lvrspiastri

[lvrspiastri]

could you write some sargebon smut where they meet up some time during the 2025 season (after alexs dnf stream) and alex starts to complain to logan and maybe takes out his frustration on him iykwim? thank you :)

idk where this came from, not proofread as always but idk what took over me while writing this, i promise i am not watching gay goon. if you notice any mistakes, please comment them :)

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

Private Debrief ᵃᵃ²³ ˡˢ²

✧. ┊     PAIRING: logan sargeant x alex albon

✧. ┊    WORDS: 2.3k words

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, absolute filth, oral sex, anal sex, gay sex, coarse language

I figured I'd help Alex. Not that I had any valuable advice to give him. But during those nightmare months at Williams, I think he was the only moral support I got. James didn't talk to me. I had no time or will in between races to phone my brother. Kyle had his own races to worry about. Oscar and I felt more like acquaintances than friends. In a way, I was alone. Alone with Alex. The way I liked it.

I'd told myself I wouldn't watch any races after I got dropped. And at first I didn't. Because it fucking stung. Seeing Colapinto in my seat, driving my car, talking to my engineer, laughing with my Alex. But then I heard about Alex's less-than-fortunate DNF streak. And yeah. I knew how that felt. And he turned to me for advice because i'd been through it. He turned to me for advice as I turned to him when the team who I thought loved me back dropped me. And yeah, Alex knew how that felt.

I wake up the morning of his arrival with a cum stain in my pants and a rock-solid dick. I hadn't been thinking about him on purpose, of course. But it seems no one can control wet dreams. So I shower like nothing happened and wash my sweatpants like nothing happened and clean the house like nothing happened because the last thing I needed today was to be bricked up while seeing my old teammate. Friend. Teammate.

Alex arrives with the dimples that I found comfort in between races and the damned eyebrow creases that complement his warm smile. The very ones I used to look at through blurry eyes and shaky breaths. The ones that came with a hand on a shoulder, a kiss to the forehead and a giggly voice telling me it'd be alright. And in the end, he was right. It is alright. I'm alright.

"There's my favourite American," he steps into my home without me asking him to, already owning the space. His suitcase is immediately forgotten, discarded on the floor like I wish his pants were. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me in for a hug. He smells like comfort. He smells like burnt rubber and fuel.

"Careful, mate, your girlfriend's American," I don't let go of him. Not until he pulls away, letting out a chuckle.

"You know what I mean. Besides, I don't see her here, do you?" He bends down to pick up his dropped suitcase, revealing the band of his Calvin Kleins. Fuck. Don't get hard, don't get hard, don't get fucking hard- "So this is your place?" His eyes curiously search the room. Like he's not eyeing the decor. Like he's looking for another sign of life. Like he's assessing if I have a secret flame the world doesn't know about. Or a one night stand that hadn't left yet.

"It's not much. But...it's my home. My London home, anyway. I'll show you the Florida one later."

"I mean to visit during this year's Miami GP, actually. You didn't text me back."

For a fucking reason, yeah. I didn't want him visiting my place like I'm some side chick. Didn't want him to gloat about his top 10 finishes. Didn't want him to parade in my home and show his girlfriend off.

"Ah, I was out, sorry. Just clearing the head and all."

"Really? Thought you were out golfing." There's no snark in his voice but I know it's meant to attack me. Biting words disguised as jokes. Classic Alex.

"You keep tabs on me."

"Only because you disappear from the face of the Earth." I can't argue with that. I find solace in his life outside of social media. Golf, surf, sail. Nothing good comes out of being online. Not for me, anyway.

"Sit," I mutter, gesturing to my comfy living room chairs. Alex's eyes travel over me. Slowly, assessing the way I look. It's no secret I look skinnier. A thinner neck. I haven't been to the gym properly in a while, anyway. I don't need to. No G force to withstand anymore.

"Tea, coffee?"

"Oh, save the formalities, mate. You look like a housewife." I manage a little smile. "Just need you." That very sentence makes me throb. In more ways than one. I give him a terse nod and obey, sitting in front of him. His eyes dart down to my abs. So I think. For a brief second. I sub-consciously put my arms over my stomach.

"So what've you been up to?" A desperate attempt to appear normal. Rejected by him.

"Like you don't know what I've been up to. It's no secret I've been fucking shit, mate." Fuck. Knew it. Fuck.

"Eh, you had a good streak not too long ago, it's just a rough patch, it'll pass." I wasn't very good at comforting. Not like he was to me.

"Maybe it will. I feel like all I care is being better than Carlos." His soft eyes meet mine. "You get what that's like, don't you?"

"What, being better than my teammate?" A nod from him. Not the giggly, light one I was so used to from him. One with his jaw clenched, Adam's apple protruding. Like he could burst at any moment. "Maybe in Carlin. Me and Liam used to go against each other a lot. But, not with you, no."

"What, you never wanted to out-qualify me?"

"No," I whisper and it's true. It's true because I was madly in love with him. I could never rob him off the smile that graced his face when he'd get into points. "I just wanted to prove James wrong. Guess I couldn't." I don't elaborate. I don't want to elaborate either. I think about anything else because I don't want to break in front of him.

"You're a better man than me, then. This shit fucking stings." I nod. I know that feeling all too well. Constantly being in the dumps and wondering if it's your place. Stepping into the garage and feeling guilty for existing. Seeing everyone greet you with a smile but having that fear that deep down, they fucking hate you. They think you're a waste of space. "I've tried to let my stress out. By going to the gym like the others do. Went fishing the other day like you do. Didn't work. I just don't know what fucking else to do." He damn near growls.

I just watch him.

I watch his eyes dart to mine. Then drop to my neck. Then to my abs. Then my...

"Logan?" He clears his throat.

"Ye-yeah?"

"Stop manspreading."

"I'm not-"

"Do it or I swear I'll fucking jump you."

The wind gets knocked out of me. Jump me? My Alex? Yes. Yes. God yes. I spread my legs even further.

"I'm warning you, Logan, I've got a lot of pent up tension."

"And I'm yours for the taking." it comes out more needy than I intended it to. But fuck, I don't care. I don't even finish my line of thoughts before he's straddling me, pinning me to the couch with his huge legs. I always loved how Alex was taller than me. Heavier. Many a times, I'd imagined being helpless under him. And I'd seen his cock enough times through race suits to know he was huge. And I wanted to feel it hurt.

"Pl-Please-"

"That's right, you pathetic boy, beg." He spits. It's so different from the Alex I'm used to. The one that could cure your mood with a smile. The one that talks your ear off. But I think I like this Alex more.

"God, Alex, fuck..." He grabs a hold of my hands, pinning them to the head of the couch. My shirt rides up, my v-line suddenly cold and exposed. He thrusts forward, our bulges meeting each other. I let out an otherworldly groan, mind hazy from lust. Love? I can't tell at this moment.

"Are you a blowjob guy or a handjob guy?" He whispers into my ear. I had revealed every bit of myself to him through time. Answering this question will unlock a dark part of myself I'd been denying existed. A part that wanted Alex's cock in my throat so bad-

"Blowjob, definitely," I breathlessly huff, chest rising and falling, dick twitching in my pants. "I jerk off to your photos anyway, I need your mouth."

"You do that, huh?" He lets out a soft chuckle, clenching his jaw as he rolls his dick against mine, earning an eye roll to the skull from me. "I had a feeling you liked me. Just a shame you never told me how horny you were. I would've molded your asshole to my dick shape by now."

"Alex..." I whisper, my head thrown against the headrest of the couch. He slides off me, moving to his knees in front of me. He nudges my weak, failing legs apart. I let out a soft whimper of a plea, brain systems already shutting down. I don't notice when my pants are off. All I feel is my cock twitching when he pulls it out and swirls his tongue around my tip. "Ngh...mmph...."

"Shh, my love, easy does it..." He strokes my cock, a gentle hand tracing my veins, saliva dripping down the length of it. More whimpers from me. I'm a complete mess but can you blame me. He throats me slow at first, with the tenderness that comes from finally having someone you've wanted for a long time and the knowledge of it being your first gay experience.

And then it's harsh.

He fondles my balls, damn near chokes on my dick. I'm crying. He is too. I lube his throat with my cum, sensitive to every touch and every blow of the wind in the room.

"Alex, that's enough, please..."

"Enough? And leave here without nutting inside you? You're crazy, mate." He gingerly flips me over, ass up in the air. His large, slim hands roam over the bare pale flash, kneading and squeezing wherever he sees fit. I can't see much else than the fabric of the couch my face is buried in. My whimpers are muffled too, hands tugging on the fabric for leverage. "Do you have lube?"

"No," I mutter. I preferred fucking my girls raw. We never did it up the backdoor anyway and they were usually soaked by the time their panties came off. Never did I think I'd need it before my asshole got pounded by my old teammate.

"Useless," he scoffs. I turn my head around to get a glimpse of him spitting my cum back into his hand, the one I release down his throat. It's proper slimey and frothy by now. He smears the liquid all over his huge dick (just as I'd predicted), jerking himself a little to let it settle in. I only feel a brush of his tip against my tight hole before he rams himself in me. And I fucking scream. A proper, high-pitched, horror scream. The pain is worse than I could've imagined. He doesn't move for the first bit, letting himself sink in, letting me adjust. He always cared about me a little too much. A hand on my shoulder before he starts to roughly pound. I can feel his balls slapping against my own, the couch creaking with every thrust. My head repeatedly hits the back of the couch and I pray I don't get whiplash.

The pace is excruciatingly fast. He's pent up and needs this. I don't realise my mouth is hung open, saliva dripping down my chin and onto the seat of the couch. Which I needed to clean later. Can't have my parents seeing this shit.

"Alex...!"

"Take it. And just keep quiet, I don't wanna hear your whining."

"It's too much"

"What did I just say, mate?" The use of 'mate' when he's practically ripping me into shreds is a cruel irony.

"O-Okay, Alex. Sorry, Alex." He decides to grab my hanging cock, jerking it off as he keeps thrusting into into into. I can't breathe. I can't think. The space in between my legs is burning. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My teeth grab a hold of the couch's fabric as he shoots his load into me, feeling fuller and fuller as he leaks his aggravation into me. It doesn't take me long to shoot my own cum, painting Alex's hand and the couch alike.

I don't know what happens after. I'm in an entirely different world. I don't notice when he pulls out and cleans himself up. When he zips up his pants or turns me over. I find myself sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, head hung, breathing taking it's time to steady. He sits next to me, putting my head on his shoulder.

There's that comfort that was my reason for survival.

My Alex.

"So much better than girls," I manage to pant out.

"I know, right?"

"You've...been with a man before?" The thought fills me with an unreasonable sense of jealousy. The idea of him with his girlfriend doesn't rouse me in the slightest. But to be with a man in the way same way he was with me? It stings. It makes me angry.

"What do you think George and I did in our free time at the shared hotel rooms?" George Russell. Should've seen that one coming. Flashes of their mouths against each other's run through my mind. And I start to get harder.

Against my better judgement, I speak, "Have you ever been in a threesome?"

[lvrspiastri]

can we request me some sandman stuff esp the corinthian if that’s okay i’m deep into brainrot 😖💔

[lvrspiastri]

THE SANDMAN 2.09

[lvrspiastri]

Can i request an isack hadjar fic where reader is isacks best friend. She’s quite inexperienced and is interested in this other guy so she asks isack to teach her how to kiss and other spicy stuff.

She’s secretly harboured a crush for isack since before they were friends but she didn’t think he liked her back so doing this teaching thing is blurring the lines between how she feels for him and she starts to realise maybe she’s not that interested in the guy she liked. At a party one in one of the drivers hotel rooms she sees another girl flirting with isack and it makes her jealous and she realises she does in fact like him. She excuses herself from the party and he notices and follows her to her hotel room and he asks her what’s wrong. And she confesses she was jealous and he laughs saying you don’t think i was jealous when you were talking to the guy he though she has a crush on and they have sex and he’s being super possessive.

i cant even justify my disappearance. i should be back. (hopefully) i had a birthday yaay!

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

masterlist

jealousy, jealousy ᶦʰ⁶

✧. ┊     PAIRING: isack hadjar x fem!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 2.7k words

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, jealousy, oral sex, coarse language, virgin

Isack had a horrible habit of leaving his room messy. The impressive thing was that it didn’t even take him time to make a perfect hotel room look like it’d been burned to the ground. And for me, who was a bit more of a perfectionist, this was utter hell. Utter hell when I have to share a hotel room with my best friend purely for his races. You’d think one would get used to it after 17 years.

Time doesn’t make the sight any less painful.

So I fold the lazy ass’s laundry while he sits on the bed with his shoes on (filthy), scrolling on his phone and occasionally giggling at the mind-numbing Italian brain rot his fellow rookies had sent him. I get down to the last shirt when i hear the familiar lock sound of his phone. There’s silence for a beat. Two. A soft chuckle from him.

“You do not have to treat me like a kid, you know,” he takes the shirt from my hands and begins folding it himself.

“Oh please. If i stop all this, you’d be living in a pigsty.”

“What is ‘pigsty?’”

“Like…a dirty room. Ones pigs may live in.”

“Ah.”

A few moments of comfortable, familiar silence.

Until my phone dings.

And he can tell by the smile gracing my face that it's him. Ollie.

Ollie had been a natural part of our lives. Growing up in the same junior racing environment, he and I had become good friends. When Isack had been occupied with hours in the sim, or cautious night outs with girls who he was "just friends" with, it was Ollie who kept me company. And it would be foolish to claim that I don't feel anything for him.

Isack doesn’t say anything at first, but I catch the way his hands falter slightly on the fold. He smooths the shirt out twice, unnecessarily, then sets it down with a little more force than needed.

I glance up, still smiling, still caught in that light, floaty feeling that always follows a text from Ollie.

"So I'll see you tonight then?"

Yes. Of course he would. I'd been aching to hear that sweet Brit accent of his.

“You’re texting him again?” Isack says. Light. Airy. The kind of tone that tries a little too hard not to sound like it means something.

“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate.

He nods. Stands up and walks to his suitcase, fiddling with the zipper like he’s looking for something. Probably nothing. “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Just…didn’t know you guys were that close.”

“We weren’t.” I pause. “We are now.”

Isack hums. That kind of passive sound that people make when they’re trying to hold back an opinion. He doesn’t look at me, and it’s weird. He always looks at me. Especially when he’s trying to prove a point.

I stare at the heart that pops up when Ollie likes my text.

So it's settled. I'm seeing him tonight.

In his room.

Which would mean....

Fuck.

Supporting Isack's career meant a lot of travel.

And a lack of travel meant the lack of stable relationships.

And lack of stable relationships meant lack of...experience.

I'd kissed a boy, of course.

But only once.

And it was at a party, the kind where everyone’s too drunk to remember who they kissed and too proud to admit they cared. His name was Luca or Logan or something with an L, and it had tasted like vodka and sour lollies. It didn’t count. Not really.

I swallow hard. The little heart on my phone screen pulses, pink and harmless, but it might as well be a siren.

Isack shifts beside me, still not looking. He’s scrolling through something on his phone with his thumb moving slower than usual—deliberate. Controlled.

“You okay?” I ask. Stupid question. Automatic.

“Yeah.” His voice is clipped. That kind of "yeah" that means no. That means you know I’m not, so why’d you ask?

I look away from him. Back to my phone. Back to that text:

"You sure you're okay with this?"

Ollie had sent it just after I told him I’d come over.

I'd replied too quickly.

"Of course. Can’t wait."

Isack finally puts his phone down, and I feel him watching me now. It burns at the edge of my vision.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.” His voice is lower now. Quiet, like he’s afraid of breaking something between us.

“I know.” I tap the side of my phone with my thumbnail. “I want to.”

It’s not a lie. Not really.

But it’s not the truth, either.

He nods, slow and unreadable. Then, softer, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

I blink. “What, go to a guy’s room?”

He doesn’t smile. Just shakes his head once. “You know what I mean.”

Silence stretches. Not awkward—just tense. Like the pause before a question you’re scared to ask.

“No,” I say finally. “I haven’t.”

He nods again, and something in his face softens. He turns his eyes away like that makes it easier to say, “Then don’t let it be with someone who makes you feel like you have to prove anything.”

My chest tightens.

The room feels too full of things unsaid.

It's stupid and a lost cause, what I'm about to say.

"You have experience."

His body stills, irises darting across my face. But he does not breathe too loud, like he's afraid he'll say what he wants to. Like he'll let his inner thoughts slip.

"I do."

Short. Sweet. Simple. Not letting on too much.

I shift closer, voice dropping in volume, tone becoming velvety. "Will you teach me?"

His lips part. Just slightly. Barely. But enough.

Enough for me to see the exact moment his composure falters.

He blinks once, slow and heavy, like he’s rebooting. Like the question short-circuited something in him.

"Don’t say things like that," he says. His voice isn’t harsh, but there’s a rawness to it, something frayed at the edges. “Not if you don’t mean them.”

I tilt my head. “Who said I didn’t?”

A breath hitches in his throat. That’s all the answer I need.

The silence between us tightens—elastic and dangerous. He looks at me then, really looks, the kind of look that leaves nowhere to hide.

"I’m not a game," he murmurs. “Not some trial run before you go to him.”

I don’t flinch. But my heart does. Loud and fast, betraying every illusion of calm.

"Neither am I," I whisper. "But you’re the only person I’d trust with this."

His jaw tenses. He swallows, eyes falling to my lips and then flicking back up like it burned him to look too long.

"This is a bad idea," he says, more to himself than to me.

“Maybe,” I say, inching closer, “but it’s still an idea.”

A beat. Another.

Then, quietly, he says: “Say it again.”

I blink. “What?”

His voice is almost a breath, but there’s heat coiled underneath.

“Ask me again.”

So I do.

“Will you teach me?”

This time, he doesn’t look away.

A nod. A hitch in his breath.

And then he moves.

Not with urgency, but with intention. His hand hovers just above my knee, fingers curled slightly, hesitating like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

"You don’t get to take this back," he says. His voice is quiet, steadier than I expected. Not a warning to scare me off, more like a reminder that this means something. To him. Maybe more than I realised.

"I know," I say. My voice is softer than his. But certain. "I won’t."

His hand settles on me then, warm and grounding. Not possessive. Just real.

There’s a moment where he just looks at me, like he’s memorising something he doesn’t want to forget. And then...

"Come here."

It’s barely more than a breath. But I go.

And when he touches my face, it’s with a kind of gentleness I didn’t know I needed. His thumb grazes the skin under my eye, featherlight, like he’s checking if I’ll vanish.

My chest tightens. But not with fear. Not with nerves.

With something else.

He leans in slowly, giving me time, giving me space. I don’t pull back. I don’t blink. I just close the distance.

And when his lips touch mine, it’s nothing like that party kiss I’d tried so hard to convince myself was enough.

This isn’t messy or thoughtless or something we’ll pretend didn’t happen.

This is patient. Intentional. Earned.

It’s a lesson, yes, but not the kind I expected.

He isn’t just teaching me how to be kissed.

He’s teaching me what it feels like to be chosen.

His palm cups my cheek, and the kiss deepens. Slowly, carefully, like he’s still asking, still listening to every breath I take, every shift of my body against his.

His thumb brushes along my skin, anchoring me, grounding me, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. The pressure of his mouth grows more certain, not rushed but purposeful, like he’s giving me space to lean in or pull away. Like every part of him is waiting on me.

And I do lean in.

Because I want more. Not just of the kiss, but of him, this version of him I don’t get when he’s driving, or teasing, or pretending he doesn’t feel things as deeply as he does. This version, the quiet one, the one who touches like a promise and kisses like he means it.

His fingers slip into my hair, the kiss deepening again, warmer now, more open. He still doesn’t push. He still doesn’t rush. But there’s heat beneath the patience, like he’s been holding back longer than he’ll ever admit.

And for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m behind. Like I’m lacking or learning too late.

I just feel wanted. Completely. As I am.

I don't feel that way with Ollie. Not when I kiss him.

Maybe I did it wrong?

I go back to Isack's room after the night. I intended to stay over, yes. But my disappointment with how the night turned out just pushed me towards something more comforting. Familiar. Isack.

It's the last race of the year. Abu Dhabi. Glitz and glamour. Bittersweet endings. Fireworks for the championship winner. Champagne for the ones with trophies. A driver's party for Isack and I. I haven't spoken to Ollie since. I don't think I have the privilege to, anyway.

It starts off as any regular party. No one on the dance floor, everyone causing a stampede near the bar. Men and women flirting with each other, eyeing each other, hoping that the alcohol entering their system will grant them the courage. Usual shitty party routine. I don't expect seeing Isack partake in it.

She's a pretty blonde across the club. The one who you'd typically see swinging off of Leclerc's and every other lower Formula driver. I didn't, however, expect my best friend to be into them.

He doesn't look at me when he dances with me. His head is always turned away, eyes roaming her long legs and bare waist.

It fucking hurts.

After a drink or two, I've lost all sight of him. I meet Ollie's eyes a few times in the club but all I can fucking think about is where he is. And then I catch sight of him

Her hand on his shoulder, her lips in an overly sweet smile. That annoying giggle ringing through the air that's bound to make a guy's pants tight. A lean in and peck on the cheek.

And my body burns. Not from the alcohol. From the jealousy that engulfs me like a wildfire. From the tears in my eyes that threaten to fall. From the ache of my heart that beats for him.

I can't stop the tear from falling. And it's suffocating.

Out. Now. I grab my bag and head straight for the door. Liam must've noticed me, for he heads over to Isack and nudges him to me. I don't see what happens after. My vision is too blurry and my head too foggy to care.

I go where my feet carry me. They know the way. My hands autonomously swiping the room key and heading inside the room. The door doesn't even get a chance to shut before he bolts in, holding me as I fall to the floor.

Still struggling to figure out whether it's alcohol or feelings.

"What's wrong?" His voice is a soothing whisper, cutting through the turmoil in me. "Talk to me, my love, what is wrong?"

"That girl...she..." I manage to croak. It's silent and it's broken and it's incoherent but he knows.

"She's no one, nobody, I do not even know her name..."

"How could you? In front of me, too." God, it sounds so pathetic, so selfish. I couldn't care less.

"Oh, mon coeur," he lets out a soft chuckle. Not mocking, not ill-intended. Disbelieving. "How do you think I have felt all this time you've wanted Ollie?"

"That's the think, Isack, I don't." My voice shudders. "He doesn't make me feel like you do."

"Yeah?" he leans in, voice raspy. "And what do I make you feel?"

I can't say it, the word, the feeling too forbidden.

He unbuttons his shirt slightly, whispering. "Give me your consent. And I'll teach you what it's like to love."

One gaze into his caramel eyes and I nod. He hooks his arms around my thighs and practically throws me on the bed.

"Fuck, don't have protection." He curses, taking off the belt holding his pants up.

"Well, pull out in time, then." He smirks, amused by my insistence. I won't pretend this hasn't been on my mind for a while. Going all my life without sex drove me insane.

He takes his time with me, teasingly stripping me, his thumbs brushing against my bare skin like I'm something to be treasured. An experience to last. He's seen me naked before but not in this light. Not when I'm all his. Not when we both know what's yet to come.

He lays on his stomach, putting my legs on his shoulders, his hands shimmying the fabric of my panties off my legs. He kisses every new bit of skin revealed, tongue flicking at anything but the clit. I get desperate enough to let out a pathetic whine. A chuckle, a murmur in French and then a tender kiss to my core. It's better than I'd envisioned. Better than my own fingers could ever do. Better than wet dreams. Better than makeshift sex toys. He eats me like I'm a fine dish. Something served at a high-end restaurant, something to take your time with. His tongue swirls, his lips nibble, his hands squeeze the flesh of my thighs. It's no secret he's skilled. I don't want to know where he got the practice from.

"You're so beautiful. My little girl." Smacks of lips against wet flesh, fingers teasingly brushing my pulsating core. I immediately grab a hold of his hair, fighting the need to scream. His mouth keeps working, a diversion from the fingertips that dive in to me. And it is too much to contain. "Shh, shh. Don't want your dearest Bearman finding out."

"Oh, I have a feeling he knows- FUCK!" He curls his fingers, hitting a spot inside me that makes my lungs tighten and eyes wet.

"Your legs are shaking. Wow." He keeps up his newfound movement, curling and curling and hitting and hitting until I squirt, the golden liquid wetting his shirt, letting the fabric cling to his abs. I pant, the feeling similar to after an intense workout, which this was. I lie there, dazed, blissful, in love.

"Shh, you're okay." He makes a move to lie beside me, letting me into his arms. My first time, and the feeling was too intense for me to comprehend. "That's enough, yeah, you're good. We don't have to do anything else, just relax." A soft kiss to the top of my head. And the words I've waited to hear my whole life.

"I love you."

[lvrspiastri]

maybe something with logan where his partner is a f1 driver (too & still even after he got fired) & drives for a top team (mclaren, merc, ferrari or red bull) & everyone is just super mean online because they think reader deserves better than a unemployed bum without future. from then on i let you decide what you would wanna write :)

thought this would be fun as a SMAU :)

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

masterlist

Would it be enough if I could never give you peace? ˡˢ²

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

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: coarse language, hate. some images used are not mine and the credits go to their rightful owners. this is a work of fiction.

┊

user1: Expected, but a harsh decision for sure. The pressure in F1 is relentless!

user2: This sport is savage. Perform or you are out.

user3: Well, that’s one less bum in F1. He stayed way longer than he should’ve.

user4: @yourusername deserves fucking better than this sad piece of shit. at least he's gone.

yourusername made a new post!

liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon, logansargeant, charlesleclerc, alexdunne, tomass_stolcermanis and 881,223 others

yourusername: lucky number 3. thanks to the team.

┊

user1: YOU ATE

user2: Best in the world

user3: LMAO YOU WINNING A RACE AND YOUR USELESS EXCUSE OF A BOYFRIEND GETTING DROPPED ON THE SAME WEEKEND

user4: deserved. he was a shitbag. good for williams.

user5: proof you don't deserve logan lol. i heard lando was single

logansargeant posted a new photo!

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

logansargeant: no place like home

┊

user1: good to see you happy

user2: WE MISSED YOU

user3: you don't deserve to date your partner btw. got more wins than you have points

user4: can’t believe a multi-race winner is dating… this. Unemployed AND delusional.

user5: partner's winning races and you’re winning… what, pity likes?

user6: this is literally charity work

user7: funny how someone so brilliant can be blind enough to love a failure

Formula1 posted a new photo!

yourusername posted a new photo!

liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon, logansargeant, arthur_leclerc, victormartins and 881,223 others

yourusername: i have everything i need right here

┊

user1: he’s just a placeholder until you realise you can do way better

user2: ur carrying everything. the career, the looks, the emotional labor 💀

user3: this is actually sad to see. ur winning trophies and he’s doing nothing but vibing in ur shadow.

yourusername: i understand not everyone will support our relationship. that's fine. we don't need it. disrespect, however, isn't. user4: no because this was the most graceful slap i’ve ever seen user5: oh they’re not breaking up ever. this is real. user6: he must be doing something right cause damn ur fighting for him

┊

user1: bet you guys feel real fuckin dumb rn

user2: omg "yourusername reposted" EEEKKKK

user3: call me parasocial but i'm in love with their love

user4: impressive addition to his resume

┊

user1: oh my goodness

yourusername: cool. but i'm still faster

logansargeant: we'll see about that, my love

user3: WE PROVED THE HATERS WRONG

user4: he's got a lot in store for him. talented lad.

[lvrspiastri]

i loveee ur stuff, i was wondering if u could write a arthur x fem!reader smut, where she works on charles team (not on ferrari, but like personal photographer or smth, like she travels with charles basically) n she and arthur have like veryyy big tension (like non stop banter, snarky comment, teasing, barks). Then at an after party (monaco 24?) she ends up in his room and they fuck.

hope this is something along the lines of what you were looking for :) also it isn’t proofread so i apologise for any mistakes!

reminder that requests are open just check out the guidelines, masterlist

Most Ardently ᴬᴸ

✧. ┊     PAIRING: arthur leclerc x fem!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 2.5k words

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, enemies to lovers, coarse language, taunts, unprotected sex

There were a lot of perks that came with being Charles Leclerc’s personal photographer.

It wasn’t the career path I imagined back when I was a broke uni student shooting blurry portraits of my friends in exchange for takeaway, but somehow, through a chaotic mix of luck, timing, and a shared love of vintage lenses, I ended up with a dream job I never knew I wanted. Private planes stocked with champagne, hotel suites bigger than my entire apartment back home, and front-row access to the kind of glamour most people only glimpse through a screen.

And, of course, Charles himself.

A vision of a man who looked like he stepped straight out of a black-and-white film reel. The kind of subject photographers would kill for.And honestly? One of the kindest clients I’d ever had.

But there was a downside.

A very loud, very smug, very infuriating downside.

His motherfucking brother.

Arthur Leclerc.

The most demonic Leclerc there was.

Arthur Leclerc was a menace.

Not in the villainous, tabloid-scandal kind of way—no, that would’ve been too easy. Arthur was worse. He was charming. The kind of charming that made people forgive him for everything, from stealing your towel when you were in the swimming pool to “accidentally” locking you out of your hotel room at 2AM barefoot. Which he’d done. Twice.

He took one look at me, day one on the job, and decided I was going to be his favorite new toy. Not in a romantic way (though he flirted just enough to keep me constantly confused), and not in a cruel way either. It was worse. He teased.

Endlessly.

Relentlessly.

Like it was his full-time job.

“Your lens cap is still on, Picasso,” he’d say, even when it wasn’t. "Do men not get with you because of your face or your personality?" “You hang around Charles too much. You’ll start talking in italics and heartbreak soon.”

Just constant yapping.

We were in Monco that weekend. Sun-drenched and stupidly beautiful. Charles had disappeared into a meeting with the team, leaving me with a golden hour and a memory card begging to be filled.

I was crouched near the harbour, fiddling with exposure settings, when a shadow loomed over me.

“Careful,” Arthur’s voice drawled. “You might fall in. Not that anyone would notice.”

I didn’t look up. I didn't need to see him to know who it was. “And yet, somehow, I always know when you’re nearby. Must be the smell of arrogance and body spray.”

He tsked. “That is rich, coming from someone wearing a shirt that says ‘Pentax 4 Life’. You are realising it makes you look like a cult member?”

I finally looked up, squinting at him through the sun. He was wearing that ridiculous smirk again—the one that made people hand him drinks or forgiveness without thinking. Not me. I knew better.

“You don’t have to stand here, you know,” I said. “There’s a whole country for you to go be irritating in.”

“Ah, ange, you are the most fun to irritate,” he said, crouching beside me like he belonged in the frame. “Besides, Charles said I should try being helpful.”

I paused, suspicious. “Helpful how?”

He reached over and—without asking—tilted my camera up a fraction. “There. Better composition. Rule of thirds, no?”

I swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch my camera.”

“Relax, Picasso. You will still get your moody shot of a yacht.”

“It’s a catamaran, you Philistine.”

He grinned wider, and for a second, I hated how good his eyes looked in this light. Gold-flecked. Unfair.

“You know,” he said casually, “for someone whose job it is to observe, you are much terrible at hiding things.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Arthur stood up, brushing nonexistent dust off his shorts. “Nothing. Just that you get really flustered when I’m around. It is cute. Like a kicked puppy.”

“I don’t get flustered,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “I get annoyed. Because you never shut up, and you always assume everything is about you.”

“Because it usually is.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

He leaned in then—too close, the heat of him sudden and sharp in the salt air. His voice dropped low, almost amused. “And yet, you never walk away.”

That shut me up.

Only for a moment.

“Because I don’t lose,” I said, chin lifted. “And if I walk away, you win.”

Arthur blinked, something sparking behind his gaze.

For once, he didn’t have a comeback.

Just a half-smile, a beat of silence, and a slow, measured step back.

“Well then,” he murmured. “Let the games continue.”

The afterparty was a blur of champagne flutes, flashing cameras, and the sound of Charles’ name being chanted like a hymn. He’d won. Finally. Monaco. His home race.

I was happy for him. Ecstatic, even. But also bone-tired and overstimulated, wedged between celebrities and sponsors and too many people who thought owning a Leica made them a creative.

And I was clinging to the edge of the dance floor, counting the seconds until I could leave.

Until he found me.

Arthur.

His shirt half-buttoned, a drink in one hand and mischief in his eyes.

Of course.

He sidled up, shameless. “You look like you would rather be at a funeral.”

“I’d rather be anywhere you’re not,” I muttered.

“Yet you are watching me,” he said, stepping closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Is it the shirt? It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”

I turned to face him, glaring. “It’s the fact that you’ve been following me around like a lost kitten all night.”

“I prefer ‘charming menace.’”

“I prefer ‘walking red flag.’”

He grinned, leaning in so our noses nearly touched. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”

I opened my mouth to fire back. Something scathing. Something final—but his hand brushed my waist, possessive and sudden.

I froze.

We were tucked into a corner of the club, the shadows flickering just enough to make it feel hidden, but not enough to be safe. Not really. People were all around us, drinks sloshing, cameras flashing, music pulsing like a heartbeat.

“You keep looking at me like you want to slap me,” Arthur said, voice low.

“Maybe I do.”

“Or maybe you want to do something else.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across my hip. Not subtle. Not coy.

I shoved him back, hard.

“What is wrong with you?”

That got his attention. His jaw tensed, sharp under the flashing lights. “What, now you are pretending like you don’t want this?”

“I don’t want you—”

“Ah, c'est conneries!”

We were nose to nose again. Breathing hard. Both of us trembling with something hot and ugly and undeniable.

And then—

I kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed me. It didn’t matter. We crashed into each other, mouths colliding like a car crash, hot and reckless, all teeth and tongue and fury.

Someone bumped into us, laughed, maybe even whistled. I didn’t care. Arthur’s hands were gripping my waist, my jaw, my hair, like he didn’t know where to hold first. Like he couldn’t decide which part of me he wanted most.

“You’re out of your mind,” I whispered against his lips.

He grinned, wild and breathless. “You make me that way.”

And when his hand slid under the hem of my dress, low, possessive, there, I didn’t stop him.

I should’ve.

But instead, I tipped my head back and let him.

Let him claim me, right there in the corner of that stupid glittering club, with Monaco spinning around us like a dream we couldn’t wake up from.

The moment the hotel room door slammed shut behind us, it started.

“You’re impossible,” I snapped, walking in ahead of him. “You don’t know when to quit.”

Arthur’s laugh was sharp. “And you don’t know when to admit you liked it.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

He paused. “So say you did.”

I turned around slowly. “Why? So you can gloat? Add it to your list of wins?”

“I am not keeping score!"

“You’re a Leclerc. Of course you are.”

He stepped closer, the heat between us flickering back to life. “You kissed me first. You grabbed my hair. You moaned my name in the middle of a fucking club.”

“And you let me.” My voice dropped. “You wanted me to.”

He didn’t deny it.

He just stared at me like he was trying to figure out if this was real—or if he’d imagined the way I came apart in his hands.

I kicked off my shoes, backing toward the bed. “So what now, Arthur? You want a round two just to prove something?”

He shrugged off his jacket, eyes still locked on me. “I want a round two because I can’t stop thinking about how you looked when I had your thighs shaking.”

My breath caught. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.

“You’re such a cocky little shit,” I muttered.

“And you’re still here.”

He crossed the room in two strides. Grabbed my waist. Kissed me like he was punishing me for every word I hadn’t said.

We tumbled backward onto the bed, all teeth and hands and heat.

“I hate how good you are at this,” I whispered against his throat.

“Good?” he scoffed. “You were begging.”

I shoved his shoulder. “You’re delusional.”

He pinned my wrists above my head, smirking. “Say you didn’t like it. Go on.”

I didn’t.

I bit his lip instead.

His groan was low, broken. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

“And you’re obsessed with me.”

He didn’t argue.

He just kissed me again—deeper, hungrier, like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and stay there.

There was no pretending it was casual this time. No drunken excuse, no blurry club lights to hide behind.

Just us.

Sharp edges. Fast hands. Bruised mouths.

He peeled my dress off like he’d imagined it a hundred times. Maybe he had. Maybe I had too. His hands weren’t soft. They were sure. Greedy. Mapping skin like he didn’t believe it was real.

I shoved his shirt off and dragged my nails down his back, marking him. “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

Arthur’s breath caught, then he smiled, dark and wrecked. “Then show me.”

I pushed him onto the bed, climbed over him, settled myself over his hips without breaking eye contact.

For a second, neither of us moved.

He stared up at me like I’d just ruined him. And maybe I had.

“You don’t get to ruin this,” I whispered, breath shaking.

“I would not dream of it,” he said, voice raw. ���Just tell me you want this.”

I didn’t say it.

I showed him.

His hands were on my waist, guiding me, grounding me. My mouth on his shoulder, his jaw, his throat. The sharp gasp he let out when I rolled my hips harder made something twist low in my stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel—god, you feel unreal.”

I pressed my forehead against his. “You talk too much.”

He flipped us, pushed me down into the mattress with a quiet, breathless laugh. “Then shut me up.”

He pulled himself out of his tight jeans, manhood springing free like he hadn't let himself release in months.

He shucked off his jeans, cursing softly when they caught at the knees. I watched him through half-lidded eyes, every inch of him flushed and trembling, like the moment itself was too much to hold.

And then—

"I do not have protection..." he muttered, like this information could stop him from all he's every wanted.

"I don't care."

"But ma chérie..."

"Just put it in, God!"

And he sank, letting out a deep groan emanating from low in his throat. He took it inch by inch, careful to take it easy and not hurt me. Not when he'd just got me.

"You've been fucked before, yes?" God, he really did let his mouth run.

"Yeah." His jaw clenched at my answer, thrusts growing harsher. "What, you expect me to be a virgin?"

"No," he exhaled, eyes shut tight as he changed his angle, grunting. "Do not like that you have had another man inside you."

"Whoever said anything about a man?"

"Don't tease me, coucou." Thrust. One. Two. A whine from me.

"I'm gonna..."

"I can feel you clenching."

“Arthur—”

He leaned down, lips brushing my jaw, my cheek, my mouth. “Come for me,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

I broke with a cry, the tension snapping like a string pulled too tight. My body arched up into him, shaking, legs wrapped tight around his waist. My nails dug into his back, anchoring me to him as he fucked me through it, slow and deep and possessive.

“That is it,” he growled, breath ragged. “That’s my girl.”

His pace faltered. His hips jerked once, twice more, and then he was spilling inside me with a stuttering groan, his forehead pressed against mine, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurt.

We lay there for a moment, gasping, sweat-slicked and silent. The only sound was the hum of the city through the hotel windows, far away and irrelevant.

Then Arthur pulled out gently, collapsing beside me on the bed, arm flung over his eyes.

I stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving. “Well. That was...”

“A mistake?” he offered, voice muffled.

“No,” I said, too fast. Then softer: “No. Just... unexpected.”

He turned his head to look at me, lips still parted, hair sticking to his forehead. “You going to regret this tomorrow?”

“Are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’m only going to regret stopping.”

I turned toward him, tracing a lazy line along his shoulder. “We fight too much.”

“We flirt too much,” he corrected. “And then we pretend it’s fighting.”

A silence bloomed between us. Not awkward—just full. Full of all the things we hadn’t said. All the things we were too afraid to admit out loud.

He reached for my hand. Twined our fingers together without asking.

“I’m not just playing with you,” he said finally.

“I know,” I whispered.

"Be mine?"

I nod.

[lvrspiastri]

do u write for other drivers or which specific drivers do u write for 🤗

thank you for this question, i do write for other drivers! no specificities, i’ll write for any driver or any driver pairing! smut, angst, fluff, your wish is my command. there are guidelines, though, as anyone has:

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!

and if you need anything else, here’s my intro post: [x]

hope that helps :D

[lvrspiastri]

LOGAN IS EMPLOYED 😭😭😭😭

[lvrspiastri]

thanks for 100 so fast guys 💛

here’s a gift <3

[lvrspiastri]

eeeeeek the single dad arthur au is so cute? can I request a little add on of like the first they confess the love each other?

FUCK YEAH more single-dad!arthur. i love him. i love freddy. so glad you asked this anon.

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

masterlist

pt 1 pt 2.1

Parenthesis ᴬᴸ pt 2.2

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

✧. ┊    WORDS: 1.1k

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

It didn’t happen with fireworks. Not with a kiss in the rain or a dramatic declaration. No violins or candlelight.

It happened on a Tuesday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings, the kind that smelled like jasmine and earth and the last stretch of daylight. I was helping Freddy glue macaroni to a shoebox. Some kind of diorama for school. He insisted it was a spaceship, though it looked more like a pasta crime scene.

Arthur was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a bit of flour on his jaw from the pizza dough we hadn’t even finished rolling out. He’d offered to cook, as he sometimes did now. "You shouldn't have to cook for me," he said. I didn’t even pretend to say no anymore.

“You’re putting too much glue, Fred,” I told Freddy, nudging the bottle out of his determined little hand.

He frowned. “Papa says more is always better.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Does he now?”

Before Freddy could defend his father’s honour, Arthur appeared beside us with a bowl of grated cheese. “Only with cheese,” he clarified, placing it on the table. Then, to Freddy, “Not glue, mon cœur. That’s why your robot from last week is still stuck to the dining chair.”

Freddy giggled.

I met Arthur’s soft eyes over the mess of macaroni and glitter glue and felt it again. That quiet knowing. The one I kept stumbling into, week after week, like a secret I was still learning how to keep.

After bedtime, after the toothbrush battle and two storybooks and Freddy’s usual stalling routine (“One more hug. Okay, now one more for my foot. Papa, my other foot”)—Arthur and I were left in the living room. Just us. The light was dim, the TV quietly playing some wildlife documentary no one was really watching. His feet were bare. I was in one of his old sweatshirts because I’d spilled juice on mine and he insisted. Said it smelled like soap and racing fuel. I said it smelled like him.

I'd gotten up to grab a warm drink.

No, it didn’t happen with fireworks. Not with a kiss in the rain or a sweeping declaration at the foot of the bed.

It happened in the kitchen.

And it started with a fight.

I was already in the kitchen when he came back, leaning against the counter, nursing a half-cup of now-cold tea. The lights were off except for the stove hood and the dim yellow bulb above the sink. The city outside was quiet. We weren’t.

Arthur stepped in, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. His voice was low when he said it. Casual, almost. Like he was commenting on the weather.

“You do not have to keep doing this.”

I looked up. “Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely. “Coming over. Staying late. Pretending like you belong here.”

My heart thudded. “Pretending?”

He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. “I just—maybe it is unfair. Of me. To let you keep coming back. Like this is something it’s not.”

I blinked. Slowly. “Where is this coming from?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared past me, jaw tight. That look he got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. Or maybe when he was trying not to want too much.

I set the cup down harder than I meant to. “Arthur. If you have something to say, say it.”

“You are not a part of this,” he said. Quiet. But firm. “You are not his parent. You are not his family. This, us, it is messy! And I see the way you are looking at all of it. Like you are waiting for the moment you regretting to stay.”

My stomach twisted. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to fix me. Or him. I never asked for that.”

I pushed off the counter. “I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m just here.”

“For now,” he snapped. “But what happens when you decide it’s too much? When you realise I’m not some charming broken thing you can save with bedtime stories and glue sticks?”

I stepped toward him. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into some sob story where you push me out before I get the chance to leave.”

His expression cracked. Just slightly. “I have a son. I don’t get to gamble. I don’t get to be selfish. If I let you in, for real, and you walk away, it is not just me who pays for it.”

I felt like I’d been slapped. “You think I haven’t thought about that every single day I’m here?”

He flinched. “Then why stay?”

“Because I love him. And I love you. God, Arthur, do you really think I’d put myself through this if I didn’t?”

Silence.

I hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not mid-argument. Not with my heart on fire and my voice too loud. But there it was, hanging in the air between us, raw and irreversible.

Arthur’s face went completely still.

I swallowed, throat tight. “I’ve been in love with you for months. You and your stupid overcooked pasta and your tired eyes and the way you hum when you fold laundry. I’m not pretending to belong. I want to.”

He stared at me like he didn’t know whether to yell or cry.

“I know it’s messy,” I went on. “I know you’ve been hurt, and scared, and alone. But don’t punish me for showing up. Don’t act like I’m doing you some favour just by loving you.”

He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward slowly. One step. Then another.

“I do not know how to do this,” he said hoarsely. “I do not know how to be with someone and not ruin it.”

“Neither do I!,” I said. My voice was shaking. “But it doesn't mean you can't learn! Let’s ruin it and rebuild it and get it wrong a hundred times until we get it right. But stop pushing me away like I’m fragile. I’m not.”

He reached for me like he wasn’t sure I’d let him. Fingers trembling. Palming the side of my face like he needed to feel something solid.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid you’d stop choosing us.”

I shook my head, felt my throat ache. “I’m afraid too. But I’m still here.”

His forehead pressed against mine, our breath mingling between the space of almost and always. The anger hadn’t disappeared—it never does that fast. But it shifted. Softened. Turned into something that could be carried together.

“I love you,” he said.

This time, it didn’t feel like panic. It felt like surrender.

I let my hands curl into the fabric of his shirt. “I know,” I said, quietly. “I love you too.”

And just like that, the fight was over. Not because everything was solved. But because we’d named it. Given the fear a shape. And then handed each other the truth, even with shaking hands.

He kissed me then. Slow, sure. Not desperate. Just real.

Not fireworks. Just light.

And it was enough.

[lvrspiastri]

"Get off" ˡˢ²

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

masterlist

✧. ┊     PAIRING: logansargeant x gender-neutral!reader

✧. ┊    SUMMARY: you tell your boyfriend to "get off"

✧. ┊    WORDS: drabble based off a tiktok i saw. 300 words.

No one likes having physical contact all the time. Now, your boyfriend's love language just had to be touch. And while you found comfort in those muscly arms, him just constantly. being. on. top. of. you. pissed you off at times. Like now. When you're scrolling on your phone watching TikToks, the two of you bedrotting together. His head is on your hip as he scrolls on his own phone, the constant pressure becoming an annoyance.

"Logan," you sigh.

"Hm?" he doesn't look up from his scrolling, voice low.

"Get off." You don't say it harshly. It was more of a plea. But he stops, looks up at you and sharply turns away from you on the bed, back towards you. He lets out a sharp huff, silently resuming his doom scroll.

You enjoy the weight off you in silence, only sounds coming from your phones. Until he sighs dramatically. Loudly. Drawn out. You choose not to respond to his childish antics. He sighs again, muttering.

"I guess I'll just be cold. Unloved. On my own." You roll your eyes, wondering how you built such a drama queen.

"Logan, don't be like that, c'mon." He lets out yet another heavy sigh.

"No you hate me so I guess it's fine, i'll just stay here."

"Baby..." you chuckle, dropping your phone and wrapping your arm around his waist. Your arm rises and falls as he breathes. He lets out a soft 'mmph,' nudging your arm off. You smirk, leaning into his ear and whispering.

"I'll let you order McDonalds..." and he visibly perks up.

"McDonalds...?" His soft, raspy voice comes out from his hoodie, almost childish.

"Mhm."

"Can I...have a double Big Mac?"

"You can have anything you want, baby."

"A double Big Mac with 20 nuggets and barbeque sauce???"

"I'll add a coke to that too." His head turns back shockingly fast, smile on his face.

"Okay. Yay."

[lvrspiastri]

can i request an op81 smut where she’s landos best friend and he starts to have a crush on her but he doesn’t know if her and lando like each other. but she thinks oscar doesn’t like her because he doesnt really make conversation with her whenever they’re alone but it’s only because he gets so nervous and it comes out weirdly and then lando figures he likes her. but oscar is jealous of their interactions but then lando sets a situation up where oscar n his girl bestie are alone n they have a confession and then fuck.

Earned It. ᵒᵖ⁸¹

sorry for the time this took. exams fucked me up. hope you like it

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

masterlist

✧. ┊     PAIRING: jealous!oscar x fem!reader

✧. ┊    WORDS: 3k

✧. ┊    TAGS/WARNINGS: 18+, smut, jealousy, coarse language, fingering, squirting, unprotected vaginal sex, orgasm. wrap it before you tap it pls

He just observes. Silently. With his teeth clenched. Lando squeezes her shoulders, voice smooth as he laughs about some cheesy shit. She's got that distinctive laugh when he's with her. That laugh that rings through a room. And she throws her head back, hair cascading down her shoulders. It's not fucking fair only he can have evoke that within her. Oscar knows they'd been each other's best friends since they were old enough to say the words. Doesn't make it any damn better.

And it was he who had won. Oscar. He who'd gotten pole and kept the lead all the way through. He who fended off his own experienced teammate. He who should get the attention. Why the fuck was she making heart eyes at Lando, then?

They manage to separate. Somehow. He stares on with a clenched jaw and Lando, the bastard, sends a smirk his way before heading out to see his parents. She walks over, chipper, none the wiser to his inner turmoil. He'd always avoided speaking to her. Mainly because he knew she had no feelings for him whatsoever. So why bother? Why bother falling for her, knowing in the end....she's gonna choose Lando. But also because his tongue gets tied. And he can't stop staring at her when she speaks. But he can't escape this, trying to keep his eyes off her figure as she saunters.

"You did so well today, Osco," she drawls, smile twisted up in a charming manner. Fuck. The way she calls him that dreaded nickname...

"Thank you," he nods, arms crossed so his biceps flex. It was always on purpose, contrary to popular belief. "Couldn't have done it without the team."

"Must you be so humble?" she chuckles, leaning on the wall in front of him. No. In fact he wasn't. He knew it was all his own doing. The team didn't exactly help in keeping Lando behind him for 52 laps. He wasn't their second fucking driver. He knows he's just...better. But he forces an innocent grin.

"Ah, it's the car, really. But I appreciate the sentiment." She nods, tucking her soft hair behind her ear. It was almost dusk. Golden hour. So the fiery light floods the room, highlighting one side of her face, darkening the other. Like the moon. Gorgeous...

"How you celebrating?"

"Honestly?" he sighs, scratching his neck, tilting it in the perfect position so she could see just how thick his neck was. "Might just treat myself to some Maccas and watch a movie." He never was the partying type of man, contrasting his teammate. He found no pleasure in seeing men and women get drunk and grind on each other to shitty house remixes of pop songs. And he certainly never looked for a girl to take home. The only girl he wanted to fuck was standing right in front of-

No. Fuck no.

"That's boring, don't you think? Let me take you out." The offer was tempting, to say the least. Wherever she was gonna take him, he wouldn't be able to take his eyes off her. Or his hands. He wouldn't be able to do it. He wouldn't be able to resist.

"Ah, that's kind, really. But I have a flight to catch a 4 AM." Lie. It fucking hurt to lie to her like that. But it was better than potentially jumping her like a wild animal and ruining everything he'd worked so. Damn. Hard. To. Build. She frowns, sighing. It's clear she doesn't buy the lie.

"That's too bad. Some other time, then." He nods in agreement, making a mental note to pack protection for the so-called 'other time.' "I'll see you next week, then?"

"Yeah, yeah, you will. Yeah. You'll see me on the top step again." He hides the cocky smirk daring to embrace his face and just laughs instead.

"Sure. Have a good night."

"And you," he nods, swallowing thickly. His hands are trembling but he hides him by shoving them in his pockets. And the look on her face isn't happy as she leaves. Great. Fucked up. Again.

He's in his room drunk when he sees the videos.

Of them out. Clubbing. They're intoxicated.

Classic.

Singing "Titanium" on top of their lungs (reminding Oscar of the shitty music that frequented clubs and why he would never visit one again), holding each other while making fierce eye contact.

And he damn near breaks the phone.

They're way too close to just be motherfucking friends. In a lapse of judgement, he switches to iMessages, shooting a quick text to Lando.

It's unlike Oscar.

He doesn't call.

He doesn't wake up until there's a loud knock on his hotel room door. The beer clouds his mind, legs feeling like jelly as he makes his way to open the door. Lando leans against the doorway, jaw clenched.

"Mind explaining what that was last night?" Lando lets himself in, gaze steely, voice an eerie calm. Oscar hasn't a fucking idea of what Lando's talking about.

So all he manages in reply is a dumb "Huh?"

While rolling his eyes, Lando takes our his phone out of his pocket and shows Oscar the texts that he sent. Apparently. Must've been piss drunk.

"What...What's this in reference to?"

"Well, you didn't exactly say when you called me a 'cunt' but i'm guessing you saw something from last night." He pockets his phone, crossing his arms.

And then it rushes back. The close lips. The drunken singing. The fucking holding.

"You're fucking her, aren't you?" It just comes out. It's crude but it sums up his thoughts. And he realises his mistake because Lando's eyes widen.

"Are you fucking insane? Seriously? You think I'm fuckin' sleeping with her?"

"Yeah, you know what? Yeah. You think I don't see the eyes you make at each other? The media's accepted her as your WAG, about time I do too-"

"Shut your bloody mouth." He whispers. Low. Dangerous. "She's my best friend and that's all she'll ever be. And I know you're angry but that doesn't give you a right to spew bullshit at me." Oscar looks away. He knows Lando's right. Of course he is. They're better than this. But fuck, that girl has him feeling things he shouldn't. Acting like he shouldn't. He's a damn monster because of her.

"What else do you want me to think? Hm? When I see you and her singing in each other's mouths? Dancing with each other? Do you have any idea how much it stings-"

"Then talk to me, Osc. You never told me you liked her. I figured it out on my own. And honestly, I'm getting sick of being the damn owl in between you two."

Fuck.

Now he feels bad. Lando had always been there for him. Through it all. Through the lows of McLaren he started out with. Through the dumb team orders. He didn't deserve Oscar's selfish episodes. But he doesn't apologise. He just stares at the carpet until Lando speaks.

"I'm gonna bring her here tonight-" Oscar cuts him off.

"I told her I had a 4 AM flight." He mutters.

"Yeah, no shit you lied, she knew it the moment you told her," Lando scoffs. Oscar rolls his eyes, knowing it was a dumb move. Now she probably thinks he hates her for rejecting her invitation... "I told her it was because you're an idiot. I'm gonna ask her to come here. Say you want to apologise. And...you take it from there." He swallows thickly, nodding. He could damn near kiss Lando for his kindness.

"Thanks. Thanks a lot." He fiddles with his maroon shirt.

"If you fuck this up..."

"I won't. Swear. Not this time." He reassures Lando. He'd be the biggest idiot in the world to fumble this opportunity. Which Oscar isn't. Sometimes. They wrap up the formalities and Lando leaves. He's just grateful he didn't cause a rift between them. After Logan left, Lando's the only true friend Oscar had.

He waits the whole day.

He counts every second.

Ever minute.

Every hour.

He irons his shirt twice. Brushes his teeth enough to destroy his toothbrush. Polishes his shoes so one could use it as a mirror. And spends an hour trying to figure out how many buttons of his shirt should be undone so he would look hot but not desperate.

And then he hears the knock, her sweet voice ringing. "Oscar? It's me." She's early by five minutes. He didn't even get to check his cuffs. He breathes deeply, opening the door, putting on his nonchalance act.

"Hey, come in," she steps into his suite. And god, she smells like a dream. Looks like one too. With that lace dress he can see her bra through, the fucking bare legs carrying her. Oh, he was done for. "T-take a seat, yeah, think of it as your own house." Why the fuck did he say that? Idiot!

She smiles sweetly and sits on the edge of the bed. "Lando said you had something you wanted to say to me." He sits beside her. Cautious. Careful not to touch her or the dam of desire he was keeping locked inside him would break.

“Yeah, I did.” He looks anywhere but at her. One look at her perfect mascara-covered lashes and all he’d wanna do is make the mascara run down her cheeks. “Sorry for, uh… blowing you off.” The words scrape out, rough and inadequate.

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just tilts her head, arms crossed, like she’s trying to decide if he’s worth the effort. Again.

“You had a plane,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “That’s what you told me.”

“I didn't,” he lies again, softer this time, and immediately hates himself for it. He exhales, rubs the back of his neck. “Okay. I was. I just… I didn’t think I could handle seeing you.”

Her lips part, confusion flashing across her face before it hardens into something unreadable. “So instead you lied to me. Classy.”

“I didn’t lie...,” he says too fast, too defensive. “I just...needed space.”

“Funny. I offered you dinner. Not a proposal.”

That shuts him up.

The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable. And all he can think about is how close she is, how good she smells, how stupid he is for missing that dinner—for missing her.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, this time quieter. Real.

“I didn’t come,” he says suddenly, voice low, “because I like you.”

She blinks. The anger in her eyes falters, just slightly.

He exhales, finally looking at her. “I lied about being busy because I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t want to come over and—mess it all up. Say the wrong thing. Or worse, jump you like some idiot with no self-control.”

Her brows draw together, confused now. Not angry. Just trying to figure him out.

“I wanted it too bad,” he says. “You. I wanted you too bad.” He laughs bitterly, eyes on the floor. “So yeah. I lied. Because I liked you. And because I’m a coward who didn’t know how to handle it.”

She doesn’t speak right away.

Just watches him. With a different perspective. Like the sharp edges of her anger have dulled under the weight of something warmer. Softer.

“I liked you too, you idiot,” she says quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I invited you out. What did you think that was about?”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flicking up to meet hers. There's disbelief there. Relief. Want. "Yeah, well, I thought you wanted Lando."

She laughs in a way that makes him feel like an idiot. "Are you serious?"

"You're always so fucking close. But he came in here this morning. Told me I was being a dick."

"You were," she leans in, whispering.

His gaze drops to her lips. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

She leans in just a fraction, eyes half-lidded. “I wore mascara for you, you know.”

His jaw tenses.

“Wouldn’t mind if it ran a little,” she adds, barely audible.

Something in him snaps—not violently, but with aching restraint. His hands hover at her waist, like he's asking for permission even though his body is already leaning into the answer.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps.

“I won’t.”

His hand splays over the fabric, gripping her dress like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. And then—he yanks her forward, mouth crashing into hers with a groan that sounds more like a growl.

There’s nothing soft about it. It’s messy. All teeth and tongue and desperation. Like he’s starving and she’s the first thing he’s been allowed to touch in months.

She barely has time to gasp before he’s pressing her into the bed, one arm braced beside her head, the other gripping her thigh and hitching it up around his waist. The dress rides up. He doesn’t even care. Doesn’t think.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he snarls against her jaw, lips dragging along her pulse. “I didn’t come over because I wanted to rip this fucking dress off the second I saw you.”

His teeth graze her throat. Not gentle. Not playful. Claiming.

She moans, fingers in his hair now, nails raking his scalp, and it only spurs him on. Makes him insane.

“You invited me over like it was nothing. Like you didn’t know I’ve been going insane thinking about you.”

He kisses her again, harder, his body pressed flush against hers, hips locking into the space between her legs like he was meant to be there.

“I lied because if I came over, I would’ve taken you right there on the goddamn dinner table.”

Her breath stutters.

He laughs darkly, hand curling around her neck—not tight, just enough for her to feel the tremble in his fingers.

“You want mascara to run?” His mouth is on her ear now, voice low, wrecked. “Say the word and I’ll have you crying in five minutes, pretty girl.”

And the worst part?

She wants him like this.

God help them both.

So she nods.

Small. Slow. But there’s something in her eyes. A glassy, reckless glint , that sends lightning straight through his spine.

His breath catches like it hurts.

Because fuck, she means it.

And she knows exactly what she’s agreeing to.

He laughs. Sharp, disbelieving, half-mad. His fingers dig into her hips, grounding himself before he does something he won’t come back from. But he’s already past that point. Already gone.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers like a prayer, forehead pressed to hers, his voice wrecked with need. “One little nod and I’d burn down the whole fucking world for you.”

She tilts her head, lips parted, panting, daring.

So he does what any man completely gone would do — he takes that nod as gospel.

He drags her to the floor like gravity means nothing, lays her out like she’s sacrament. Worship and destruction all in one. His hands tremble with how hard he’s holding back.

“I want everything,” he breathes, eyes blazing. “Every sound, every tear, every breath you’ve got left.”

He grabs her legs roughly, placing them over his legs. His hands hook into the waistband of her panties and pulls them off so quick they rip. He doesn't apologise. Hell, he doesn't fucking care. He tosses them somewhere before spreading her wide and pressing his tongue against her core. His eyes flutter shut and she tastes like everything he'd ever dreamed of. Whines spill out of her. Whimpers. He eats. Sucks. Licks. Slurps.

His hands grip her inner thighs bruisingly, holding her apart despite her trembles and squirms. Her hand lands in his hair, pulling so hard it hurts. But in all honestly, it just makes him hornier. It takes him a while to realise she's screaming. Spasming. Worried, he pulls away.

"Fuck, you good?" She heaves, breasts bouncing through the dress.

"I just came 3 times in a row, what the fuck do you think?" Three times? Holy fuck, he's going on like a man possessed. He lets out a light chuckle, licking her sweetness one final time before moving to his knees and placing his middle finger on her tongue. He shoves it so far down she nearly gags before snugly fitting in his ring too.

"That's right, pretty girl. Suck."

His fingers get coated in slimy wet. He pulls out of her mouth, teasing her clit with it, earning a sweet sweet groan out of her.

He doesn't give any warning.

Then he sticks his fingers in, making her jerk and tremble.

"Ngh!" she screams and he places a hand over her mouth.

"Careful, my angel. Wouldn't wanna have the hotel staff complaining?" She nods sweetly, fluids dripping out of her and sticking to the carpet. He makes a mental note to clean that later. The repercussions would be embarrassing, to say the least.

A flash and she squirts. She fucking squirts. Screaming. Aching.

He laps up the squirt almost immediately, savouring the sour tang on his tongue. All she does is lie there pathetically, groaning.

"Need...dick inside you..." he heaves, eyes glazed over. He pulls away, lips wet with her fluids. "Is that okay?" She lets out a soft whine as permission, hearing the gentle thud of his belt hitting the carpet. His veins already throb, swollen tip leaking. He's been wanting to intertwine their souls together for far too long. Wanting to leave an imprint on her no one could erase. He slaps his dick on her clit a few times before sliding into her, letting out a throaty growl. "My love..."

"Mghfh!" her hands desperately cling onto something. Anything. For leverage. She settles on his shirt, an iron-clad grip bound to leave dirty nail marks on his skin.

The sounds they make are erotic.

Skin slapping skin.

Whines.

Groans.

Wet squelching.

And fuck, mixed with her pussy, it's all too much.

So much.

Fuck.

"I'm gonna..." she doesn't finish her sentence before he's already spilling inside her, wet bursts filled with cum spoiling the hotel room carpet. He couldn't give a single shit.

His eyes fixed on her. The hair strands that clung to her face. Her flushed cheeks, sweaty neck. Fuck. He could cum right then and there.

"You okay?" He asks, voice raspy. She softly nods, brains fucked out. He knows it's time to stop, time to lay in bed with her, talk about everything he loves about her. Until he hears another squeak.

"Another round?"

[lvrspiastri]

Always an angel, never a God. ˡˢ²

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

✧. ┊     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]

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 2.1

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.

┊

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[lvrspiastri]

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

who's lvrspiastri 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! 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, other posts via lvrspiastrirambles 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, sandman, 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, ✧ = angst, ☽ = fluff)

Formula 1

Logan Sargeant

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

synopsis: he had a bad race. He finds his reprieve in you.

Pillowtalk.✩ (OP81)

synopsis: you celebrate a good race result with your boyfriend and his best friend.

So It Goes... ✩

synopsis: your school takes a trip to a camp where you get to spend a night with your closest mates, including your best friend, logan.

Soft Launch ୭ ☽

synopsis: He had a bad race. He finds his reprieve in you.

Pretty Boy ✩ ♡

synopsis: you take care of your little boyfriend after a bad race

Always an angel, never a god ✧

synopsis: logan goes to uni after a failed f1 career. he finds the love of his life

Would it be enough if I could never give you peace? ୭ ♡

synopsis: he got dropped. his partner is winning races. the whole world thinks he's unworthy.

Private Debrief (AA23) ✩ ♡

synopsis: sargebon smut where they meet up during the 2025 season (after alexs dnf streak). alex starts to vent to logan and takes out his frustration on him

Oscar Piastri

Pillowtalk. ✩ (LS2)

synopsis: you celebrate a good race result with your boyfriend and his best friend.

Earned it. ✩♡

synopsis: your best friend's teammate, oscar is jealous of your interactions and confesses to you

Arthur Leclerc

Parenthesis ♡ ☽

synopsis: you feel something stir in you when you meet your kindergarten student's single father

Parenthesis (2.1) ♡ ☽

synopsis: your kindergarten student's single father invites you for movie night

Parenthesis (2.2) ♡☽

synopsis: maybe you do love him. maybe he loves you back

Most Ardently ✩ ♡

synopsis: your client's annoying little brother finally makes you snap

Isack Hadjar

jealousy, jealousy ✩ ♡

synopsis: your best friend prepares you how to kiss another guy, much to his own reluctance

Alex Albon

Private Debrief (LS2) ✩ ♡

synopsis: sargebon smut where they meet up during the 2025 season (after alexs dnf streak). alex starts to vent to logan and takes out his frustration on him

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚