊    PAIRING: Oscar Piastri x Logan Sargeant x fem!reader

✧. ┊    SUMMARY: You celebrate a good race result with your boyfriend and his best friend. (NO USE OF Y/N)

✧. ┊    WORDS: 4k

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, sex, smut, oral sex, vaginal fingering, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, threesome-f/m/m, lovebites, orgasm denial, blow jobs, hand jobs. FILTH. PURE FILTH. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Logan wraps Oscar in a hug, patting his back. “A win, mate,” he beams, pulling away and ruffling his hair. “What an amazing result.” 

Oscar returns his smile with a calm one. “Great, indeed. I mean, you did out-qualify a Red Bull several times…” 

Logan shrugs. “Overall a pretty successful weekend.” He wraps his arm around your waist almost involuntarily, which causes Oscar’s eyes to flicker over to you. 

You embrace Oscar, moving to your tiptoes to fit in his arms. “You two were so busy gazing at each other, I was starting to think you didn’t notice me.” 

He crosses his arms after you pull away, his tone teasing. “You really think my eyes would scan the room and not linger on the prettiest girl to exist?” Your cheeks turn a red hue, partly from the compliment, partly from Oscar’s biceps stretching through his sleeves. Logan pulls you into his side tightly at the observation.

You started dating Logan before he went into F1, having supported him through his Prema days when the two of you were in your late teens, with your friendship starting out in your childhood. Naturally, with Logan, comes Oscar since the two have been inseparable after karting together, practically joined at the hip. 

Having been with him for over 5 years, you loved Logan more than life itself. He was the sweetest, kindest and most down-to-earth boy you’ve had the pleasure of meeting. You loved his American accent, messy hair, killer jawline, cute dimples and the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles. You loved him. 

But you found your gaze wandering to Oscar more than you’d ever admit. After a race, when he’d peel off his shirt and reveal his sweaty body, or when he’d hop out of the ice bath, dripping and soaked. There was no denying Oscar Piastri was an attractive man. But this’d be a secret not even a spirited game of truth or dare could pull out of you. 

You loosen Logan’s bruising hold and chirp. “Let’s celebrate!” Logan sighs, biting his lip. 

“Love, I’m not a party kind of guy. You know that.” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “That’s not what I meant. Why don’t the three of us go out for drinks? A beer and fries.” 

Running a hand through his sweaty hair, Oscar grins. “Sounds good.” Logan nods along, smiling at the idea of spending a quiet night with his two favourite people. “Although, we call ‘em chips.”

“That’s stupid.” Logan snorts. “Chips are chips. How can fries be chips?” 

“I dunno. That’s just how it is. Hot chips.” 

“Then what do you call actual chips?” 

“Chips.” There’s a brief silence before Logan mutters.

“Australians have no idea what they’re doing, do they?” 

Oscar scoffs. “We’re not the ones spelling ‘colour’ wrong.” 

“Well-” you drag Logan away before the two can wage a war between Australia and America. 

Come pub time, Logan cannot take his hands off you. He trails kisses all over your exposed shoulder and neck, biting occasionally as you get ready. You’re wearing a plain black top and skirt—an outfit you’ve worn many times before in front of the two but you’re not wasting good outfits on these buffoons. 

“Baby,” he whispers hotly against your skin, drawing circles with his tongue. “Let’s ditch Oscar. Come on, let me have you.” He’s making your mascara application increasingly hard, one hand wrapped around your hip, the other squeezing your ass. 

“No, you can’t ditch your friend after a maiden win.” He groans, mumbling incoherent curses. He settles for feasting on your shoulder, leaving hickeys every now and then. Nothing Oscar hasn’t seen before, though. Sometimes you wonder if he even notices. 

“You’re my favourite thing to taste,” he bites your neck gently. “So pretty. So gorgeous.” 

You snort. “That is such a lie. You once cried over a turkey.” 

“Fine, second favourite.” He chuckles low, spinning you around to face him. He leans in for a kiss on the lips, blocked by your hand. 

“Lipstick.” He shrugs and moves to your nose, blocked by a hand again. “Highlighter.” He sighs, ghosting your cheek. “Blush.”

With an overdramatised groan, he rests his head against your collarbone. “You’re killing me, baby.” He finds solace in running his lips over your neck. You swat off his pouty face, earning some freedom to reach the door before he slams your back against the wall. Smirking at your gasp, he gets on his knees, pushing up the hem of your skirt and kissing your thighs. “You think he can get rid of me that easily?”

You chuckle, resting your head against the wall. “And people say Oscar’s a koala.”

He stops his momentary assault, frowning. “Are you insinuating I’m clingy?”

“No.” You say simply.

“Good.”

“I’m downright saying it.” With a growl, he bites your inner thigh hard enough to leave a red mark, soothing with his tongue after. You stare at the new addition to bruises and marks on your skin. You sigh, tugging the blonde’s hair. “Alright, Lo, we’re gonna be late.”

He mutters a ‘stupid Oscar’ before standing up and offering you a hand, going from whore to gentleman really quick. “Shall we, m’lady?” You smile, slipping your hand in his. 

Oscar waits with a beer in his hand, seated at a table in the corner of the bar, aimlessly scrolling through his phone. “What took you so long?” The Aussie questions, putting his phone away. 

With a click of your tongue, you sit opposite him, with Logan taking his place next to you. “Someone here got distracted.” You shoot a glare at the Williams driver giving you a sheepish smile.  

“Ah.” Oscar remarks, his eyes flicking over your bare shoulders, assessing the hickeys that decorate the skin. “I can see that.” He licks his lips quickly enough to be mistaken for a trick of the light before initiating conversation with his best friend. An hour or two in, you feel Logan’s hand settle on your knee, gently drawing circles. You dismiss the action as affectionate until he trails it up slowly, reaching your inner thigh. The smallest hint of a smirk crosses his lips as his eyes are locked on Oscar yapping. 

You shift his fingers away, pushing them back down to your knee. He listens and manages to keep it there for a solid 10 seconds before he inches up again. He doesn’t have to even look at you to see your reaction. When Oscar gets distracted by his mum’s text message, you lean over to him and whisper. “Logan. No.”

He whines, giving you his brightest smile. “Pleeeaaaasseee? I’ll be gentle.” 

“No. Not in public.” 

“We did it in the driver's room on Friday and you didn’t seem to mind.”

“Well people are actively watching here.” 

“Relax,” he chuckles softly. “No one’s looking.” Your gesture to the McLaren driver seated before you two. “Then be quiet,” Logan dismisses, rolling his eyes. He moves his fingers a little too close to your centre, eyes fixed on you. “If you don’t want it, just say the word.” 

You swallow thickly. Sure, it was risky. You were more concerned about Oscar than any of the other patrons, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of him. But the heat of Logan’s hand had you clenching and aching. You nod, granting him consent. The boy beams, turning back to Oscar as he finishes responding to his supportive mum’s texts. 

Oscar’s eyes fly to you again, and his throat bobs for a split second before he registers Logan’s question and proceeds to answer. You’d known Oscar as long as you had Logan. Not to mention, you had the biggest crush on him growing up before realising Logan was the one. He took care of you and treated you with the utmost respect, even punched a boy in the stomach due to a distasteful nickname. Oscar wasn’t proud of acting violently but doesn’t regret standing up for you. You were his best friend too, after all. 

Too busy eyeing Oscar, you’re not prepared as Logan shoves his fingers inside your underwear and teases your clit with his middle and ring finger. You gasp a little, your body shivering, which catches Oscar’s attention. “You good? You can take my jumper if  you’re cold.” You clear your throat and shake your head to decline his sweet offer. You look at your boyfriend’s stupid face, seeing a full smirk adorning it.

His fingers slip lower, pushing his fingertips just inside your entrance. Your hips squirm beneath him but you bring your beer bottle to your mouth to silence your moan. With a fake cough, he fully rams his fingers inside you, making your eyes shut tight. You immediately compose yourself before Oscar has the chance to deduce what’s going on. 

Logan works with a steady pace, his fingers scissoring, his thumb brushing against your clit every now and then. A tear rolls down your eye from the toe-curling pleasure and the pressure of keeping it silent. You’re playing fairly well until Logan curls his fingers inside you and hits a spot that makes you see white. You let out a soft groan and Oscar’s smile disappears. 

“Quiet.” Logan’s whispered yet hostile voice addresses you. He curls them again, emanating an erotic moan. Oscar blushes violently, but his gaze doesn’t waver. He knows what’s going on and he wants more. 

“It’s getting pretty late. We should head to our rooms.” Logan states monotonously like everything was perfectly fine. 

Oscar nods, swallowing thickly and regaining his voice. “You’re right. It’s been a long day. I'll sort the bill out.” Logan winks at him in thanks before turning to you as Oscar leaves. He can tell you’re seconds away from falling apart and being the kind boyfriend that he is, he pulls out his fingers, denying you release. His tongue darts out to clean his fingers, groaning when he tastes your arousal. “Fuck. How sweet.” He sees your frown and pecks your lips. “You fail to be quiet…you don’t get to come” With that, he walks off, joining Oscar without even bothering to help you for your shaky knees. He glances back at you, smirking devilishly when you wobble over to the pair. 

Logan was the sweetest, kindest and most down-to-earth boy you’ve had the pleasure of meeting. But when he sexually frustrates you like this, you feel like throttling him. 

Oscar’s insistence to watch a movie before bed wears the two of you down and you reluctantly give in, following the boy to watch ‘Love Actually.’ To no one’s surprise, his hotel room is twice as messy as yours and Logan’s. Which is saying something. Clothes are scattered all over the floor and furniture, the sheets are ruffled, and cups make an alarming appearance on the tables. Oscar offers you two a seat on the bed but you opt for the couch instead. 

You catch a glimpse of a look shared between Oscar and Logan before you find yourself pinned to the couch by your boyfriend. “Logan!” You exclaim, about to tell him off before he roughly kisses you, hands firmly holding your arms in place on the couch. He starts attacking your neck, biting and nipping the spots he knew would have you screaming the loudest. You breathe out, “Logan, what the hell?! Oscar’s right there!” Logan pulls away with wet lips and flushed cheeks. 

“Oscar doesn’t mind.” He turns to the Australian. “Do you, Osc?” Oscar simply shakes his head, his eyes locked on your body as he gets comfy on the bed. He shamelessly takes in the scene before him like it’s some form of entertainment. “Come on, baby.” Logan whispers in your mouth. He peels off his shirt and strips off his pants until he’s left in boxers. You’ve seen him in all his glory countless times before but it’s always like the first. No one could compare to him.

His hands frantically tug on your top, nearly ripping it off your body and throwing it to the side before giving the same treatment to your skirt. His torso is hot against yours as he seals your lips in for another kiss- passionate, hot, and heavy. Although, you cannot give your best to the kiss, painfully aware of Oscar’s gaze. Meanwhile, his hand moves up to your inner thigh, then gradually ascends. He smirks when he hears your gasp. “You like that pretty girl?” He breathes in your neck, his thumb brushing over the waistline of your panties. The cool metal of his silver chain against your hot body makes you shudder. You nod simply and he runs his thumb back and forth across the hem. “Say it.” He knows he’s torturing you with all this teasing and he feels himself grow harder in response. 

“I want you.” He lets out a soft groan of arousal and slowly drags his finger up the front of your underwear, feeling the damp cloth. Oscar shifts a little closer on the bed. The ruffle of the sheets catches Logan’s attention. He lifts you up and throws you on the bed, right by Oscar. Logan slides his hand under the fabric of your panties and circles your clit before dipping his fingers in, moving them with purpose. “Oh, Lo!” you cry out, your hips squirming beneath him. 

Oscar’s breathing is stolen from him, his eyes laser-trained on your reactions as Logan thrusts his fingers into you. “Go, Logan,” Oscar’s voice comes out airy. “Show her how it’s done.” Knowing he's got a viewer, Logan moves his fingers even faster, making sure you feel it more now. You feel his ring nipping at your entrance as he shoves his fingers deeper, the coolness of the metal adding another layer of pleasure.

The pair hear your whimpers and moans as Logan curls up his fingers every now and then, fingering you just the way you like it. When your back arches and you announce you’re close, Logan moves the fastest he can go. “You like that?” His voice is throaty, full of need.

Oscar watches from the corner, looking turned on as well. You give him a curt nod. His voice gets rougher. “Beg.” He presses a thumb to your clit. “I’m close!” You almost scream.  That's enough for Logan to pull his hand away in an instant. He grins, hovering his fingers just above your center as he watches your reaction.

 “You didn't say the words I wanted to hear. Beg. Or the game stops here.” He smirks. Your eyebrows furrow, your heaving chest showing your obvious frustration. “You heard me. Beg, pretty girl.” 

You let out a quiet sigh. “Please, baby.”

“Louder. Say it louder. I want to hear it.” His hand rests right above you, his fingers just barely rubbing through the fabric of your underwear. He looks ready to tease, but not to stop. 

You speak louder, with a palpable desperation this time. “Please, baby. Please!”

“Please what?” His hand continues to move as he watches you. Oscar looks just as turned on as you are, leaning in closer to see you. Hearing your quiet whisper of ‘take me,’ Logan chuckles, sliding his hand away again. “How badly do you want it?” He begins to pull away. Oscar almost falls off the bed trying to get closer to you. 

“Really, really bad…” “Then you know what to do, my love.” Logan’s heart races faster as he sees your head spin to Oscar. “Please…” you whisper to Oscar, causing his eyes to widen as he turns and meets Logan’s gaze, unsure. “I need you.”

“You want him too?” Logan inquires as Oscar’s fingertips just graze up your side. You shudder and nod. “I don’t think that means anything, pretty girl. Ask him nicely.” Oscar slides a hand up to your chest, lightly squeezing but doesn’t say anything. 

You whisper to him, hand coming up to trail up his leg. “I want you, Osc. Please.” He registers your needy expression before nodding and sealing your lips in a kiss as Logan kisses from your clavicle to your hips, biting and sucking as he pleases. Oscar’s kiss is laced with care and precision, like you’re something to be savoured, something to be protected— a stark contrast to Logan’s passionate, sloppy ones. You gasp as Oscar pulls away and wraps his tongue around your nipple, sucking on the bud tenderly. Feeling left out, Logan decides to mirror his best friend’s actions, sucking on your other tit. You tangle each of your hands in the boys’ hair, tugging gently as you writhe beneath them. You feel like you could come right there and then at the feel of their warm, wet mouths on you. 

Oscar takes the initiative and begins to kiss down your stomach, his tongue flicking to tease you as he gets lower. “Like this, huh?” He whispers, his voice deeper than you’ve ever heard it. He slides further down when you nod, moving to your thigh, peppering chaste kisses on the flesh. He then shifts so he’s resting comfortably in between your thighs, his head hovering right above your stomach. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your sticky panties and pulls them down, taking in the wonderful smell of sex. Oscar smirks up at you and presses a tender kiss to your centre. 

Examining the look of pleasure on your face, he dips his head, placing more kisses, using his mouth to engulf your clit. Logan watches on, enjoying how hot it is to see you two like that. He finally tugs his boxers off, moving to his knees right by your face. He grabs your hair, stroking it softly as you whimper. “You’re doing good, Osc,” he whispers. “She fucking loves it.” Oscar hums against your clit, smirking when you whine. “Take my cock, pretty girl.” You oblige your boyfriend’s command and open wide, letting him shove his hard length into your salivating mouth. 

Logan’s grip on your hair tightens as he begins to thrust his hips into your mouth. This gets Oscar harder and his mouth to work faster, flicking his tongue every now and then before moving in circles. You pull your mouth away, using your hands on Logan. 

“Oscar, I’m gonna-” you’re cut off by Logan ramming into your mouth, making sure you feel it.

“Didn’t quite hear you there,” chuckles Oscar slowly. His lips wrap around your bud and suck, causing your back to arch off the bed and you to orgasm for the first time that night. You shut your eyes tight, groaning into Logan. The vibrations send him over the edge too and he releases his seed into your mouth. He pulls out of your mouth, smiling wide as you swallow. Your gaze turns to the brunette raising his head from your thighs, his chin glistening. “Mm, you taste sweet. Can’t believe you’ve been hiding her from me this entire time, Lo.” 

“You never asked.” Logan chuckles, moving to Oscar. You feel a familiar heat pool up in your stomach when Logan’s head dips under Oscar’s jaw, licking your release off his chin. “Gets better every time.” He pulls his lips away with a smack, running his tongue over his lips. The boys turn to your twitching form on the bed. A shared glance is all they need to bend down to you and kiss you. At the same time. Your lips are never left alone as they both kiss hungrily, flicking their tongues out. Although, you can sense a little bit of competition between the two. After a free moment, Oscar pulls back, letting Logan have your mouth. He takes the chance to go to your neck, kissing and sucking the skin there. The minute Logan hears a moan from you, he moves to the bare side of your neck, trying to see who can get you to moan the loudest. Logan’s kisses are passionate and strong, starting to bite on your neck while Oscar’s are playful and loving, gently sucking on your skin. You groan, your hand flying to squeeze your breasts. But you don’t utter a name, frustrating the two boys. 

“You’ll tell us who’s better, right, baby?” Logan whispers in your ear, his hand replacing your own to massage your chest. 

“Yeah, you can’t stay neutral forever…” Oscar playfully bites your nipple, making you cry out his name. “Heard that, Logan?” He smirks. “She wants me.” 

Logan’s jaw clenches and he decides to run two of his fingers down your core teasingly, gathering the slick and rubbing it on one of your nipples. You whine, your hips squirming. 

“Not fair, man,” scoffs Oscar, leaning back and crossing his arms. 

Continuing his ministrations on your peak, Logan breathlessly teases the Australian. “I’m her boyfriend. She chose me. Of course she wants me more.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Oscar throws up his hands. “She only chose you because you asked her out first, even though you knew how I felt about her.” 

Logan stops, huffing. “You never had the balls to ask her out. I met her first, she was mine!” You look between the two boys, the tension in the air palpable. 

“Please…We all know she would’ve picked me if it were fair.” At his comment, Logan’s eyes widen and Oscar’s on his back on the bed in a flash. 

“Maybe,” Logan leans down, whispering huskily. “But it wasn’t. And she’s with me. And you…?” He runs his hands over Oscar’s shorts, sliding them down gently with the boxers. “Need to shut up.” To prove his point, Logan begins to work on Oscar with his hands, earning a sharp inhale from him. 

You just came but felt yourself growing slicker at the sight, Oscar’s delicious mounds teasing your ears in the right way. You crawl over to him on the bed, placing your knees on either side of his face, your behind facing Logan. Oscar takes in the sight of you above him, drawing in a deep breath as his hands hold your thighs firmly in place. You smile softly at him, stroking his hair gently. “You’re so pretty,” you whisper. 

Oscar grows bashful, groaning every now and then due to Logan as he leans in to your touch. He takes a deep breath of your skin, your scent filling his senses. “I always thought you were pretty…” Oscar breathes out, looking into your eyes with lust-hazed ones, like he’d never seen a sight more beautiful in his life. “But from underneath you like this…”

“Fantasised about your best friend’s girlfriend often, did you?” You chuckle lightly. 

“Hey, in my defence, I liked you before you were together.” He bites his lip to stifle a groan as Logan keeps working. His hands grip your thighs, pulling your core down to his mouth, hissing. “Oh….mmm…fuck.” He shuts his eyes as your taste fills his mouth again. His hands moving up and down your thighs, squeezing when Logan makes the boy feel good. He moans as he eagerly flicks his tongue against your core. You rock your hips into his mouth gently, careful not to hurt him. Meanwhile, Logan’s hand pumps Oscar in a languid movement, a technique he picked up from you during your adventures. Oscar’s licks eventually become inconsistent and light, his fingers digging hard into your thighs and judging by the boy’s breathing, he’s almost over the edge. You couldn’t miss the sight. You hop off Oscar, spreading yourself next to him, lazily tracing circles around your clit as Logan leans over Oscar, using both his hands to pleasure him. 

Oscar turns his head to see you touching yourself and his expression falters, his voice croaking out Logan’s name as he comes, his orgasm coating the blonde’s fingers. You don’t have to be asked twice when Logan brings his fingers to your mouth, eagerly licking Oscar’s release clean as he lies exhausted on the bed. 

Logan falls on the other side of Oscar, chuckling softly as he pulls you to be cradled in his arms. “That felt illegal.” 

“But good?” Oscar questions, his voice hoarse. 

“But good.” 

[lvrspiastri]

logan sargeant probably had this on repeat when williams dropped him

[lvrspiastri]

How to deal with a bad result. A comprehensive guide. ˡˢ²

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines :)

masterlist

PAIRING: Logan Sargeant/Gender-Neutral!Reader

SUMMARY: He had a bad race. He finds his reprieve in you. Gender-Neutral reader-- no use of pronouns.

WORDS: 2k

TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, sex, unprotected sex, anal sex, ice play, rough sex, oral sex, grinding, boobs, orgasm denial, orgasm edging, kinks, daddy kink, dom/sub, dom logan, sub reader, dirty talk, blowjob, tie kink, belt, BDSM, spanking, filming, porn, tldr: THIS FIC IS FUCKING FILTHY READ AT YOUR OWN CAUTION

The hotel room wall shakes as Logan slams the door upon entering. He doesn’t even bother looking at you as his feet carry him to the mini-fridge. You can’t help but feel for the boy who’d managed a solid P10 in Qualifying only to crash out a couple laps before the chequered flag. His wins had always felt like your own, and his losses impacted you just as hard. You watch him pour the whiskey on the countertop into a glass after obtaining ice from the fridge. He makes his way to the armchair, sighing as he sips, the ice rattling against the glass. 

Logan has always been the type of person to overthink and be harsh on themselves. You don’t have to look at him to know the turmoil going in his head right now. You’d been his grounding force in times like these, bringing the boy back to earth and stopping the self-deprecation. 

“Baby, you were doing really well. You reached one of the top speeds today. Good job.” His hand just clenches his glass tighter, the clanks of the ice getting louder. “Bad luck today but we’ll get ‘em next time, won’t we?” He lets out a soft scoff in disbelief. When he downs the rest of the glass, the ice cube falls into his mouth. The glass is placed on the table and his hand makes its way to his thigh. He rubs the cloth-covered skin before patting it once. Twice. Thrice. He doesn’t need to voice it out. 

You oblige almost immediately, slowly settling on his thigh. His gaze is hard as he looks at you, the faint sounds of the ice cubes against his teeth and the buzz of the lights being the only sounds in the room. Goosebumps arise on your flesh as he lets his hand travel up your thigh and wrap around your waist. He lets his head tilt back and you have the perfect view of his Adam’s apple bobbing. Although, he doesn’t speak. His fingers wordlessly find their way to your shirt buttons, skilfully undoing them and parting the fabric so he has a view of your glorious bare chest. You don’t miss the light smirk that crosses his face. Many a times had he played with your tits for comfort, squeezing and sucking the flesh like his own personal toy. 

He spits out the ice cube in the palm of his hand, saliva closely following. It slides to his fingers and he smirks, bringing the solid to your nipples and swirling it around the peak. You hiss, the coolness of the object making it hurt and feel mind-boggling at the same time. 

“That’s it,” he mutters softly. “Easy does it.” His circles are slow and tantalising, his eyes trained on every micro expression that crosses your face. His twisted smile gets wider as you groan and squirm on his lap, your hardened peaks glistening. “So pretty. I almost wanna take a picture of it and frame it. Maybe we’ll film a porno and post it on the internet, hm? That way, everybody will know just how maddening you are. And that you get fucked by me like this. Only me.” His teeth grab the ice cube and he uses his mouth to stimulate your nipples, letting out throaty laughs every time you whine and twitch. He could already feel the ache between your legs, your arousal incredibly prominent. “Oh, you whore.” He pulls away, crunching the rest of the ice and swallowing it. “Bed. Naked.”

You nod immediately and strip as quickly as you can, nearly ripping your clothes off as your growing horniness makes you increasingly desperate for the wonderful sex this man can give you. As you settle on the bed, he grabs the ice tray from the fridge and places it on the night stand by the bed. He’s pleased with your efficiency, eyeing your naked form and stretched out legs, giving him a sinful view of your aching core. He lets out a curse under his breath and undoes his belt, pulling it out of the loops. But before you have the opportunity to register his actions, he’s grabbed your arms and uses the belt to bind your wrists together, securing a strong hold that’s likely to leave your skin red. 

Logan is typically very vanilla. He prefers to use his own assets to bring you to your peak rather than external objects. He’s open to try new positions and locations but the boy would have to be incredibly angry or upset to actually be adventurous, indicating his present mood. But you know how depressed he could get and you never hesitate to be a form of relief for him. He crawls onto the bed, hands pulling the shirt off his torso and granting you a view of his abs. Your eyes trail over his muscles and his tits, taking in the sculpted man right before you—a scene you would never get used to. He’d tease you about your unwavering stare on a normal occasion but today was anything but normal. His hands find the pocket of his jeans and he pulls out his phone, pointing the camera at your visibly tense centre. He chuckles, hitting the record button. 

“This is for when I’m away and you’re not there, okay?” He moves the camera in between your legs, capturing every angle of you. “So I can jerk myself off to the sight of you.” He uses his free hand to undo the button of his pants and unzip them, using the same hand to shimmy them down while exploring your naked body on the camera. His boxers peel off with the motion and he takes his hard length in between his hand, pumping slightly. “You’re a good baby for me, love, aren’t you?" You nod eagerly, eyes fixated on the pre-cum that leaks out of his tip. “Yeah? Come and suck Daddy off, then.” You waste no time moving to your knees and letting him ram his cock into your mouth, almost gagging at the force of his thrust. His free hand tangles in your hair, moving your head to the right pace while filming you. Your eyes look up at him as you deepthroat him, tears beginning to pool at the corners. “Good slut. O-Oh- fuck. What a good slut.” 

He moves his hips to help your head, essentially fucking your mouth. Your eyes never leave the camera, even when you begin to cry. The vision of him in a hotel room alone after a long day of training, stroking his dick to the footage of you whilst calling your name is a turn on. He gets rougher with his thrusts, the grip on your hair tightening enough for it to hurt as he pounds into your mouth, pouring his day’s frustrations into the movement. You feel his cock twitch and you eagerly wait for the oncoming orgasm on your tongue, craving the salty cream. But it doesn’t come. He pulls out, watching the saliva drip from your mouth as you let out a gagging noise. He uses his hair to pull you up and licks the spit off your chin, cleaning you up. The jolts sent to your stomach make you forget about the lack of cum on your tongue. 

His movements are rapid. He doesn’t spare a minute to think before your ass is up in the air for him and he delivers a few hard slaps to your cheek before rubbing it. “You look good like this.” Slap. “All bent over for me, my precious.” Slap. “I'm gonna fuck you until the hotel kicks us out, baby.” Slap. “Until I can’t come anymore and your muscles are moulded to the shape of my cock.” Slap. You see him place the phone on the headboard, the back camera filming every little interaction. He’s gonna have the time of his life with the footage. It would make a solid porn video. He lies on his back and slides his face under you, strong hands gripping your thighs as he lowers your hips to his mouth. Once the contact’s made between your core and his mouth, he gets to work. His tongue skilfully laps up every bit of arousal that stemmed from the blowjob you gave him, his warm and wet mouth sucking and licking to bring you toe-curling pleasure. “So sweet, baby. You taste so fucking good.” You fuck his face, moving your hips to assist him, the groans he lets out and the sinful sounds of his tongue leaving your mind in a haze.

“Fuck…Logan…” you whisper out, burying your face in a pillow to surpress sounds loud enough to wake up the entire hotel. His hands roam the vast expanse of your thighs, rubbing and squeezing the soft flesh as his cheeks hollow, sending you screaming into the pillow. But he decides he’s gonna be cruel tonight, pulling his mouth away before you can finish. He wants to make the final orgasm as good as possible, meaning you were in for a lot of edging tonight. “Logan!” You whine, pushing your hips down to his mouth again but his grip stops you as he slides out from underneath you and presses his front against you. 

“If you think I’m gonna be the least bit good to you tonight, you are so wrong,” he spits out. “You are my reprieve tonight, which means you do as I say. This isn’t about your pleasure.” He leans into your ear, biting the earlobe. “It’s about mine.” He lands another smack to your ass before gently kneading the flesh. He licks a stripe up your ass, tongue flicking out at the hole. Your guttural moan has him chuckling softly. He grabs an ice cube from the tray beside the bed and traces it around your hole—gently. Your body jerks and sputters at the cold, cold feeling as you gasp and bury your face deeper into the pillow. “That’s it. Good slut. What a good baby you are.” 

He presses the cube on the tight entrance, slowly shoving it in, making you shudder. The cube feels big to begin with, the coolness of the ice bringing a new wave of pleasure never experienced before. His finger pushes the ice further down your insides. He does so with three more cubes, taking his time with each one while you squirm without a complaint like a good thing for him. He’s very pleased to see how respectful you’re being and decides to make your day. He brings his hand to your mouth, tone demanding. “Spit.” You gather your saliva and eject it into his outstretched palm. He brings the slimy juice to his cock and hisses, spreading it all over the length like lube. He then lines himself up at your entrance and slowly inserts himself, taking it inch by inch to reduce the pain. Despite his sour mood, he would never hurt you in such a way. This was a new experience as it was and he didn’t wish to hurt his little baby. Yet. The ice cubes shimmy further down your tract to fit his cock, the coolness hitting parts of your body you didn’t know felt good. When his cock rests in you smugly, he begins to thrust roughly. No slow, gentle thrusts but harsh, quick thrusts right off the bat. The stretch you felt was delicious and you were sure you wouldn’t last very long. 

Soft curses and grunts escape the boy as he quite literally pounds into you. His hands maintain a death grip on your hips, the hotel bed beginning to creak. But fuck that. He’d pay for anything if it meant the two of you had explosive sex. “Fuck…baby…I’m gonna come…Gonna…spill into your tight little hole…” With a guttural groan, he finishes inside you and you feel the warm seed spread inside your ass, a contrast to the numbing ice cubes. You didn’t get to cum, though. But who’s he to care? He pulls out gently, bending down to catch his cum spilling out into his mouth before it spoils the sheets. He keeps it in his mouth before turning you over and looming over you, bringing his mouth to your own. He forces your mouth to open with his hand and lets the cum drip into your mouth. You invite the creamy liquid warmly, frothing at the mouth with it. He grabs the recording phone and films the filth. “So pathetic.” He turns off the recording and discards his phone off to the side before his lips attack you, moving against you slowly as you swallow the cum. 

He pulls away with a pop and gets off the bed, stretching. “I need me a shower,” he yawns, opening his suitcase. You sit up, flabbergasted. 

“Baby, I haven’t come yet.”

“I know,” he comments casually, pulling out night clothes and boxers. 

“…I need you.”

“Do you?” 

“Mhm.”

“Shame,” you don’t miss the smirk on his face. “Touch yourself, pretty baby.” You gesture to the belt wrapped around your hands, effectively binding them. “Ohh. Sad.” And with that, he walks off to the bathroom as you’re left needy and tied. 

He deserved the DNF.