#one of these is logan but the rest are james

[captainkingsley]

back to making silly text post edits but this time with hercules/wolverine

[maxedes]

chat is this real

[jv-f1]

“Really great to see all of the hard work from our marketing and commercial teams this winter resulting in this stunning livery. The car demonstrates the transition from our deep heritage to current day, along with a nod to Frank.”

— James via Instagram

[d1stalker]

Origin [Logan Howlett]

Summary: Two people, one shared past, and decades apart.

Warnings: fem!reader, angst, fluff, longing, things get bad before they get better! WC: 14k - MASTERLIST

A/N: there are plot points that are inspired by Logan's origin story (thank u marvelwiki), but they are so non-canon compliant its funny so don't call me out tyyy 😙

----

Before he was known as Logan, or as Wolverine, he was James. 

Your James. 

—

It’s quiet in the Howlett estate, the kind of stillness that only comes when everyone has long retired for the night. But while the rest of the mansion sleeps, you remain wide awake. Dressed in your nightgown and nestled under the blankets, you glance at the small, brass pocketwatch resting on your bedside table. The hands read 10:22 PM. Any minute now, you think to yourself. 

Then, like clockwork, you hear it—a faint knock on your door. Three slow, deliberate taps, followed by two quick ones. The secret signal never fails to make you smile. You spring from the bed, feet softly padding across the floor as you hurry to the door. You open it as quietly as possible, your grin widening the moment you see who’s waiting on the other side.

James.

He stands there, dark tousled hair and that familiar mischievous smile that always manages to light up the dim hallway. You’ve known him your entire life, growing up together under the roof of the Howlett estate. Your parents, both loyal servants to the Howlett family, were fortunate enough to be granted permission raise you alongside their son.

From the moment you could walk, you and James were inseparable, sharing countless adventures in the woods, running across the estate’s gardens, and whispering secrets to one another under moonlit skies.

"About time," you whisper, teasing him with a playful glint in your eyes. "You really know how to keep a lady waiting, don’t you?"

A soft snort escapes his lips as he grabs your hand, pulling you gently into the hallway. "My deepest apologies, M’lady," he replies with mock formality, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I had to... attend to urgent business in the necessary."

You snicker, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Ah, I see. Was it a fulfilling experience, sir Howlett?"

He glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes with exaggerated exasperation, though you catch the small smirk tugging at his lips. He doesn’t respond, but his silence confirms everything. It was.

The rest of the trip is quiet, the two of you moving stealthily through the darkened corridors, careful not to disturb anyone or draw unwanted attention. After all, your mother would certainly disapprove of such late-night rendezvous. It is improper, she would say.

But what choice did you have? The day offered no time for moments like this. You were busy training to take over as the next chief maid, learning the endless routines of the household, while James spent his time with his family or other highborn friends. It was only after hours, when the mansion finally settled, that the two of you could steal away for these secret meetings.

Finally, you reach the gardens. The crisp night air greets you as you slip away from any prying eyes. There’s a familiar sense of peace here, among the fragrant flowers and the towering trees that shield you from the world. James leads you to your usual spot, a stone bench tucked beneath the shadow of the hedges. Wordlessly, he slips off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders before taking a dramatic bow.

"To keep you warm, M’lady," he says softly.

"Hush, James," you laugh, finding his antics endearing. 

You’re grateful, especially as the cool night air nips at your exposed skin. The nightgown, while comfortable, offers little protection against the chill. You pull his jacket tighter around yourself, then pat the empty spot next to you, gesturing to him to sit, to which he does.

“How was your day?" you prompt.

James sighs, leaning back on the bench, his hand casually resting behind you as he stares up at the sky. "Same old, same old," he starts, a familiar twinge of annoyance creeping into his voice. "You know how it is. Dinners with my parents, listenin’ to old men talk about businesses I'll never care about, trying not to fall asleep while they drone on about investments or land expansions. It’s all so posh."

You stifle a giggle, nudging him playfully with your elbow. "Posh? You sound like you're living the dream."

He rolls his eyes dramatically. "If by 'dream,' you mean sitting there pretending to care while wonderin’ how quickly I can escape to see you, then yeah, it's an absolute dream," he quips sarcastically.

Sniggering, you bring your hand up to your forehead, acting distressed. "Oh, how tragic. The poor Lord James Howlett, trapped in a world of lavish dinners and fancy wine. Whatever will you do?"

"Mock me all you want, but it’s unbearable," he groans, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I hate it. All the stuffy clothes, the fake smiles, the way everyone acts like they're better than everyone else." He pauses for a moment, then glances sideways at you. "You're the only real thing here."

The sincerity in his words makes your heart flutter, and you’re suddenly grateful for the darkness hiding the faint blush creeping up your cheeks. Looking away, you try to play it off. "Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should charge you for my company," you tease coyly.

He lets out a huff of amusement, shaking his head. "I'll pay whatever price you want.”

There's a pause as you both sit in comfortable silence. Just then, a soft breeze sweeps through the garden, catching the edges of your nightgown and fanning it up slightly. Before you can even react, he swiftly moves his jacket from your shoulders to your lap, covering your legs. His hand lingers, making sure you're covered before he hastily wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close against him.

The warmth from his body contrasts with the cool air, and you can't help but laugh softly at his sudden behaviour. "Wow, you really are a gentleman, James."

He tenses slightly, his grip on your shoulder loosening as he looks away, clearly flustered. "I—I just didn’t want you to get cold," he mumbles, his usual confidence faltering.

You smile at how shy he suddenly seems, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Thank you. It’s sweet."

For a brief second, he says nothing, but you can feel the way his heartbeat picks up just a little. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "I’d do anythin’ for you."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you tilt your head to look up at him. But you can’t respond, because he clears his throat, looking down at you with a small, sheepish smile. "What about you? Any exciting adventures in the life of a future chief maid?"

Grinning, you recognize his attempt to shift the conversation, and decide to let it go for now. "Oh, you know, the usual. A thrilling day of dusting, folding linens, and trying not to spill tea on your mother’s favourite rug."

He chuckles, pulling you a little closer. "Sounds way more exciting than my day."

You hum in acknowledgement, letting the moment linger. Neither of you speak for a bit, just relishing being in each other’s presence. 

"So, do tell," you say after a while, breaking the silence, "if you could get away from all the fancy dinners and boring conversations, what would you do?"

He smiles slightly, his gaze still fixed on the star-filled sky. "I’d leave. Go far away from here, maybe somewhere quiet. Live in the countryside, where no one cares about wealth or titles." His eyes drop to meet yours. "Maybe you’d come with me."

You laugh gently. "And who would take care of your family if we both ran off?"

Shrugging, his expression grows more serious. "They don’t need me. They need someone who’ll do what they want—someone to follow in their footsteps. That’s never been me."

There’s a weight in his words, and you feel a pang of sympathy for him. You’re about to respond, to tell him you understand more than he realizes, when—

BANG.

Your body stiffens instantly, heart beginning to pound in your chest as you straighten up, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" James asks sharply. He turns to you, his face mirroring the confusion and unease you're feeling.

Shaking your head, you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. "It sounded like a gunshot."

The two of you stare at each other for a beat, then, right when you’re going to speak again, you hear it—his mother’s scream. It’s high-pitched, panicked, and it sends a jolt of fear through you both.

"Help!" she shrieks from inside the mansion. "James, help!"

Without a word, you bolt to your feet, the peaceful night forgotten as you rush back inside. Your heart is racing as your bare feet fly across the grass, nightgown fluttering behind you. James is ahead of you, moving fast, his expression shifting from confusion to pure fear.

As you reach the back entrance, your mind races with possibilities, none of them good. You burst through the door into the hallway, your breathing laboured from the sudden sprint. Something is terribly wrong.

"Mother!" He calls, his voice sharp with panic as he leads the way toward the main staircase. You follow close behind, anxiety coiling tight in your chest.

Once you get to the bottom of the stairs, you hear footsteps—heavy, hurried—and then you see her. Mrs. Howlett, wide-eyed and pale, comes hurrying down from the upper floor, clutching the banister for support. Her hands are trembling.

"James!" she cries. "Your father—he’s been shot!"

The boy beside you freezes, face going white. "What?" he breathes, disbelief etched into every syllable.

"He—he was in his study, and I—I heard the gunfire. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t know who—" Her voice breaks, and tears stream down her face as she struggles to speak. "We need to get help!"

He doesn’t waste another second, taking off up the stairs, his long strides making quick work of the distance. You trail after him. How could this happen? Who could’ve done this?

When you reach the second floor, you see the study door slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dark hallway. James' hand wavers over the doorknob for only a moment before pushing the it open wide.

Inside, the scene is worse than you imagined.

There, slumped over his desk, is Mr. Howlett. His once pristine office now looks chaotic—papers scattered, a window broken, and blood, so much blood. A crimson stain is spreading across his shirt.

"Father," James chokes out, rushing to his side, his hands shaking as he reaches for him.

You stand paralyzed for a moment, the sight rendering you speechless, but then the adrenaline kicks in, and you move further into the room. Your mind is screaming at you to do something, anything, but all you can do is watch as James desperately tries to wake his father, calling his name again and again.

Trying to make sense of the horrific scene, your attention is dragged away by the sound of footsteps shuffling behind you. Thomas Logan, the groundskeeper, stumbles in, his movements clumsy, his face twisted with drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes are manic, and in his trembling hand, he’s clutching a gun—the same one that must have been used to end Mr. Howlett’s life.

"Thomas!" Mrs. Howlett yelps. "What are you doing?"

James turns sharply, still kneeling beside his father’s body, his expression hardening immediately. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Thomas lets out a low, slurred laugh, staggering further into the room. His eyes flick between you, James, and Mrs. Howlett, but his focus remains hazy. "I’ve had enough of this, enough of all of it," he mutters, waving the gun in the air. "Your precious mother thought she could keep the truth from you. But it’s time you knew the truth, boy."

"What truth?" The younger man demands harshly.

Swaying on his feet, he points the gun directly at James, his finger twitching dangerously on the trigger. "I’m not just the groundskeeper, you idiot," he snarls venomously, "I’m your damn father."

It’s as if the room has been put on pause. You feel the air leave your lungs, your mind scrambling to make sense of what you just heard. Glancing at your friend, you see the disbelief wash over his features, his eyes widening with shock, denial.

"No," he whispers, shaking his head, backing away slightly. "You're lying. You’re drunk."

But the older man just laughs, the sound hollow and bitter. "You think John Howlett was your father? That man never wanted you! He raised you because he had to, not because you were his. You’re mine, boy. My flesh and blood,” he jerks his head in the direction of Mrs. Howlett. “Go ahead, ask your mama."

You hear Mrs. Howlett begin to blubber in the background at the accusation, but your attention is solely on the boy in front of you.

Betrayal is written all over his face.

His breath quickens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. You want to reach out to him, concern puling you forward, but then he lets out a scream—a sound so full of pain that you stop in your tracks.

"James!" you cry, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes squeeze shut, and his body convulses, as though something inside him is tearing him apart from the inside out.

The sickening sound of skin breaking fills your ears, and bone claws shoot out from his knuckles. They gleam in the dim light of the room, sharp and lethal. The sight of them is nauseating, but you’re unable to look away as James blinks, gazing down at his hands, dumbfounded.

"What—" he rasps, his chest heaving. "What’s happening to me?"

“What the hell is this?” Thomas sneers in disgust.  He stumbles, reaching for the wall to steady himself. “Figures... Of course my son’s a freak.”

“You were always a fuck-up,” he continues in his drunken rage. “Useless, soft... a disappointment from the start. Just like your mother. Look at you now, boy.”

“I’m not your boy,” James snarls through gritted teeth, rage building inside him. His eyes flash dangerously. It’s as if something inside him has snapped, some deep, instinctual part of him that has been lying dormant, waiting for this very moment.

“You’re right. You’re no son of mine. Just a goddamn mistake. Should’ve left you in the dirt with your—"

Before he can finish, a roar rips from James’s throat. So raw, so animalistic, you get goosebumps. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, and then, with terrifying speed, he lunges.

In an instant, his claws sink deep into Thomas’s chest with a thunk. The force of the blow sends the older man crashing back, disbelief and agony seizing his face as blood sprays across the room, spattering the walls and floor. His body thrashes, his hands weakly grasping at his son’s wrists, but there’s no strength left in him. 

A gurgling gasp bubbles from his throat, and then it's over. He collapses to the ground, lifeless, as James stands over him, claws retreating back into his skin. 

"James!" Mrs. Howlett screams, her voice piercing. "What have you done?!"

You don’t know how to react. You can’t process it, can’t breathe. All you know is that you need to get out of here—get James out of here, away from this nightmare before it consumes him. Without thinking, you rush to his side, grabbing his bloodied hand.

"We have to go!" you say urgently.

His eyes dart to you, frantic and unfocused but he doesn’t resist as you pull him toward the door. His mother's cries echo behind you, but you can’t stop, can’t look back.

You run—both of you—through the hallways, out the back door, and into the dark of night. The wind whips around you, stinging your face, but you don’t stop. You run until your legs burn, until you’ve entered the surrounding forest, and the Howlett estate is nothing but a distant shadow behind you. 

All the while, James’s hand stays locked in yours.

Branches scratch everywhere, at your arms, your face, and the underbrush tugs at your clothes as if trying to hold you back, but you push on. Only after the first light of dawn begins to creep in, does the exhaustion hit. Bodies aching and bruised, the two of you collapse beside a small stream. 

You’re on your back, catching you breath, when you tilt to your head to look over at your friend. He’s sitting down, with his hands out in front of him, leering at them. He struggles for air, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts, and his clothes are torn, stained with blood—his father’s blood, Thomas’ blood. 

His claws are long retracted, but the scars of where they came out of his skin are there, fresh. 

"James," you whisper, but he doesn’t respond. Slowly, you crawl over to his side, pain flaring with each movement. When you reach him, you sit on your knees, looking up at him, trying to meet his gaze. You repeat his name, more firmly this time.

He finally looks at you, but he’s broken. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a choked, almost inaudible, "What did I do?"

Your heart aches for him. Reaching out, you gently take one of his bloodied hands in yours, and as soon as your skin touches his, he flinches, pulling back slightly. "I killed him." he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!"

"Hey, listen to me," you say. "You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known this would happen."

"I killed him," he repeats. "I killed Thomas. I—" He glances down at his hands, at the scars along his knuckles, and his expression crumples completely. “He was my father.”

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix this, but you know you have to try, so you wrap your arms around him. At first, he stiffens, but then he collapses to the ground, pulling you down with him. You land on top, your chest pressed against his as the weight of your bodies crashes into the soft earth. He squeezes you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, his face buried in your shoulder as his breath comes in short, broken sobs.

"I didn’t mean to do it," he repeats, the words muffled against your skin. "Something just changed inside me. What am I? What am I turning into?"

“Hush," you whisper, moving one of your hands to brush his hair. "Look at me. Just breathe, okay? You’re not alone in this. We’ll figure it out together, I promise."

His arms tighten around you, pulling you even closer. It’s overwhelming, but you don’t push him away. Instead, you let him hold you as tightly as he needs, your fingers gently stroking the back of his head, trying to console him in any way you can.

"I’m a monster," he whimpers. "What if I hurt you, too?"

"You won’t," you affirm, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper. "You’re not a monster. This… this thing that happened, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still you."

Beneath you, his body shakes, overcome by emotion he holds onto you. Your forehead is pressed to against his, your breath mingling with his while you continue to whisper reassurances, telling him over and over that it’s going to be okay, that he’s not alone.

Minutes pass, maybe longer—you lose track of time as you lie there together. Gradually, his cries begin to quiet, his breathing slowing as the storm inside him starts to subside. His grip on you loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go fully, still cradling you in his arms.

Shifting, you raise your head to look at him. His eyes are red, his face pale, but he’s calmer. You start to pull yourself off of him, but as you're standing up, he grasps your hand again, and he looks at you with a tired, grateful expression, squeezing it gently as if to say everything he can’t put into words yet.

Then, you continue. Hand in hand, you move deeper into the forest. And finally, after a few more hours, you notice something in the distance. Through the trees, there are rooftops, small and clustered together, their chimneys trailing thin lines of smoke into the evening sky.

“A town,” you whisper, the first word you’ve spoken in hours.

He follows your gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of the small mining town nestled in the valley.

In it, the people’s faces are etched with lines of hard labour and even harder lives, but still, you know you’ll be safe there. 

—

Initially, it’s difficult—this new life you and James have carved out is a far cry from the comforts of the Howlett estate. The town you’ve settled in is rough and unpolished. You both share a modest shack on the outskirts, a place that feels foreign and strange, but over time, it starts to become home.

He finds work in the mines almost immediately. The foreman takes one look at him, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and practically shoves a shovel in his hand without asking any questions. The job is tough, but it suits him. 

Every evening, he comes back to you covered in soot and dirt, his hands rough and calloused, his face lined with exhaustion. You can see the toll the work takes on him, how his body aches, but there’s something else too—a measure of peace that wasn’t there before. It’s as if he’s found a way to silence the chaos inside him, at least for a little while.

It’s not long before everyone in town begins to call him Logan, a name he offers with indifference when asked.

A new identity. 

Logan is a man who works hard, who keeps to himself, who doesn’t ask for anything more than a paycheck at the end of the week. 

Logan is a man who doesn’t need anyone, who can survive on his own. 

To you, he’s still James. 

In the quiet moments, when it’s just the two of you, he lets down the walls, lets you see through the façade. And when you whisper his name—James—he closes his eyes as if that one word alone soothes something deep in his soul.

After weeks of watching him silently carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you offer him a rag to wipe his face as he sits down at the small table you’ve cobbled together from scraps. He takes it without a word, rubbing at the grime on his skin.

“You don’t have to do this forever, you know,” you say softly, leaning against the table as he tosses the rag aside. "There’s more to life than breaking your back underground."

He glances at you. "It’s all I’m good for now."

"You’re good for more than that," you reply walking up to him, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it, like he always does. "You can’t let what happened define you."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he gives your hand a small squeeze, his eyes drifting to the floor as he mumbles, "What’s inside me… it’s different. You don’t know what it’s like."

You don’t argue. How could you?

The changes in him, the way his strength has grown, how his senses have sharpened, it all impacts him. He can hear things no one else can, smell the rain long before it falls, and even in complete darkness, he sees as clearly as if it were day. His powers are evolving, changing him.

But you know, deep down, that the man sitting in front of you is your friend—your James—no matter what he’s become.

You’ve seen him wrestle with the fear of what he might turn into, the fear of losing control, but you also see the man who leans into your touch, who lets you bandage his hands after long days in the mines, who presses his forehead to yours when the nights grow too heavy with silence.

And as your time together in the town goes by, there is a shift.

It starts with small things—a lingering glance, a brush of your fingers as you pass each other in the kitchen, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

Then, it moves to bigger gestures. When you’d pack him his lunch fo the day, you slip in a small piece of parchment with a heart hastily drawn on it, or at night time, instead of falling asleep backs turned toward each other, awkwardly trying to ignore whatever tension is brewing, you fall asleep in his arms, and wake up the same way.

It gets to a point where you can neither of you can deny it. 

You’ve fallen in love.

—

It’s late, and you’re sitting by the fire outside the small cabin, waiting for him to return from one of his now-frequent disappearances into the woods. You used to worry about where he went, afraid he was distancing himself from you, so one night you followed him. What you found took your breath away—him, sitting out on a ledge, with some wild animals surrounding him. There was something in him that they must have recognized, a mutual respect that seemed to transcend anything human.

Since then, you’ve let him go without asking questions, trusting that those nights in the woods bring him the peace he can’t find anywhere else. But tonight, when he returns, he’s different. He doesn’t just brush past you to head inside. Instead, he sits beside you by the fire.

You turn to him, about to ask if everything’s alright, but the words catch in your throat when his hand cups your jaw. His grip is gentle, hesitant, as if he’s afraid to break the moment, but in his eyes, you find a longing, a yearning, that mirrors your own. 

His thumb brushes over your cheek, and for the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements. Your heart stutters, and when he pulls you closer, you let him. His lips meet yours, careful at first, but as you kiss him back, you feel the stress drain from his body. 

The kiss deepens, slow, tender, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

—

The next few years are a kind of peaceful bliss you never expected. With each passing day, you and Logan seem to fall deeper into each other, the bond you share growing stronger, more intimate, like you’ve finally found the rhythm of the life you were always meant to have together.

Mornings are your favourite. He always wakes up first, moving quietly so as not to wake you, and he’s gotten into the habit of making you breakfast. You always sneak out of bed and snake your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back as he grumbles about you not getting enough sleep. “You’re always up too early,” he’d say. 

“I like being up with you,” you’d mumble in response, and he’ll turn around, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his eyes soft and full of that quiet, steady love he’s never really put into words. And then he’d kiss you like he has all the time in the world, even if he has to head over to the mines. 

On your days off from your job at the pub, you’ll spend hours together, finding little ways to enjoy the simplicity of your life. He will sometimes take you out to the woods behind the house, where you’d walk the trails together. He points out the different wildlife, the plants you don’t recognize, and you tease him about being a mountain man. He’d smirk, giving you that low, raspy chuckle that never fails to make your heart seize in your chest, and tug you closer to his side.

In the evenings, oftentimes, you sit together while you knit, something that started as a hobby but quickly became one of your preferred pastimes. He always pretends to be uninterested, but he’ll watch you anyway. “You’re getting good at that,” he’d say gruffly. 

“Want me to make you a sweater?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he’d grumble, but you can tell he’s secretly pleased at the idea.

The town itself becomes part of your life together, too. You’ve made friends with the locals, joining a small knitting club. If he has time, Logan drops by the pub on your shifts just to check in, sitting at the bar with a beer and watching you work. When your gazes connect very now and then, he gives you that look—the one that says he’s proud of you, that he’s content.

“We’ve got a good thing here,” he murmurs one night, holding you close. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly, kissing his cheek. “We really do.”

But, all good things must come to an end. 

The mining town, though small and isolated, isn’t immune to the tensions that fester beneath the surface. Harsh conditions, grueling work, and the endless grind wear people down, turning frustration into anger, and anger into violence. Fights break out often, especially in the saloon after a long day when men try to drown their sorrows in whiskey. You both have learned to keep your distance from such skirmishes, knowing nothing good ever comes from getting involved.

Still, one night, as you return home from your evening shift at the pub, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl breaking out in the middle of the street. Shouts reverberate through the cold air, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Your heart races as you recognize the deep, guttural growl cutting through the noise—a sound you know all too well.

On impulse, you rush toward the commotion, dread pooling in your stomach. You know this won’t end well. Not here. Not for him.

When you reach the scene, your worst fears are confirmed. He stands in the centre of the chaos, fists clenched at his sides. Two men circle him, their faces twisted with drunken aggression, goading him. The small crowd that’s gathered seems almost entertained, too caught up in the spectacle to understand the true danger festering.

“James!” you shout, trying to get his attention, but to no avail.

One of the men—a burly miner you’ve seen around town a few times, always looking for trouble—lunges forward, his fist swinging. The punch connects with your man’s jaw, hard enough to stagger him back, but instead of falling, you see something shift in Logan’s expression. His eyes darken, his jaw tightens. Then, his claws slowly begin sliding out of his knuckles.

The crowd gasps, and the laughter dies immediately.

“Don’t come any closer,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep control, but you can see the fire burning behind his eyes. He’s on the edge, teetering dangerously close to losing himself.

But the miner, too drunk and furious to notice or care, spits on the ground. “Freak!” he slurs, venom lacing every word. “You think you scare me?”

He charges at Logan again, fists swinging recklessly. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you scream for him to stop. But it’s too late. Logan tries to pull back, to stop what’s about to happen, but the man is too close, too fast.

Everything slows down, the world moving in fractured seconds. Claws slice through the air, meeting flesh with a sickening thud. The miner gasps, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbles, clutching at his chest where the claws have sunk deep. Blood blooms around his hands, staining the dirt beneath his feet.

And suddenly, you’re thrust back into the past. You see James as he was all those years ago, his claws dripping with blood after killing Thomas. The memory crashes into you—the look of fear on his face, the horror in his eyes, the way he stumbled back, realizing what he’d done.

Just like now.

Logan’s eyes go wide, his expression mirroring that same devastation. He steps back, staring at the miner who crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. What follows is a deafening silence, the air thick with shock and disbelief. The townspeople that had been so eager for a show now stand frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

The man gasps one last breath, then goes still.

Logan stares at the body at his feet, his claws still extended, still dripping with the man’s blood. His chest heaves, his breath shallow, and he mutters under his breath, barely audible, "Oh god… Not again."

You rush to his side, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Come on, let’s go home."

He doesn’t move. He’s locked in place, staring at the man he’s just killed. His hands tremble, the claws still out, and you can see the raw pain in his eyes as the reality of what’s just happened sinks in.

"I didn’t mean to," he whispers again, his voice cracking. "I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…"

—

That night, while you're sleeping, Logan makes his decision.

And when you wake up the next day, the space beside you is cold.

The shack feels too quiet, too still. 

All you can do is stare at the empty spot in your bed. You tell yourself that maybe he’s outside, chopping wood or he’s already left for work. But deep down, you know. 

Throwing on your boots, you don’t bother to change out of your nightclothes, and rush outside. His name is the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and desperate. "James! Logan!" Your voice barrels through the small yard, bouncing off the trees and fading into the cool morning air. 

There’s no answer.

Panic grips you as you search the familiar places—around the shack, the small trail he likes to take into the woods, by the creek where he often spends time when he needs to clear his head. There’s no sign of him.

No footprints, no lingering scent. Nothing.

The townspeople stare as you move through the streets. They know what happened. They saw the claws, the blood. And now, they see you—a reminder of the violence that tore through their quiet lives. But you don’t care about their judgment right now. You’re too focused looking for him, too frantic to worry about the whispers that follow in your wake.

"Have you seen him?" you ask one of the miners who had once shared a drink with him, but he shakes his head and pulls away from you, muttering something under his breath. Everybody keeps their distance, their faces closed off, avoiding your gaze. 

By the time the sun climbs higher in the sky, the truth settles in your chest like a heavy stone. He left. You wander the streets a little longer, until exhaustion finally forces you back to the shack.

He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even leave a note. The man who you shared your life with, who you fell in love with, is gone—and he isn’t coming back.

In the days that follow, everything changes. The people who once greeted you with a nod or a smile now avert their eyes when you walk by. They speak in hushed tones, voices thick with suspicion and disdain. 

Nobody cares that you had nothing to do with what happened in the street that night. To them, you’re guilty by association.

It starts slowly, but the gossip spreads like wildfire. Saying thinks like: you knew what Logan was all along, that you hid his secret, allowed him to kill their men. Their anger turns to you, and before long, you become the pariah—cut off, unwelcome, the person responsible for the death of one of their own.

The day they decide to exile you is gray and heavy, the sky thick with the promise of rain. No one has the decency to say it to your face. Instead, you wake to a note slipped under your door, the word leave scrawled across it in angry, uneven letters.

You pack what little belongings you have—a few clothes, some keepsakes from the life you left behind at the Howlett estate—and sling a small bag over your shoulder. Then, you walk away without looking back.

Stretching out before you is a desolate, abandoned looking road. Your legs ache with every step, your feet blistering inside your boots, but you don’t stop. The memories of Logan, the town, the life you tried to build together swirl in your mind.

The sound of a a horse whinnying pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to see a carriage approaching. The coachman—a man with kind eyes and a weathered face—slows as he pulls alongside you. His voice soft and cautious as he asks, "Need a ride?"

Nodding, you’re too exhausted to respond with words, and climb into the passenger seat. He doesn’t ask many questions, sensing perhaps that you’re a soul in need of silence more than conversation. He drives in quiet companionship, the horses' feet against the dirt the only sound breaking the stillness.

He takes you to the nearest town, dropping you off with a quiet wish for better days ahead. You thank him and give him a few coins. You’re standing on the edge of a new beginning, unsure of where to go next but knowing, with painful certainty, that the past is behind you now.

—

In this new place, you slowly begin to rebuild what you’ve lost. It isn’t easy—there are nights when the loneliness threatens to swallow you whole and days when the weight of losing your best friend feels too much to bear. Still, you find work at a small shop, rent a modest room in the quieter part of town, and painstakingly, you carve out a new existence. 

Though no matter how hard you try to move forward, he’s always there. A shadow, lingering in the corners of your mind. You can’t forget him—the way he looked at you with those intense, searching eyes, the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, the way he left without a word. Your entire childhood, your early adulthood, revolved around him. He was the best part of your life. Every moment spent with him was cherished, imprinted in your memory like a brand you can’t erase.

Nights are the hardest. When the world is quiet, and it’s just you and your thoughts, that’s when the ache becomes unbearable. Each night, your mind drifts back to him. You tell yourself it wasn’t his fault—he must have believed he was protecting you by leaving. 

Maybe he thought you would hate him for killing another man with his claws, for unleashing the violence he tried so hard to contain. Maybe he thought you could never forgive him.

But the more you think about it, the more you realize: if he truly believed that, then he didn’t know you at all.

And that hurts. A lot.

You start to feel like him in some ways, burdened by secrets and anger with nowhere to go. More often than not, you slip out of the town in your nightgown and into the nearby forest, hoping the solitude will offer some kind of peace. It doesn’t, not really, but it’s better than suffocating in your room, choking on memories of what was and what could have been.

—

A year passes since the night he left, and you find yourself standing among the trees once again, lost in thought. It’s not fair—none of it is. You lost everything, and for what? Because you loved him? Because you could look past his mutation?

All of the emotions you’ve done a decent job at managing bubble to the surface, a torrent of grief and rage with nowhere to go. Mindlessly, you draw back your fist and slam it into the trunk of a nearby tree. The impact shoots a sharp pain through your arm, but it’s fleeting, drowned out by the rush of anger. You pull back to punch the tree again, harder this time, desperate for some kind of release.

But the tree doesn’t just splinter. It explodes. 

The force of your punch obliterates the trunk, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. You stagger back, staring at the destruction, stunned. What was just a tall, beautiful arbor is now reduced to nothing but rubble, the strength of your blow far beyond anything a normal person could achieve.

Your breath hitches when it dawns on you. You’re standing in the middle of the forest, surrounded by the evidence of your newfound power. You aren’t just grieving the loss of Logan anymore; you’re discovering that you are, just like him, a mutant.

Except, unlike him, you’re alone.

He’s not here to hold you, to help you make sense of what’s happening. He’s not here to run away with you like you once ran away with him. You have no one to share this terrifying revelation with. You have only yourself.

Looking down at your trembling hands, the faint ache in your knuckles nothing compared to the pain in your chest. It’s as if your heart is breaking all over again.

If you had known—if you had discovered this power when he was still with you—would things have been different? Would he have taken you with him? Would you still be together?

You can’t stop the questions, can’t silence the what-ifs that plague you.

Finally, the dam breaks, and you cry.

Pressing your fists against your eyes, you try to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use. The grief crashes over you in waves as the life you tried to build together all plays out in your mind like some twisted, unending loop.

—

The days bleed into one another.

Each is marked by the slow, steady march of time. You continue to live, to survive, but the discovery of your mutant powers changes everything, setting you on a path you had never imagined.

You learn that you can channel energy through your body, whether that be your emotions, or external, and then amplify it for your own gain. It’s a power that protects you, that makes you feel invincible, but the more you use it, the more distant you become from the life you once knew. 

And then there’s the other side of your mutation—the ability to heal others by absorbing their injuries. 

The first time you did it, it was an accident. 

You were closing up shop, and as you walked along the cobblestone roads, you saw a man lying face down. Instinctively, you quickened your pace, and crouched down beside him. Was he drunk? Dead? Gently, almost hesitantly, you reached out, placing your hand on his back with the faint hope that he was simply unconscious. Your intention was simple—just to check if he was breathing, to see if he would stir at your touch.

But the moment your fingers brushed his coat, a violent surge of pain exploded in your mind, like a thunderclap within your skull. The agony was so sudden, so sharp, that it nearly knocked you off your feet. 

It was more than pain—it was as though the man’s suffering had become yours, pulling you into his darkness. Your vision blurred, and for an instant, you could feel it. Blood. Hot and sticky, trickling down your forehead in a slow, steady stream. You raised a trembling hand to wipe it away, expecting to feel the warmth of it on your fingertips.

But there was nothing. No blood. No wound.

Just the phantom sensation of pain that wasn’t your own.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished. You blinked, gasping for air, trying to steady yourself. When you looked down at the man again, he was stirring, groaning softly. His eyes fluttered open, and he sat up, as if waking from a long sleep. He looked up at you, confused but grateful, oblivious to the power you had just unleashed.

It feels like a curse, the pain of others transferring to you in ways that leave you gasping for breath. But over time, you learn to control it, to take on only as much as you can handle, and to let the rest fade away.

You never stay too long in one place. Town after town, you move, always careful to keep your powers hidden. The people you encounter are kind enough, but you never allow yourself to get close. You can’t afford to—not when the memory of him still haunts you, his absence a constant ache in your heart. 

What if they leave you too?

Every now and then, there are some nights of passion with a stranger, but you never find another lover, never allow yourself to even consider it. 

As the years slip by, and you move through life like a ghost, always on the fringes, never fully there. In the beginning, you don’t notice it—time is something you stopped paying attention to long ago. But then, one day, nearly ten years after he left, you catch sight of yourself in a mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, unchanged, unmarked by the years that have passed. It’s as if time has forgotten you, leaving you suspended in a state of perpetual youth. This knowledge—that you could live indefinitely—fills you with a sense of purpose you haven’t felt in years.

So, when the First World War breaks out, you volunteer as a nurse, determined to use your abilities to save as many lives as you can. The troops who come to you are broken, their bodies ravaged by the horrors of war. You take their pain into yourself, healing them with a touch, until there is nothing left but faint scars—a reminder of what they have survived.

It’s during the Second World War that you first hear the rumours. Injured men speak in hushed tones of a man they saw—a soldier who seemed invincible, fighting with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. They talk of claws—long, sharp claws that can cut through anything, and a healing ability that allows him to shrug off injuries that would kill anyone else.

Could it be him? Could he still be out there, after all these years?

You dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it comes. It can’t be. He would be dead by now, just like everyone else from your past. 

He is gone, and you are alone—that’s the truth you’ve come to accept.

—

Somewhere along the way, you meet Charles Xavier. You don’t know how, but he knows you. He knows you’re a mutant—how you helped in the war. And he wants you to join his team.

You’ve spent so long on your own, relying on your powers to survive, that the idea of joining a team feels foreign, almost impossible. But there’s something in his eyes, something in the way he speaks of his vision for the future, that resonates with you. This isn’t just about survival—it’s about making a difference, about using your powers to protect those who can’t protect themselves. 

And, perhaps, it’s also about finding closure.

Maybe you can help mutants who struggle with their identity, like he did. Maybe this time, you can stop them from running away from themselves, the way you wish you could have stopped him.

So you agree.

And when you arrive at the mansion, you’re introduced to the others who will become your teammates—Jean Grey, Scott Summers, Hank McCoy, and Ororo Munroe.

The early days are challenging. Learning to work as a team, to trust one another, isn’t easy, especially for you, after so many years of solitude. But a camaraderie that develops between all of you, and it feels right. You’re no longer just a group of shunned mutants—you’re a family, united by a common goal.

—

This mission is supposed to be simple—investigate a remote facility rumoured to have ties to illegal mutant experimentation. Charles had briefed the team before sending you out, warning that there might be danger but nothing you couldn’t handle as a group. You’ve faced threats before, so when you arrive at the facility, it’s with the usual caution but no real alarm.

The structure looks forsaken at first glance, the exterior covered in years of grime, windows cracked and dark. But as you all approach, something feels wrong. There’s an energy in the air, a hum of activity beneath the surface. You can sense it, and by the looks of the others, they feel it too.

“We should be careful,” Scott mutters lowly as his hand hovers near his visor.

Jean furrows her brows. “I’m sensing...something. There are people here. This place isn’t empty”

Your stomach twists, and once the team cautiously makes its way deeper into the facility, you start to hear it—the muffled sounds of machinery, the low hum of voices, and then...a scream.

You freeze.

You’ve heard that scream before, in the dead of night, in memories you’ve tried to bury.

James.

Without thinking, you push forward, your body moving on instinct as you race toward the source of the sound. The others call after you, but their voices fade into the background as panic claws at your chest.

The scream grows louder, more desperate, until you burst into a large chamber. And there, in the center of the room, suspended in a tank of bubbling liquid, he is.

His body is thrashing against the restraints that bind him, wires and tubes connected to his skin. Machines whir around him, injecting something into his body—something molten, silvery. 

A team of scientists in lab coats and armed guards surround the tank, all of them focused on the cruel procedure unfolding before your eyes.

You can barely breathe. The sight of him, after all these years—being tortured like this is too much. Pain and rage surge through you, and before you realize what’s happening, you’re moving again.

“What the hell are you doing?!” you scream.

The guards whirl toward you, but you’re already on them. The first one goes down with a single blow, your fist connecting with his chest and sending him flying into the wall. You barely register his body crumpling to the floor before you move on to the next. 

Behind you, Jean and Scott rush in, their powers flashing as they help subdue the remaining guards, but your focus is on the man in the tank, whose eyes are squeezed shut in pain, body convulsing. You can’t think straight—you can only feel the overwhelming need to make this stop, to save him before the experiment finishes. 

But it’s too late.

In a roar of destruction, he breaks free from the tank, glass and metal exploding outward in every direction. His eyes are wild, erratic, his mind lost to the pain and the transformation—he’s a force of nature now. A whirlwind of violence and fury.

You try to reach him, but Jean steps forward, her eyes glowing as she raises a hand. “I’m sorry,” she strains. Her telekinetic force slams into him, knocking him off his feet, and his body crumples to the ground, unconscious, the rage finally quieted.

Standing there, panting, your hands are shaking as you stare at his still form. You’re overwhelmed—by the sight of him after so many years, by the pain of seeing him like this, by the fear that you might lose him before you even got him back.

Scott places a hand on your shoulder, his voice gentle. “We need to get him out of here.”

You nod, unable to speak, and together, the team lifts Logan’s unconscious body and carries him out of the facility. The entire time, you keep your eyes on him, terrified that if you look away for even a second, he’ll disappear. When you finally make it back to the jet, Jean lays him on a stretcher, her powers keeping him sedated for the trip back to the X-Mansion. You sit beside him, your hand hovering just above his, too afraid to touch, too afraid to hope.

The jet lifts off, and your mind races with a thousand questions. 

How did he end up here? Why did they do this to him? 

But above all, one thought consumes you: He’s alive.

After all these years, after all the heartache and loss, Logan—James—is still here.

—

He remains unconscious for three days, his body healing from the horrific procedure he endured. You barely leave his side, watching over him as if your presence alone could somehow anchor him back to himself. His breathing is steady, but his face—it’s both exactly the same and entirely foreign to you. He looks like the man you’ve known and loved, but it’s what is on the inside that worries you.

You swallow hard, your gaze tracing the familiar lines on his skin. Where are you, James? you think. Are you still in there?

Jean had done a body scan soon after you brought him back to the mansion, and the results confirmed your worst fears: they’ve bound adamantium to his bones and buried his personality underneath the most powerful brainwashing you’ve ever heard of.

It’s devastating. Whatever relief you’d felt—if any at all—at finding him alive is now eclipsed by the crushing reality of what he’s become.

The day he is scheduled to wake, Charles calls a meeting. The team gathers in the briefing room, and you sit quietly in your chair, replaying everything that led up to this moment.

Following a seemingly endless stretch of silence from you, Charles clears his throat. “If you’re ready, perhaps you could tell us more about your history with him. It might help us understand what we’re dealing with.”

A deep breath fills your lungs as your hands clutch the table’s edge tightly. Talking about him, about everything you’ve been through together, feels like peeling at old wounds that never really healed. But you know it’s necessary. If anyone is going to help him, they need to know the truth.

“I met Logan—James, as I used to call him—over a hundred years ago, when I was very young” you begin, and you can see the surprise ripple through the room at the admission of your age. “We grew up together. My parents were servants at the Howlett estate, and I spent most of my childhood by his side. He was my best friend… and eventually, he became so much more.” Your voice cracks, and you pause for a moment, collecting yourself.

“After a tragedy involving his family, we ran away together. We lived in a small mining town for years, trying to find some semblance of a life, but things fell apart. He left, and I—I spent years trying to forget him, but I never could. He was—is—everything to me."

Jean leans forward. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you,” she says softly. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that when he wakes up… he may not be the man you remember, and not just because of how much time passed.”

You look up at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She hesitates, exchanging a glance with Charles before continuing. “The brainwashing they used on him wasn’t just designed to make him forget. It was meant to strip away his sense of self entirely. His mind was… broken down, piece by piece. What you saw back at the facility—his rage, his lack of control—that’s what’s left of him right now.”

Hank speaks next. “We’ll do everything we can to help him, but Jean’s right. You need to be ready for the possibility that he won’t recognize you. He might not even recognize himself.”

Nodding slowly, your heart sinks further and further with each word. 

“We have tools, ways to work through the brainwashing,” he continues, “but it will take time. And patience.”

“Time,” you echo quietly. “I’ve already waited so long.”

Ororo reaches across the table, her hand hovering near yours. “I know this is overwhelming. But you don’t have to do this alone. We’re here to help.”

“I need to see him,” you whisper, your voice firmer than before. “When he wakes up, I need to be there.”

Charles nods gently. “Of course.”

—

When he finally stirs, it’s not a gentle awakening. His whole body jerks, his head whipping around in wild confusion. His breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, and his eyes dart frantically across the room, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings, and just as his eyes finally land on you, he freezes.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak.

There’s a lump in your throat, and you wait with a bated breath for some flicker of recognition in his eyes, some sign that he remembers you—that he knows you.

But it never comes.

Instead, his gaze narrows, studying you. “Where the hell am I?” he grunts. “And who are you?”

It hurts more than you expected. You knew this might happen—Jean and Charles had warned you—and you thought you had prepared yourself, but it doesn’t make hearing it any easier. 

He doesn’t remember you. 

“Just take it easy,” you manage to say softly. “You’ve been through a lot, James.”

His eyes flicker with confusion as he shifts in the bed, wincing at the movement. "James?" he questions.

You quickly correct yourself. "Logan."

His hand instinctively goes to his chest, fingers brushing against his side as if testing for wounds that aren’t there anymore. “What is this place?” he asks again. 

“You’re at the X-Mansion,” you explain. “You were... rescued. We brought you here to heal.”

“Rescued.” he repeats dryly. “From what?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to tell him. How do you explain everything—the horrors of Weapon X, the brutal experiments, the torture that nearly destroyed him? You can’t even bring yourself to speak the full truth, not yet. 

“You were taken,” you say carefully. “By people who wanted to use you for something terrible. But we got to you before they could. You’re safe now.”

Logan lets out a short, bitter laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “Safe,” he mutters, his voice low and sarcastic. “Right.” He rubs a hand across his face.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing somethin’?” he mutters, his irritation growing. “Like... like there’s something important I should remember.”

Swallowing hard, your heart twists at his words. He is missing something. But you won’t tell him that now. He’s already grappling with so much, and the last thing he needs is the weight of your shared past thrust upon him before he’s ready.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your voice is gentle, coaxing. “It’s... normal to feel confused right now.”

Frowning, he runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“I know it’s hard to understand,” you say softly. “But it’ll get better. You’ll remember in time.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he’s searching for answers that aren’t there. After a moment, he sighs, his eyes returning to yours. “Alright. Who are you, really?” he asks. “Why do I feel like I should know you?”

Because we grew up together. 

Because we were everything to each other. 

Because you were the one person I never stopped loving. 

“Just focus on resting,” you say, forcing a soft smile. 

He studies you briefly, as if trying to figure out whether or not to trust you. Then finally, he nods, thought you can tell he’s still wary “Yeah... okay.”

The awkward silence returns. 

“I should go,” you murmur, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet room. “You need rest.”

He doesn’t stop you, doesn’t ask you to stay. He just watches as you turn toward the door, and leave.

Your chest tightens painfully as you walk out of the room, the familiar ache of loss settling in once more. It’s worse this time, though—worse because he’s alive, and yet, in every way that matters, he’s gone.

You leave the room in a daze, your mind swirling with a storm of emotions. Your feet carry you down the hall, and before you realize what’s happening, you find yourself in the washroom. 

The moment the door clicks shut, your stomach lurches. You barely make it a toilet before you’re retching. Tears sting your eyes, and you brace yourself against the cold porcelain, gasping for breath as your body shakes with sobs.

Standing up and flushing, you walk over to the sink, and press your forehead against the mirror. How did it come to this? You found him, after all these years, but the person in that bed isn’t the Logan—it isn’t the James—you once knew. 

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you try to pull yourself together. It's not the time to breakdown, you think, and after splashing some water on your face, you turn toward the exit.

Pushing open the door, you’re met with the familiar gaze of Ororo. She stands in the hallway, her white hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes filled with something that feels like both understanding and pity.

Your eyes widen, caught off guard, not expecting to see anyone, least of all her.

“I saw you come in here,” she whispers empathetically, “but thought you might need a moment.”

You pause, trying to blink away the redness in your eyes, trying to pretend you’re stronger than you feel. But she sees through it. She always has.

“I’m fine,” you say, the words slipping out automatically.

Stepping closer, her gaze softens as she studies your face. “No,” she disagrees, “you’re not.”

The vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep at bay rushes forward again, threatening to swallow you whole. You open your mouth to argue, to brush it off, but the moment you meet her eyes, the words die in your throat. The pity, the compassion—it’s too much.

Silently, she reaches out, her hand resting lightly on your arm. It’s a small gesture, but it feels grounding.

“I saw him,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “He doesn’t remember me.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry.” 

—

The next few days are a blur. You keep yourself busy—too busy—hoping that constant movement will keep the gnawing ache at bay. If you let yourself stop, if you let yourself think about what’s happened, the hurt would consume you, so you don’t stop.

Most of your time is spent in your room or the garden, taking refuge in the places where you can hide from everything, everyone.

Sometimes, you train, pushing your body past its limits in a desperate attempt to silence your thoughts. Every hit you land, every punch you throw, never feels like enough.

It’s easier this way, you tell yourself. Easier to avoid him, to pretend he never came back into your life. Because the alternative—watching him live here, knowing he doesn’t remember you, doesn’t understand what you once shared—that’s too painful.

You’d rather pretend he’s still a memory than face the reality that the man you love is here, but not really.

When you walk through the mansion, you see him from afar. You can’t help but notice how he’s begun to soften around the others, how the confused man who woke up in that bed is slowly adjusting to life at the mansion. He has daily appointments with Charles, who you imagine is sifting through his mind, doing his very best to retrieve something, anything.

While there is still a distance in his eyes, still a guarded edge to him, but you can see the small shifts—the way he listens when someone speaks, the faintest hint of a smile when Hank tries to crack a joke.

And sometimes, your eyes meet.

From across the room, you’ll catch him watching you. In those moments, your heart skips a beat, wondering if there’s a reason why he’s zeroed in on you specifically, but then he looks away, and it passes. You never approach him, never ask him how he’s feeling or if he’s starting to remember anything. You’re too afraid of the answer.

One night, you sit in the garden, letting the soft breeze play with your hair, eyes closed. 

“Mind if I sit here?”

The voice startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyelids flutter, and as you turn, your heart jolts upon seeing Logan standing at above you. And momentarily, it’s like you’re teenagers again—sneaking out at night into the gardens to talk. 

“Sure,” you nod, gently patting the space beside you, as you always did. 

He steps closer and sits down, though not without leaving a small space between the two of you. “I’ve been seeing you around,” he says after a beat.. He doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the flowers in front of him. “But... you’ve been avoidin’ me, haven’t you?”

A small laugh escapes you, bitter and self-deprecating. “You noticed, huh?”

“Yeah, not much gets past me. Even that one guy’s attempts at being a leader.”

Despite yourself, you snort. “Scott?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “He’s too easy. Guy looks like a human stoplight with those stupid glasses.”

You bite back a snicker, feeling like a teenager again. The banter, the lighthearted teasing—it makes it seem like maybe, just maybe, there’s still something left of the man you knew.

He turns his head slightly, his expression growing more serious. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he says, quieter now. “Why it feels like something’s missing. Every time I see you... I know you’re related to it.”

Shifting a little to look at him, you take in the way his facial hair is a little bit more kempt, how he still has his hair tufts. You miss him, and he’s right here with you. 

“I... thought it would be easier,” you admit, staring down at your hands. “For both of us. If I kept my distance. I didn’t want to add to your stress.”

Frowning, his brows furrow as he processes your words. “Add to it? How?”

“Because you don’t remember me,” you say softly. “And I didn’t want to be a reminder of something you can’t recall.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, “you’re right. I don’t remember everything,” he says slowly, “but I know there’s something about you.”

You nod, your throat tight, but you don’t push him. You know it’s only a matter of time before the pieces fall into place. “You’ll remember,” you whisper. “I know it.”

He grunts. “I don’t want you to keep your distance.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” The idea of him wanting to spend more time with you, fills you with joy.

—

For the next few weeks, it becomes a quiet routine—the nightly conversations in the garden. It’s like slipping into an old rhythm, the two of you always finding a way to gravitate toward each other once the sun goes down. You talk about small things, but it's never too heavy. Sometimes he teases you, and you tease him back, exchanging sarcastic quips. Nothing and everything has changed at the same time.

You’ve started training together too, spending more and more time together each day. It’s almost as if there’s a magnet between you that not even time could weaken.

This night, you’re in the gym together on the sparring mat. It’s the usual scenario playing out—dodging, blocking, throwing punches. He’s fast and strong. And it means a lot to see you see him finally embrace his mutant powers and use them, rather than try to hide and run. 

You’re both breathing hard, the exertion pushing your bodies to their limits. You land a solid kick to his side, and he grunts, stepping back for a moment. Without warning, his claws extend, and your gaze locks in on them.

Of course you know about the adamantium, but seeing it like this, so up close, it’s different. 

“What?” Logan asks, noticing your sudden stillness. His brow furrows, and he glances down at his claws, as if he’s only just realizing they’re out. “What are you staring at?”

“Does it hurt?” you question, clearing your throat. “When they come out?”

He tilts his head, his gaze flicking between you and his claws. “Everytime” he sighs. “But not as much as the old ones.”

Your eyes snap up from his claws to meet his. “... What?” you ask. The old ones?

“They were bone,” he continues, “Hurt like a bitch.”

Your heart starts pounding in your chest. Could this be it? Could he be remembering?

Stepping closer, your voice trembles slightly as you push for more. “What else do you remember?”

His eyes widen, and then he blinks, his stare glazing over for a second, like he’s trying to chase down a memory that’s just out of reach.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits with a bit of frustration. His claws retract, his hand flexing unconsciously as he stares at the empty space where the blades once were. “It’s all bits and pieces. I get these flashes, but nothing sticks. Charles said... he said the barriers in my mind are comin’ down, but it’s slow. Like finding a damn needle in a haystack.”

But the fact that he remembers even a sliver, is enough to fill you with hope.

—

This continues, the small fragments of memories coming back to him. They come unexpectedly, at random times in the day. It’s never anything big, never the full flood of memories you’re hoping for, but each time it happens, it feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

You suggest a walk one afternoon. The mansion has felt a little too closed in lately, and you think maybe the fresh air might help clear his mind. Together, you wander along a little pathway that connects the mansion to a nearby river, the sound of the water in the distance a soothing backdrop as you walk side by side. He’s quiet, more so than usual, and as you glance at him, you notice his expression has grown distant.

“Logan?” you ask softly, nudging his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. His brow is furrowed, like he’s trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle, his thoughts distant, swirling. “I remember…” he starts, his voice quiet, as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

Your fingers begin to twitch at your side. Every time he remembers something, it feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he’ll fall into the past, if this will be the moment he remembers it all.

“A cabin,” he says finally, his voice rough but certain. “There was a shack. In a small town. I used to stay there.”

You nod, urging him to continue, anticipated building within your chest. “Go on.”

“It was small. Cold most of the time. But I don’t think I cared.” He lets a chuckle. “I liked it. Felt... peaceful.”

You can’t help but smile a little at the memories he’s bringing up. His steps falter, and he stops in the middle of the path, turning to look at you. “Mining,” he mutters, as if the word itself is triggering something. “I remember mining.”

“That’s good,” you say. ‘I’m happy for you.”

—

The memories keep coming.

You’re in the mansion, passing through one of the long hallways together on your way to eat, when he suddenly stops, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. You turn, concern flooding through you. “Are you okay? What is it?”

He frowns, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to force something into focus. “There was a girl.”

“A girl?” you repeat, not wanting to push him but unable to stop the question from spilling out.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “In a big house—like a mansion, I think. We'd play together. She was... she was always following me around. Always gettin’ into trouble.”

You know exactly who he’s talking about.

“Do you remember her name?” 

Shaking his head, you can see the frustration etched onto his face. “No. But she must have been important, I can feel it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you try to hold yourself together. It was me, you want to say. That little girl was me.

“It’s okay,” you say instead, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ll remember. You’re already so close.”

He looks at you then, his eyes searching yours for something—answers, reassurance. Once a few seconds pass, he sighs and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you put up with this,” he grumbles lowly. “With me.”

“Because I know you,” you whisper back. 

To have a chance at another lifetime with him, you’d put up with anything. 

—

He’s busy with Jean and Charles this morning, the duo having started to work together last week, trying to finally break down the wall stopping Logan from recovering his memories. With nothing else to occupy you, you’ve retreated to the mansion’s library, seeking solace in the endless rows of books. The familiar smell of paper and ink is comforting, and for a while, you manage to lose yourself in the words on the page. 

You’re curled up in one of the oversized armchairs, a book resting in your lap, when your ears pick up the sound of heavy footsteps—fast, purposeful, ringing out through the mansion’s quiet halls.

Concern rises in your chest. Those footsteps aren’t casual; someone is rushing, and you’ve been around long enough to know that in here, that usually means something’s wrong.

Setting the book down on the small table beside you, you stand and head toward the entrance of the library. The sound grows louder, the footsteps coming closer, and just as you reach the doorway, you collide with a solid wall of muscle.

"Ho—holy sh—" you gasp, stumbling back, startled. Your hands fly to steady yourself, and you look up, wide-eyed, to see Logan standing there. "Logan, you scared m—"

“James.”

You still. 

"What?" you whisper, your mind racing as you stare at him. His face is different—not just the usual irritated-by-himself expression he’s been wearing lately, but something else. There’s a certainty in his eyes, relief and maybe even—

“My name is James,” he repeats. “I was born in Alberta. We grew up together. I... I killed my father.” His voice falters slightly at that, but he pushes through, his gaze locked on yours, unwavering. “You were the little girl in the mansion. You’ve always been there. And I—” His eyes brim with emotion. “I love you.”

The words slam into you, leaving you breathless. You can feel the blood drain from your face, your heart jumping so hard it feels like it might burst. “You... you remember?” You’re barely able to get the words out.

Logan—James—stares at you. “I remember everything.”

A sob escapes your throat, and you throw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as the floodgates open. His arms come around you immediately, holding you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have never left. I should have gone back to find you.”

You shake your head, tears soaking into his shirt. “It doesn’t matter,” your voice breaks. “None of that matters anymore. We’re together now. That’s all I care about.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s so much love—so much everything—in his eyes, your knees nearly buckle. All you do is hold on to him, as tightly as you can, afraid that if you let go, this moment will slip away.

But it won’t, because he’s really here, he remembers, and he still loves you.

For what feels like hours, you stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other’s arms. Eventually, you take a small step back, unwrapping your arms and instead grabbing his hands, squeezing them. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He squeezes your hands back in return. “Yeah, we do.”

—

You sniffle, wiping away the last of your tears as you lie in bed with him, pressed so close it feels like you’re trying to merge into one person. His warmth surrounds you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, hands drawing small circles. It’s like all the years apart never happened, like you’re finally back where you’re meant to be.

“So, what made it all come back to you?” you ask softly, your voice a bit hoarsefrom all the crying you’ve done in the last hour.

James takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. “I guess having two strong telepaths diggin’ around in your mind will do the trick,” he responds. “Shit was brutal, but... worth it.”

Tilting his head down, he presses a small kiss to your temple. If even possible, you nestle yourself further into his hold. 

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whisper. “All those years... I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Same for me. Thought I lost you too,” James murmurs, his hand running gently up and down your back. “After I left the cabin, I tried to forget. Tried to convince myself you were better off without me, but...” He trails off. “I was wrong—a coward. I shouldn’t have been runnin’ away. Especially from you.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his. “What did you do all those years? Where did you go?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. “I wandered. For a long time, I didn’t stay in one place. Fought when I had to, drank when I couldn’t forget. Got into a lot of trouble.” He grimaces slightly. 

You frown. “What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where people like me aren’t supposed to be walking free,” he remarks bitterly. “I gave into the monster I thought I was.”

His words sink in, and you can feel the toll those years took on him, the way they left him scarred, not just physically, but emotionally. “It must have been so hard,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. “Living like that, without... anyone.”

Leaning into your touch, “Yeah,” he admits. “It was. But... I didn’t know how to live any other way. Not after everything that happened.”

There’s a long pause, the two of you lying there, bodies tangled together as you both process the weight of what’s been lost and what’s been found. Then, he kisses the inside of your hand, looking at you with a faint, curious smile.

“What about you?” he asks softly, tugging you closer. “When did you... ya know, find out you were a mutant?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve never really talked about that part of your life to anyone, at least not in detail. 

“I didn’t know for about a year,” you begin. “After you left, I was... lost. And then one day... I punched a tree.”

James raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “A tree?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the seriousness of the memory. “Yeah. I was angry—angry at everything. And when I punched it... the damn thing exploded.”

He stares at you for a moment, processing your words. Then, a slow, amused grin spreads across his face. “Exploded, huh? Guess that’s one way to find out you’re not normal.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly subtle.”

His smile fades slightly. “What did you do after that?”

Taking a deep breath, you let the memories of those early days as a mutant flood back. “I tried to keep it hidden for a while. Didn’t really know what to do with it. But then... the wars started.”

Eyes narrowing, his expression changes instantly. “The wars?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, the First and Second. I volunteered as a nurse. I figured if I could use my powers to help people, then maybe I could make up for everything I lost. I moved station to station, healing soldiers. I couldn’t save everyone, but I tried.”

He’s momentarily quiet, gaze never leaving yours, even as he processes what you’re telling him. Then, slowly, his features shift into disbelief.

“You were on the frontlines?” His voice low, almost incredulous. He reaches out to brush a few strands of hair out of your face. 

“Yeah. I wanted to make a difference.”

Letting out a sharp breath, James sits up slightly in bed as he stares at you. “Holy shit,” he mutters. “I fought in those wars, too. In the trenches.”

You’re speechless, and the realization washes over you slowly. The whisperings you’d heard from the troops, the rumours you’d chalked up to be nothing more than drunken tales, suddenly come flooding back. A man who couldn’t be killed, who healed from every injury, who fought with claws that could tear through anything.

It was him.

It was always him.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “So it was true…all those rumours about the man who couldn’t die... that was you.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess it was.”

All those years, all those battles... and you were both there, so close, yet so far apart. 

“We were so close,” you say, moving forward in to give him a kiss. “And we didn’t even know it.”

He kisses you back, his grip on you tightening. Then, when you pull away, he sighs, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s all so different now,” he begins gruffly. “You’re not the little maid in training anymore, runnin’ around that mansion, worried about getting caught”

You smile faintly at the memories of your younger selves, the girl you used to be, and the boy who was so much more to you than just a young lord. 

“And you’re not sir James Howlett or whatever—Lord—anymore” you tease. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who used to sulk in the garden because he had to attend another dinner party.”

He lets out a noise that sounds like a mix between a huff and a laugh “Yeah,” he agrees. “That feels like a lifetime ago. And in a way, I guess it was.”

While neither of you are the same people you once were, in this moment, you can feel that connection—the one that has always been there.

“I’ve thought about you every day,” he speaks up again. “All those years.”

“James…”

“I love you,” he confesses. “And I’ve loved you my whole life. Before we ran away, after I left, even after I thought you were gone... I couldn’t forget. Didn’t want to.” He sucks in a harsh breath, grabbing your hand once more. “I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We could’ve figured it out together, but I was so... so damn scared. I thought if I stayed, I’d only hurt you.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes again. “You did what you thought was right,” you whisper, intertwining your fingers. “You were scared, and so was I.”

“I wish I could take it all back,” he says, regret bleeding into his tone. “I wish I could’ve been there for you... We could’ve had so many more years together.”

“We have time now,” you say softly, assuring him. “We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but rather he edges forward, brushing his lips softly against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs before closing the gap completely, kissing you passionately.

You smile against his lips, because while he may be known as logan, or Wolverine, he’s still James.

Your James. 

----

A/N: I'm going to have to either write some crazy smut or excessive fluff now because this took it out of me LOL also I hope none of you got confused with the name switching! Thank you so much for reading <3

[livefastdriveyoung]

Let's talk about Logan.

It's most definitely not his fault. He wasn't ready. He isn't ready. Maybe if he had had another year, we would be looking at the future of F1, but a combination of James and Williams American Sponsors left Logan with one opportunity that he was never going to get ever again.

It's devastating, and it's tragic, and it is reality.

Logan Sargeant deserved a real, fair chance in F1. Williams wasn't that. Not with the TP crooning about the first driver constantly, about how the first driver is going to be the one the team focuses on.

But he gives Logan a second chance.

Or, rather, based on what has been coming out of late, the American Sponsors give him another chance. And in retaliation, the TP spends the entirety of the rest of the season essentially making it clear to everyone that while Logan has the second seat, he was never James's first choice.

So be it.

But what the Williams team weren't prepared for is the fact that the American Sponsors weren't wrong for keeping Logan in the seat for another year. Just on here and even on Instagram (screw X, the demon child), the support, if anything, grew.

Because you talk about dignity and then you take away his car.

You talk about skill and then the driver you replace him with doesn't score points.

You talk about talent, but the driver you're replacing him with has been in Red Bulls and Ferraris. One would hope that he is skilled.

You don't talk about the fact that the whole world is watching you publicly embarrass someone whom you yourself say you have a "duty of care" for.

You don't talk about the fact that maybe Logan would have stood a chance if the Feedback actually came from you instead of the pretty little sentence on the radio at the end.

So unfortunately, but realistically, Logan Sargeant is out of F1.

But his legacy will live on. He is the first American to score points in 30 years. He is the reason people on this website and across the media were able to clock that Mr. Nice Guy is just a very good act.

He's the reason so many Americans did start tuning in.

He's one of the reasons that the conversation about the way drivers are treated in this sport is a conversation that isn't going away.

It's not the legacy he had in mind, but it is an important one.

So thank you, Logan, for paving the way. You're in the record books, and we appreciate what it took for you to get there.

[pucksandpower]

For the Best

Logan Sargeant x Wolff!Reader

Summary: Logan thinks that losing his Williams seat marks the beginning of the end … little does he know that it’s really just the start of the rest of his life

Logan steps into the cool, air-conditioned room, his race suit clinging to his skin after a grueling drive. The contrast between the bustling paddock and the quiet meeting room is jarring, and he can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.

His team principal sits at the head of the table, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by a somber expression. Beside him, to Logan’s surprise, is the imposing figure of Mercedes’ team principal.

“Logan, thanks for coming,” James begins, his voice careful and measured. “Please, have a seat.”

Logan slides into a chair, his heart rate picking up. “What’s this about?” He asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

James and Toto exchange a glance before James clears his throat. “Logan, you’ve been a valuable part of our team, and we’ve appreciated your dedication and hard work.”

The use of past tense doesn’t escape Logan’s notice. His stomach drops.

“But?” Logan prompts, bracing himself.

James sighs. “But we’ve decided to go in a different direction for next season. We’ll be announcing tomorrow that we’re signing Carlos Sainz.”

The words hit Logan like a physical blow. He knew his seat wasn’t secure, but hearing it confirmed ... it’s devastating.

“I-I see,” Logan manages, his voice barely above a whisper.

Toto leans forward, his piercing gaze fixed on Logan. “This is where I come in, Logan. We’ve been watching your progress closely, and while Williams may not have a race seat for you next year, we see potential in you.”

Logan’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Mercedes and Williams would like to offer you a position as a reserve driver for next season,” Toto explains. “It would give you the opportunity to stay involved in F1, continue your development, and potentially step in if needed.”

Logan’s mind races. It’s not a race seat, but it’s something. A lifeline in a sport that can be ruthlessly unforgiving.

“I ... I don’t know what to say,” Logan admits, his voice shaky.

James leans in, his expression softening. “Logan, I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear. But this could be a great opportunity for you. You’d be working with one of the top teams in the sport.”

Logan nods slowly, trying to process everything. “Can I ask ... why? Why make this decision now?”

James shifts uncomfortably. “It’s a combination of factors. Carlos became available, and with his experience ...”

“You think he can bring more to the team,” Logan finishes, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.

“Logan,” Toto interjects, his tone firm but not unkind. “This sport is brutal, we all know that. But it’s also about timing and opportunities. This reserve role could set you up for future success.”

Logan takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “And if I say no? If I want to pursue other options?”

James and Toto exchange another glance. “That’s your prerogative,” James says carefully. “But I would strongly advise you to consider this offer. It’s not often a driver gets this kind of opportunity with a team like Mercedes.”

Logan nods, his mind whirling. “How long do I have to decide?”

“We’d need an answer by the end of the week,” Toto replies. “We understand this is a big decision, but we also need to move forward with our plans.”

Logan stands up, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the small room. “I ... I need some time to think about this. Is that okay?”

James nods, standing as well. “Of course, Logan. Take the time you need. But please, keep this conversation confidential until the announcement on Monday.”

Logan nods numbly, turning towards the door. As he reaches for the handle, Toto’s voice stops him.

“Logan,” the Mercedes boss says, his tone softer than before. “I know this feels like a setback. But sometimes, a step back can lead to two steps forward. Don’t lose faith in yourself.”

Logan meets Toto’s gaze, seeing a mix of sympathy and determination in the older man’s eyes. He manages a weak smile. “Thank you, Mr. Wolff. I’ll ... I’ll be in touch.”

As Logan steps out of the room, the hectic sounds of the paddock wash over him. And not for the first time in his F1 career, he feels completely lost in the familiar chaos.

***

Logan sits alone at a table in the Mercedes cafeteria, pushing his food around his plate. It’s his first day as a reserve driver, and the reality of his situation is sinking in. The familiar faces he’d grown accustomed to at Williams are replaced by a sea of strangers, all wearing the unmistakable Mercedes black and silver.

He takes a halfhearted bite of his chicken, lost in thought. The clink of a tray beside him startles him out of his reverie.

“Mind if I join you?” A cheerful voice asks.

Logan looks up to see a young woman with a bright smile sliding into the seat across from him. Her eyes sparkle with warmth and curiosity.

“Uh, sure,” Logan manages, caught off guard by the unexpected company.

You beam at him, extending a hand. “I’m Y/N. You must be Logan, right? The new reserve driver?”

Logan nods, shaking your hand. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

“So, how’s your first day going?” You ask, digging into your own lunch with enthusiasm.

Logan shrugs, trying to muster up some positivity. “It’s ... different. Still trying to find my bearings, I guess.”

You nod sympathetically. “I can imagine. It must be a big change from Williams. But hey, everyone here is pretty friendly once you get to know them. Give it time.”

Logan finds himself relaxing a bit in the face of your easy-going demeanor. “Thanks. I appreciate that. So, uh, what do you do here?”

You laugh, a melodious sound that draws a few glances from nearby tables. “Oh, a bit of everything, really. I like to keep busy. But tell me more about you! How are you finding Brackley compared to Grove?”

Logan blinks, surprised by your genuine interest. “It’s ... bigger, for sure. More advanced facilities. It’s a bit overwhelming, to be honest.”

You lean in, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Want to know a secret? It can be overwhelming for all of us sometimes. But that’s what makes it exciting, right?”

A small smile tugs at Logan’s lips. “I guess you’re right. It’s just ... I keep thinking about what could have been, you know? If I’d kept my race seat ...”

Your expression softens. “I get it. It’s tough to feel like you’re taking a step back. But sometimes, that step back gives you the perspective you need to leap forward.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “You sound like To- I mean, Mr. Wolff.”

You grin mischievously. “Well, great minds think alike, I suppose. But seriously, Logan, try to see this as an opportunity. You’re working with one of the best teams in F1. There’s so much you can learn here.”

Logan nods slowly, your enthusiasm starting to rub off on him. “You’re right. I should be grateful for this chance. It’s just hard not to feel a bit ... lost, I guess.”

“That’s totally normal,” you assure him. “But you know what? I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here. You’ve got that spark, Logan. I can see it.”

Logan feels a warmth spreading through his chest at your words. “Thanks, Y/N. That ... that means a lot.”

You wave off his gratitude with a smile. “Hey, newbies have to stick together, right?”

Logan tilts his head, confused. “Newbies? How long have you been here?”

You laugh again, and Logan finds himself thinking it’s a sound he could get used to. “Oh, I’ve been around forever. But I still feel new sometimes. This place is always evolving, always pushing forward. It keeps you on your toes.”

Logan nods, understanding dawning. “I can see that. It’s a bit intimidating, actually. Everyone here seems so ... focused. Driven.”

“That’s the Mercedes way,” you agree. “But don’t let it psych you out. We’re all human here. Well, except for the cars, of course.”

Logan chuckles, surprising himself. It’s the first time he’s laughed since ... well, since that meeting with James and Toto.

“So,” you continue, leaning forward with interest, “tell me about your journey. How did you end up in F1?”

Logan hesitates for a moment, then finds himself opening up. He tells you about his early days in karting, the move to Europe, the struggles and triumphs in the junior categories. You listen intently, asking thoughtful questions and offering encouragement.

“... and then Williams gave me my shot,” Logan concludes. “It was a dream come true, you know? But now ...”

You reach across the table, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “Hey, your F1 journey isn’t over. It’s just taking a different path. And who knows? This could lead to even better things.”

Logan feels a flutter in his chest at your touch, quickly pushing the feeling aside. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you say with conviction. “You’ve got talent. Anyone can see that. And now you’ve got the backing of Mercedes. That’s a powerful combination.”

Logan finds himself smiling, your optimism infectious. “Thanks, Y/N. I ... I really needed to hear that today.”

You wink at him. “Anytime. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Friends?” Logan echoes, surprised but pleased.

“Of course!” you exclaim. “Unless you’d rather keep eating lunch alone?”

Logan shakes his head quickly. “No, no. Friends sounds good. Great, actually.”

You beam at him. “Excellent. Now, let me give you the inside scoop on the best coffee spots around here. Trust me, you’re going to need it.”

As you launch into a detailed description of the various cafes and their specialties, Logan finds himself relaxing fully for the first time since arriving at Mercedes. Your easy banter and genuine interest make him feel welcome, like he might actually belong here after all.

“... and whatever you do, avoid the vending machine on the third floor,” you’re saying. “It ate my money twice last week, and-”

“Y/N,” a familiar voice interrupts.

Logan looks up to see Toto Wolff standing beside their table, his imposing figure casting a shadow. Logan immediately straightens, suddenly very aware of his posture.

“Oh, hi Vati!” You say brightly.

Logan’s brain short-circuits. Vati? His eyes dart between you and Toto, noticing for the first time the similarities in your features.

Toto smiles warmly at you, then drops a kiss on top of your head. “I see you’re making our new reserve driver feel welcome.”

You grin up at your father. “Of course! Someone has to show him the ropes around here.”

Toto nods approvingly, then turns to Logan. “I hope my daughter isn’t talking your ear off. She can be quite enthusiastic.”

Logan, still reeling from the revelation, manages to stammer out, “N-no, sir. She’s been very helpful.”

“Good,” Toto says. “Y/N, don’t forget about the meeting at three. Logan, keep up the good work. I look forward to seeing what you can do in the simulator next week.”

With that, Toto strides away, leaving Logan staring at you in shock.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You okay there, Logan? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Logan tries to speak, fails, then tries again. “You ... you’re Toto Wolff’s daughter?”

You nod, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Yep. Did I forget to mention that?”

Logan feels his face heating up. “I-I had no idea. I thought you were in PR or something.”

You burst out laughing. “PR? Oh, that’s a good one. No, I’m more of a behind-the-scenes type. Strategy, data analysis, that sort of thing.”

Logan’s mind is reeling. He’s been sitting here, pouring his heart out to his boss’s daughter. The boss’s daughter who is smart, funny, and undeniably attractive. The boss’s daughter who he might have been developing a tiny crush on.

“I’m sorry,” Logan says, mortified. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have-”

You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “Logan, relax. I’m still the same person I was five minutes ago. The only thing that’s changed is that now you know I have an overprotective dad who happens to run the team.”

Logan swallows hard. “Right. No pressure or anything.”

You lean in, your eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hey, look on the bright side. Now you’ve got an inside track to the big boss. Just don’t ask me to put in a good word for you. I have a strict no nepotism policy.”

Despite his embarrassment, Logan finds himself chuckling. “Noted. I’ll just have to impress him on my own merits, then.”

“That’s the spirit,” you say, raising your water bottle in a mock toast. “To new beginnings and unexpected friendships.”

Logan clinks his own bottle against yours, a smile spreading across his face despite his lingering shock. “To new beginnings,” he echoes.

As you launch back into conversation, Logan can’t help but think that his time at Mercedes might be more interesting than he’d anticipated. And maybe, just maybe, this step back might lead to something amazing after all.

***

Logan leans against the table, his eyes fixed on the monitors displaying George Russell’s lap times. The Australian sun beats down on the Albert Park circuit, but inside the Mercedes garage, the atmosphere is tense with concentration as pre-season testing commences.

“Looking good, George,” Marcus Dudley, his race engineer, says into the radio. “Let’s push for one more flying lap before we bring you in.”

Logan nods to himself, impressed by George’s consistency. He’s about to turn to grab a water bottle when a collective gasp from the crew draws his attention back to the screens.

George’s car is spinning, kicking up dust and gravel as it careens towards the barrier. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting concrete echoes through the speakers.

“George, are you okay?” Marcus calls urgently. “George, do you copy?”

Silence.

Logan’s heart races as he watches the still car, willing George to respond. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you rushing past, your face pale with worry.

“Carmen,” you call out, spotting George’s girlfriend near the back of the garage. You reach her just as her knees seem to give out, catching her before she falls.

Logan wants to help, but he knows his place. He turns back to the screens, straining to hear any news.

Marcus tries again, his voice tight with concern. “George, if you can hear me, give us any sign. Tap the radio, move your hand, anything.”

Still nothing.

The garage erupts into controlled chaos. Toto strides in, his face a mask of worry. “What happened?” He demands.

“Lost the rear in turn 11,” one of the engineers reports. “Looks like a suspension failure, but we won’t know for sure until we get the car back.”

Toto nods grimly. “And George?”

Marcus shakes his head. “No response on the radio.”

Logan watches as the medical car speeds towards the crash site. He catches snippets of radio chatter from the marshals.

“Driver non-responsive ... possible head trauma ... prepare for extraction ...”

The words send a chill down Logan’s spine. This is the dark side of the sport they all love, the ever-present danger that lurks behind every high-speed corner.

You appear at Logan’s side, your face etched with worry. “Any news?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan shakes his head. “Nothing yet. They’re working on getting him out now.”

You nod, biting your lower lip. “Carmen ... she’s not doing well. I’ve got Aleix with her now.”

Logan glances over to where Carmen sits, hunched over, the arm of George’s performance coach around her shoulders. The sight makes his chest tighten.

“This is my fault,” you murmur.

Logan turns to you, surprised. “What? How could this possibly be your fault?”

You run a hand through your hair, frustration evident in every movement. “I was the one who pushed for the new suspension design. If I had just stuck with the old one ...”

“Hey,” Logan says firmly, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You can’t think like that. We all know the risks. George knows the risks. This isn’t on you.”

You give him a weak smile, gratitude flashing in your eyes. “Thanks, Logan. I just ... I can’t help but feel responsible.”

Before Logan can respond, a flurry of activity on the screens catches their attention. The medical team has successfully extracted George from the car.

“He’s out,” Marcus announces, his relief palpable. “Still unconscious, but he’s breathing on his own.”

A collective sigh of relief ripples through the garage. Carmen lets out a sob, burying her face in Aleix’s shoulder.

Toto approaches you and Logan, his face grim but composed. “They’re airlifting him to the hospital for full scans. Y/N, I need you to go with Carmen. Logan, I want you suited up and ready. If George can’t drive ...”

The implication hangs in the air. Logan nods, his throat suddenly dry. “Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”

As Toto moves away to handle the press, you turn to Logan. “Are you okay?” You ask, concern evident in your voice.

Logan takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I think so. It’s just ... this isn’t how I wanted my chance to come.”

You squeeze his arm gently. “I know. But George would want you to do your best. That’s all any of us can do right now.”

Logan nods, trying to steel himself for what might come next. “You’re right. Go take care of Carmen. I’ll ... I’ll be here if you need me.”

You give him a grateful smile before hurrying off to Carmen’s side. Logan watches as you gently lead her out of the garage, whispering words of comfort.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. Logan finds himself going through the motions of preparation, all while keeping an ear out for any news about George. The garage is unnaturally quiet, the usual banter and joking replaced by tense whispers and worried glances.

Finally, Marcus approaches Logan, his face drawn with fatigue. “They’re loading George into the chopper now. Toto wants you on standby, but we won’t make any decisions until we hear from the medical team.”

Logan nods, his stomach churning with a mix of concern for George and nervous anticipation. “Understood. How ... how does he look?”

Marcus sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Still unconscious, but stable. They’re optimistic, but they won’t know more until they run some tests at the hospital.”

As if on cue, the distant thrum of helicopter blades fills the air. Logan steps out of the garage, shielding his eyes against the sun as he watches the medical helicopter rise into the sky, carrying George away.

You appear beside him, your eyes red-rimmed but dry. “Carmen’s gone with him,” you say softly. “Vati arranged for a car to take her to the hospital.”

Logan nods, not taking his eyes off the retreating helicopter. “This is the part of the job we try not to think about, isn’t it?”

You lean against him slightly, seeking comfort. “Yeah. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when everything’s going well. But days like today ... they remind us of the reality.”

Logan wraps an arm around your shoulders, offering what support he can. “George is tough. He’ll pull through this.”

You nod against his shoulder. “I hope so. God, I hope so.”

As the helicopter disappears from view, Logan feels the weight of the moment settle over him. The exhilaration of potentially getting his chance to drive is tempered by the circumstances that might make it possible.

“Come on,” he says gently, guiding you back towards the garage. “Let’s get back inside. There’s work to be done, and George would kick our butts if he knew we were standing around moping.”

You manage a weak chuckle. “You’re right. He’d probably tell us to get back to optimizing the aero package or something.”

As they walk back into the garage, Logan can’t help but feel the shift in the atmosphere. The team moves with renewed purpose, channeling their worry into productivity.

Toto approaches them, his face set in determined lines. “Logan, I need you in the simulator within the hour. If George can’t drive, we need you ready to step in at a moment’s notice.”

Logan straightens, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. “Yes, sir. I won’t let the team down.”

Toto nods approvingly. “I know you won’t. Y/N, I need you to liaise with the medical team. Keep me updated on George’s condition.”

You nod, already pulling out your phone. “On it, Vati.”

As Toto moves away, Logan turns to you. “Hey,” he says softly, “we’ve got this, okay? Whatever happens, we’ll handle it.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Logan. I ... I’m glad you’re here.”

Logan feels a warmth spread through his chest at your words. “Me too,” he says. “Now, let’s show everyone what Mercedes is made of.”

***

Logan’s heart pounds as he approaches Toto’s office. The events of the past twenty-four hours have left him in a state of emotional whiplash, torn between concern for George and the possibility of his own opportunity.

He knocks on the door, hearing Toto’s muffled “Come in.” Taking a deep breath, Logan enters.

Toto looks up from his desk, his face etched with fatigue. “Logan, thank you for coming. Please, sit down.”

Logan sinks into the chair across from Toto, his mouth suddenly dry. “How ... how’s George?” He manages to ask.

Toto sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “Not good, I’m afraid. The doctors have completed their initial assessments. George has suffered multiple injuries — a concussion, fractured ribs, and a broken collarbone. The most concerning is a compound fracture in his left leg.”

Logan winces, imagining the pain George must be in. “That sounds serious.”

“It is,” Toto confirms. “The medical team estimates his recovery will take around nine months. Which brings me to why I’ve called you here.”

Logan’s pulse quickens, a mix of anticipation and guilt churning in his stomach.

Toto leans forward, his gaze intense. “We need you to step up, Logan. The team needs you to drive full-time for the entire season.”

Despite having suspected this might be coming, hearing the words out loud leaves Logan momentarily speechless.

“I ... of course, sir,” he finally manages. “I’ll do whatever the team needs.”

Toto nods, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “I know this isn’t how you wanted your chance to come. But I believe you’re ready for this. George believes it too.”

Logan’s head snaps up. “You’ve spoken to George?”

“Briefly,” Toto confirms. “He’s still groggy from the pain medication, but he was clear on one thing — he wants you in that car.”

A lump forms in Logan’s throat. “I ... I don’t know what to say.”

Toto stands, coming around the desk to place a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “You don’t need to say anything. Just drive, Logan. Show us what you’re capable of.”

Logan nods, standing as well. “I won’t let you down, sir. Or George.”

As he turns to leave, Toto’s voice stops him. “Logan? Remember, this is your chance. Don’t waste it feeling guilty. George wouldn’t want that.”

Logan manages a weak smile. “I’ll try to remember that. Thank you, Toto.”

Stepping out of Toto’s office, Logan feels as though he’s in a daze. This is what he’s been working towards his entire career — a full-time drive with a top team. So why does it feel so complicated?

Instead of heading to the cafeteria or his driver’s room, Logan finds himself walking towards the simulator. He nods at the technician on duty, who looks surprised to see him.

“Logan? We weren’t expecting you today ...”

“I know,” Logan says, already reaching for his racing gloves. “But I need to be in there. Can you set up a long run in Melbourne?”

The technician hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Of course. Just ... don’t overdo it, okay?”

Logan manages a tight smile. “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

As he settles into the simulator, Logan feels a sense of calm wash over him. Here, in this imitation of a race car, things make sense. There’s no guilt, no complicated emotions — just him, the track, and the pursuit of speed.

Hours pass in a blur of virtual laps and telemetry data. Logan pushes himself harder with each run, shaving off tenths of a second here and there. He’s so focused that he doesn’t hear the door open behind him.

“You know, I’m pretty sure there are labor laws against working this hard,” your voice cuts through his concentration.

Logan startles, nearly losing control of the virtual car. He quickly ends the simulation and turns to face you, sheepishly running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

“Y/N, I didn’t hear you come in.”

You raise an eyebrow, holding up a small box. “Clearly. I’ve been standing here for five minutes, watching you try to bend the laws of physics.”

Logan manages a weak chuckle. “Just trying to get up to speed. What’s in the box?”

You grin, opening it to reveal a single cupcake with rainbow sprinkles. “A little celebration. Vati told me about your promotion.”

The sight of the cupcake makes Logan’s stomach twist uncomfortably. “I ... I don’t really feel like celebrating.”

Your smile fades, replaced by a look of understanding. “I get it. But Logan, running yourself ragged in here won’t help anyone. Least of all George.”

Logan sighs, slumping in the simulator seat. “I know. It’s just ... this isn’t how I wanted it to happen. George is hurt and I’m benefiting from it. It feels wrong.”

You set the cupcake down and perch on the edge of the simulator, your eyes soft with sympathy. “Logan, listen to me. What happened to George is terrible, but it’s not your fault. And taking this opportunity doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” Logan asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I should be devastated that my teammate is hurt, not ... not excited about getting my chance.”

You reach out, placing a hand on his arm. “Who says you can’t be both? You can be worried about George and excited about your opportunity. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

Logan looks up at you, seeing the sincerity in your eyes. “I just ... I don’t want people to think I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

You shake your head firmly. “Anyone who knows you would never think that. And you know what? George wouldn’t want you feeling this way. He’d want you to grab this chance with both hands and show everyone what you can do.”

Logan manages a small smile. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“That’s because I am,” you say, squeezing his arm gently. “I talked to George earlier. You know what he said? He said, and I quote, ‘Tell that American idiot to stop moping and start driving. I didn’t crash just for him to waste this chance.’”

A surprised laugh escapes Logan. “He really said that?”

You grin. “Well, maybe I paraphrased a bit. The pain meds make him a little ... colorful. But the sentiment is there.”

Logan shakes his head, feeling some of the weight lift from his shoulders. “George Russell, giving pep talks from his hospital bed. Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know him,” you say simply. “And you know he’s right. Logan, this is your moment. Don’t let guilt or fear hold you back.”

Logan takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “You’re right. Both of you. I just ... I needed to hear it, I guess.”

You smile, reaching for the cupcake. “That’s what friends are for. Now, are you going to help me eat this or do I have to force-feed you?”

Logan chuckles, accepting the cupcake. “I wouldn’t dream of making you eat alone.”

As the two of you share the small treat, Logan feels something shift inside him. The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely, but it’s tempered now by determination. George is counting on him, the team is counting on him, and he’s not going to let them down.

“So,” you say, licking frosting off your finger, “what’s next on the agenda, hotshot? More simulator laps?”

Logan shakes his head, a newfound energy coursing through him. “No, I think I’ve done enough of that for today. I was thinking maybe we could go over some of the race strategies? If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Your eyes light up. “Are you kidding? Strategy talk is my favorite kind of talk. But first, you’re going to take a shower and eat a proper meal. Can’t have our driver passing out from exhaustion, can we?”

Logan grins, feeling truly relaxed for the first time since George’s accident. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

As you leave the simulator together, Logan feels a surge of gratitude. For George’s support, for the team’s faith in him, and for your friendship. Whatever challenges lie ahead, he knows he won’t face them alone.

“Hey, Y/N?” He says as you walk down the corridor.

“Hmm?”

“Thanks. For everything.”

You bump your shoulder against his, a warm smile on your face. “Anytime, Sargeant. Now, let’s go plot your path to Formula 1 glory. I hear the catering team made lasagna today.”

Logan laughs, matching your stride. The road ahead won’t be easy, but with friends like you by his side, he’s ready to face whatever comes his way.

***

The Australian sun beats down on the Albert Park circuit as Logan sits in his Mercedes, heart pounding in his chest. The familiar pre-race butterflies are amplified tenfold — this isn’t just any race, it’s his debut for Mercedes.

“Okay Logan, how are we feeling?” Marcus Dudley’s voice crackles through the radio.

Logan takes a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Remember, clean start, manage those tires, and we’ll see where we end up. You’ve got this, kid.”

As the formation lap begins, Logan can’t help but think of George, watching from his hospital bed. This one’s for you, he thinks.

“And we’re off for the formation lap here in Melbourne. All eyes are on Logan Sargeant today, the young American making his Mercedes debut in rather unexpected circumstances.”

“That’s right, Crofty. It’s a big ask, stepping into George Russell’s shoes after that nasty crash in testing. But Toto Wolff clearly sees something in Sargeant, and this is his chance to prove the Mercedes boss right.”

The cars line up on the grid. Logan’s eyes are fixed on the lights. Red ... red ... red ...

“Lights out and away we go!”

Logan reacts instantly, getting a clean start off the line. He holds his position into the first corner, fending off a challenge from behind.

“And it’s a good start for Sargeant, maintaining his fifth place into Turn 1. His rookie teammate Kimi Antonelli has also held position in seventh.”

The first few laps are a blur of intense focus. Logan settles into a rhythm, hitting his marks and managing the gap to the cars ahead and behind.

“Great job, Logan,” Marcus says. “You’re keeping pace with the leaders. Let’s see if we can put some pressure on Norris ahead.”

Logan grits his teeth, pushing harder. He closes the gap to Lando’s McLaren, looking for any opportunity to make a move.

“Sargeant is really impressing here in his Mercedes debut. He’s matching the pace of the frontrunners and is now right on the gearbox of Lando Norris.”

On lap 15, Logan sees his chance. Norris locks up slightly into Turn 3, and Logan pounces, sweeping around the outside to take fourth place.

“Yes!” Logan exclaims, unable to contain his excitement.

“Brilliant move, Logan!” Marcus cheers. “P4 now, let’s keep this up!”

“What a pass from Sargeant! He’s showing no signs of first-race nerves here, making a bold move on the more experienced McLaren driver. The Mercedes pit wall will no doubt be delighted with this performance so far.”

The race continues, with Logan holding his position firmly. He’s in a rhythm now, hitting every apex, managing his tires expertly.

Around the halfway point, things get more challenging. “Logan, we’ve got Verstappen closing in behind. He’s on fresher tires, so don’t take any unnecessary risks,” Marcus warns.

Logan nods to himself, adjusting his focus. He defends hard but fair, making his car as wide as possible on the straights.

“Verstappen is all over the back of Sargeant now. This is a real test for the young American — can he hold off the reigning world champion?”

For several laps, Logan and Max engage in a thrilling battle. Logan uses every trick in his arsenal, positioning his car perfectly to deny Max any opportunity.

“This is exceptional defensive driving from Sargeant. He’s not putting a wheel wrong under immense pressure from Verstappen.”

Finally, on lap 42, Max makes his move, slipping past Logan into Turn 1.

“Verstappen’s through,” Logan reports, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“No worries, Logan,” Marcus reassures him. “You did brilliantly to hold him off for so long. We’re still on for a great result here. Keep pushing!”

The final laps of the race are a test of endurance. Logan’s arms ache, his neck strains against the g-forces, but he pushes through the fatigue.

“As we enter the final lap here in Melbourne, Logan Sargeant is holding steady in fifth place. What a debut this has been for the American in the Mercedes!”

Logan crosses the finish line, a mix of exhaustion and elation washing over him. He’s done it — he’s finished his first race for Mercedes.

“And that’s the chequered flag, Logan!” Marcus’ voice comes through, filled with excitement. “P4! Fantastic job, mate!”

Logan blinks in confusion. “P4? But Verstappen passed me ...”

“Leclerc had a late puncture,” Marcus explains. “You moved back up to fourth. I’m completely serious, Logan. You’ve just finished P4 in your first race for us. You should be incredibly proud.”

The reality of his achievement starts to sink in. “I ... wow. Thank you, Marcus. Thank you to everyone on the team. This is ... it’s incredible.”

As Logan does his cool-down lap, waving to the cheering crowds, he feels a surge of emotion. This is what he’s worked for his entire life, and he’s proved he belongs here.

“What a drive from Logan Sargeant! Fourth place in his Mercedes debut. Toto Wolff must be feeling very good about his decision right now.”

“Absolutely, Martin. Sargeant has shown real maturity and pace today. This could be the start of something special for the young American.”

Logan pulls into parc fermé, parking behind the top three cars. As he climbs out, he’s immediately engulfed in a group hug by the Mercedes team.

Toto appears, a broad smile on his face. “Excellent job, Logan. You’ve made us all very proud today.”

“Thank you, sir,” Logan says, still slightly dazed. “I couldn’t have done it without the team’s support.”

As Logan makes his way through the paddock, he’s stopped by various team members and even rival drivers offering congratulations. It’s surreal, but Logan soaks in every moment.

Suddenly, he spots a familiar face pushing through the crowd. You’re beaming, your eyes shining with pride and unshed tears.

“Logan!” You exclaim, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “That was amazing! I knew you could do it!”

Logan hugs you back, laughing. “I can hardly believe it myself. P4 ... it’s like a dream.”

You pull back, your hands on his shoulders. “Well, believe it. You earned this, Logan. Every single bit of it.”

As you chat excitedly about the race, Logan’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out to see a message from George.

Not bad for a newbie. Next time aim for the podium 😉 Seriously though, great job. Proud of you.

Logan grins, showing you the message. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me next race.”

You laugh, linking your arm through his. “Oh, I have no doubt you’re up for the challenge. But first, I think this calls for a celebration. Vati is organizing a team dinner. You up for it?”

Logan nods, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that has nothing to do with the Australian heat. “Absolutely. Lead the way!”

As you walk towards the Mercedes hospitality area, Logan can’t help but reflect on the whirlwind of the past few weeks. From reserve driver to P4 in his debut race with the team — it’s more than he could have ever imagined.

“Hey,” you say softly, nudging him. “What are you thinking about?”

Logan smiles, squeezing your arm gently. “Just ... grateful. For this opportunity, for the team’s faith in me, for your support. I couldn’t have done this without you, Y/N.”

You blush slightly, looking pleased. “That’s what friends are for, right? Now come on, American boy. Time to bask in your well-deserved glory.”

As you join the celebrating team, Logan feels a sense of belonging wash over him. This is where he’s meant to be, and he’s ready for whatever challenges and triumphs lie ahead.

***

The Miami sun beats down on the podium as Logan stands there, still in disbelief. The weight of the P2 trophy in his hands feels surreal, a reminder of what he’s just achieved. The roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne, the elation of his first podium finish — it’s almost too much to process.

As he steps down from the podium, sticky with champagne and grinning from ear to ear, Logan is immediately engulfed by the Mercedes team. Hands pat his back, voices offer congratulations, but it all becomes a blur as he spots a familiar figure pushing through the crowd.

You burst through, your eyes shining with pride and excitement. Without hesitation, you throw your arms around him, not caring about the champagne that’s now soaking into your team shirt.

“Logan! Oh my god, you did it!” You exclaim, your voice muffled against his shoulder. “I’m so, so proud of you!”

Logan laughs, wrapping his free arm around you and spinning you both around in a moment of pure joy. “I can hardly believe it myself,” he admits as he sets you down. “It’s like a dream.”

You pull back, your hands on his shoulders, beaming up at him. “Well, believe it, hotshot. P2 in your home race — you’ve earned this!”

Logan feels a warmth spread through his chest that has nothing to do with the Miami heat. “Thanks, Y/N. I couldn’t have done it without the team’s support. Without your support.”

You shake your head, still grinning. “Oh no, this was all you out there on the track. But speaking of support ...” Your eyes sparkle mischievously. “We absolutely have to celebrate properly tonight. Miami style!”

Logan raises an eyebrow, amused. “Miami style? Should I be worried?”

You laugh, the sound making Logan’s heart skip a beat. “Only if you’re afraid of having too much fun. Come on, it’s your first podium, in your home race no less! We have to mark the occasion.”

Before Logan can respond, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. The brief contact sends a jolt through him, leaving him momentarily speechless.

“Promise me you’ll come out with the team tonight,” you say, your eyes locked on his. “No excuses about needing to analyze data or whatever. Tonight, we celebrate!”

Logan nods, still a bit dazed from the kiss. “I ... yeah, of course. I promise.”

You beam at him. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details later. Now, go bask in your well-deserved glory. I think there are about a hundred journalists waiting to talk to Miami’s new hero.”

With a wink, you disappear back into the crowd, leaving Logan standing there, trophy in hand and mind reeling.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of interviews, photographs, and congratulations. Logan goes through the motions, answering questions on autopilot while his mind keeps drifting back to that moment with you.

It didn’t mean anything, he tells himself. You’re European, after all. Cheek kisses are just a normal thing, right? It was just excitement over the podium, nothing more.

But try as he might, Logan can’t shake the memory of your lips on his cheek, the way his heart raced at your touch.

“Earth to Logan,” Marcus’ voice cuts through his thoughts. “You still with us, mate?”

Logan blinks, focusing on his race engineer. “Sorry, what was that?”

Marcus grins knowingly. “I said, great job out there today. You should be proud. But maybe save the daydreaming for after the debrief, yeah?”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up. “Right, sorry. Just ... still processing everything, I guess.”

“I bet,” Marcus chuckles. “First podium’s always special. Even more so on home turf. Now, let’s go over those last few laps ...”

As they dive into the race analysis, Logan tries to focus. But his mind keeps wandering. To the podium. To the celebration to come. To you.

It’s just excitement over the race result, he rationalizes. You’re his boss’s daughter, for crying out loud. And more importantly, you’re his friend. One of his best friends, if he’s honest with himself. He can’t risk messing that up by reading too much into a friendly gesture.

The debrief finally ends, and Logan heads back to his driver’s room to change. As he’s pulling on a fresh team shirt, his phone buzzes with a text from you.

E11EVEN at 10 PM. Wear something nice 😘 Can’t wait to celebrate with you!

Logan stares at the message, his heart doing that annoying skip thing again. It’s just a normal text, he tells himself. Friends celebrate together all the time. The kiss doesn’t mean anything.

Right?

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. This is ridiculous. He just achieved his first podium in Formula 1, at his home race no less. He should be on top of the world, not overthinking a simple friendly interaction.

As he leaves the track, Logan is stopped by a group of fans clamoring for autographs and selfies. He obliges with a smile, the excitement of the crowd helping to lift his mood.

“Logan! Logan!” A young boy calls out. “You were amazing today! I want to be just like you when I grow up!”

Logan kneels down to the boy’s level, touched by his enthusiasm. “Thanks, buddy. Just remember, it takes a lot of hard work and dedication. But if you believe in yourself and never give up, you can achieve anything.”

The boy nods solemnly, clutching his newly signed cap to his chest. “I will! I’m going to practice every day!”

As Logan stands, he catches sight of you talking to some team members nearby. You glance over, catching his eye, and give him a warm smile and a thumbs up. Logan feels that now-familiar flutter in his chest and quickly turns back to the fans.

It’s going to be a long night, he thinks to himself.

Back at the hotel, Logan takes his time getting ready for the celebration. He stands in front of the mirror, fussing with his hair and second-guessing his outfit choice. Why is he so nervous? It’s just a team celebration, like dozens he’s been to before.

But it’s not just any celebration, a voice in his head reminds him. It’s his first podium celebration. And you’ll be there.

Logan groans, running a hand through his hair and messing it up again. “Get it together, Sargeant,” he mutters to his reflection. “It’s just a night out with the team. With your friend. Your boss’s daughter. Who you definitely don’t have any non-platonic feelings for.”

Even he doesn’t believe himself.

A knock at the door startles him out of his internal monologue. “Logan? You ready?” Kimi’s voice calls out.

Logan takes a deep breath, giving himself one last look in the mirror. “Yeah, coming!” He calls back.

As he joins Kimi in the hallway, his teammate gives him an appraising look. “Not bad, Sargeant. Trying to impress someone?”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up. “What? No, I just ... wanted to look nice for the celebration.”

Kimi raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Uh-huh. Sure. Come on, lover boy. Your adoring public awaits.”

As they make their way to the club, Logan tries to calm his nerves. It’s just a normal team celebration, he tells himself. Nothing to be nervous about. You’re just friends. Really good friends who sometimes share cheek kisses and make his heart race with a simple smile.

Oh, who is he kidding? He’s in trouble and he knows it.

The bass from the club is audible from down the street, and as they approach, Logan sees a line stretching around the block. But Kimi leads him straight to the VIP entrance, where they’re immediately ushered inside.

The club is a sensory overload — pulsing music, flashing lights, and the press of bodies on the dance floor. Logan blinks, trying to adjust to the atmosphere. Suddenly, he feels a hand on his arm and turns to see you beaming up at him.

“You made it!” You shout over the music, your eyes sparkling in the club lights. “Come on, everyone’s waiting to toast the man of the hour!”

As you lead him through the crowd, your hand still on his arm, Logan tries to ignore the electricity he feels at your touch. Friends touch all the time, he reminds himself. It doesn’t mean anything.

You reach a VIP section where the rest of the team is gathered. A cheer goes up as they spot Logan, and suddenly he’s being passed around for hugs and backslaps and congratulations.

Toto appears, handing Logan a glass of champagne. “To Logan,” he says, raising his own glass. “For a brilliant drive and Mercedes’ first podium of the season. May it be the first of many!”

The team echoes the toast and Logan takes a sip of the bubbly, feeling a surge of pride and belonging. This is what he’s worked for his entire life and he’s finally made it.

As the celebration continues, Logan finds himself relaxing, caught up in the excitement and camaraderie of the team. He chats with mechanics, engineers, and fellow drivers, reliving the best moments of the race.

But his eyes keep drifting back to you. You’re in your element, moving from group to group, laughing and chatting animatedly. Every now and then, you glance his way, flashing him a smile that makes his heart race.

It’s just the atmosphere, Logan tells himself. The adrenaline from the race, the excitement of the celebration. That’s all it is.

But as the night wears on and the champagne flows freely, Logan finds it harder and harder to maintain that rationalization. Especially when you grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor, your body moving in perfect rhythm to the pulsing beat.

“Come on!” You shout over the music, grinning up at him. “Show me some of those dance moves!”

Logan laughs, letting himself get caught up in the moment. He may not be the world’s best dancer, but with you smiling at him like that, he feels like he could take on anything.

As you dance, Logan can’t help but notice how perfectly you fit against him, how natural it feels to have his hands on your waist as you move together. It’s just dancing, he reminds himself. Friends dance together all the time.

But when the DJ switches to a slower song and you step closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, Logan knows he’s fighting a losing battle. There’s no denying the way his heart races, the way his skin tingles where you touch him.

As you sway together, Logan finally allows himself to admit the truth he’s been trying to ignore for months. He’s falling for you, hard and fast, and he has no idea what to do about it.

You look up at him, your eyes soft in the dim light of the club. “I’m really proud of you,” you say, your voice barely audible over the music. “You belong here, you know. On the podium, in F1, with m-” you cut yourself off, biting your lip.

Logan’s heart leaps. Were you about to say “with me”? He wants to ask, wants to pull you closer and find out if you feel this connection too.

But before he can say anything, the song ends and the moment is broken. You step back, a slightly flustered look on your face.

“I, uh ... I need a drink,” you say quickly. “Want anything?”

Logan shakes his head, still trying to process what just happened. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

As you disappear into the crowd, Logan makes his way back to the VIP section, his mind reeling. What was that? Did he imagine the moment between you? And more importantly, what is he going to do about these feelings he can no longer deny?

As he sinks into a plush couch, Logan realizes that his first podium might not be the most significant event of the night after all. Whatever happens next, he knows one thing for certain — his relationship with you will never be the same.

***

The Union Jack flutters in the cool Silverstone breeze as Logan crosses the finish line, his heart pounding in his ears. The chequered flag waves, and suddenly, the reality hits him like a tidal wave.

“Logan, you’ve done it!” Marcus’ voice crackles through the radio, filled with unbridled joy. “P1! Your first Formula 1 win!”

Logan lets out a whoop of excitement, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. “Yes! Oh my god, yes! We did it, guys! Thank you, thank you so much!”

As he starts his cooldown lap, waving to the cheering crowds, Logan can’t help but chuckle at the irony. An American winning the British Grand Prix. He can almost hear the collective groan of disappointment from the British fans who were hoping for a home victory.

“Sorry, folks,” he murmurs to himself, grinning. “The colonists strike again.”

The sea of orange in the grandstands catches his eye — Dutch fans who always come to support Max Verstappen no matter the location. Logan remembers the intense battle he had with the reigning world champion in the closing laps. The memory sends another surge of pride through him. He didn’t just win, he beat the best of the best.

As he rounds the final corner, heading towards parc fermé, Logan’s mind drifts to you. He wonders if you’re watching, if you’re as excited as he is. Ever since that kiss on the cheek in Miami, he’s been unable to get you out of his head. Every smile, every touch, every late-night strategy session has taken on new meaning.

But fear has held him back. Fear of ruining your friendship, fear of making things awkward with the team, fear of misreading the signals. So he’s kept his feelings bottled up, content (or so he tells himself) with your close friendship.

Logan pulls into his spot in parc fermé, bringing the car to a stop. He takes a deep breath, savoring this moment. His first win. It almost doesn’t feel real.

He unclips his harness and stands up in the cockpit, raising his arms in triumph. The roar of the crowd washes over him and he spots his team gathered at the barriers, jumping and cheering.

Without hesitation, Logan clambers out of the car and runs towards them. He leaps over the barrier, immediately engulfed in a sea of jubilant Mercedes personnel. Hands pat his back, voices offer congratulations, but Logan is searching for one face in particular.

Suddenly, the crowd parts, and there you are. Your eyes are shining with pride and something else, something that makes Logan’s heart race even faster than it already is.

Before he can say anything, you stride forward purposefully. Your hands grasp the collar of his race suit, and in one swift motion, you pull him towards you and press your lips firmly against his.

For a split second, Logan is too shocked to react. But then his brain catches up, and he’s kissing you back with every ounce of pent-up emotion he’s been holding back for months.

The world around you fades away — the cheering crowd, the flashing cameras, the excited chatter of the team. All Logan can focus on is the softness of your lips, the warmth of your body pressed against his, the rightness of this moment.

When you finally break apart, both slightly breathless, Logan can’t help but grin. “Wow,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. “That was ...”

“Long overdue,” you finish for him, a matching grin on your face.

Logan chuckles, his arms still wrapped around your waist. “I couldn’t agree more. But, uh ... your dad isn’t going to fire me for this, is he?”

You laugh, the sound music to Logan’s ears. “Please. He’s been trying to set us up for months. I think he’ll be relieved we finally figured it out on our own.”

Before Logan can respond, a throat clears behind them. They turn to see Toto standing there, an amused smirk on his face.

“While I’m thrilled you two have finally sorted yourselves out,” he says dryly, “perhaps we could save the more ... intimate celebrations for after the podium ceremony?”

Logan feels his face heat up, but you just laugh, linking your arm through his. “Sorry, Vati. Got caught up in the moment. Come on, Logan. Time to get you on that top step where you belong.”

As you make your way through the paddock, Logan can’t wipe the grin off his face. Crew members, other drivers, and media personnel offer their congratulations, but it all feels secondary to the warmth of you pressed against his side.

“So,” Logan says as they near the cooldown room, “does this mean you’ll be my date to the celebration tonight?”

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I might have other plans. I hear there’s this hot new F1 winner in town ...”

Logan laughs, pulling you closer. “Oh yeah? Well, I happen to know him pretty well. I could put in a good word for you.”

You smile up at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “I’d appreciate that. But you should know, I’m not really interested in a fling. I’m more of a long-term kind of girl.”

Logan’s heart skips a beat at the implication. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I’m in this for the long haul.”

Your smile softens, and you lean up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Glad we’re on the same page. Now go, your adoring public awaits. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

As Logan steps onto the podium not long after, the cheers of the crowd washing over him, he can’t help but think that this — the trophy, the champagne, the adulation — is only the second-best thing to happen to him today.

The ceremony passes in a blur of anthems, champagne sprays, and beaming smiles. Logan clutches his trophy, still hardly believing it’s real. As he steps down from the podium, he’s immediately swarmed by journalists, all clamoring for a quote from F1’s newest race winner.

“Logan! How does it feel to win your first Grand Prix?”

Logan grins, his eyes finding you in the crowd. “It’s incredible. A dream come true. But you know what? I have a feeling this is just the beginning.”

“What do you mean by that?” Another reporter asks.

Logan’s grin widens. “Let’s just say I’m feeling pretty unbeatable right now, both on and off the track.”

You roll your eyes at him from behind the journalists, but your smile gives away your amusement.

As the interviews wind down, Logan finally manages to break away from the press. He makes his way back to you, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“So,” he says, sliding an arm around your waist, “about the team celebration ...”

You lean into him, a mischievous glint in your eye. “Oh, I think we might need to have our own private celebration first. You know, to properly commemorate your first win.”

Logan feels a thrill run through him at your words. “I like the way you think. But, uh ... what about your dad?”

You laugh, linking your fingers with his. “Logan, my dad’s the one who’s been pushing us together for months. Trust me, he’ll be thrilled. Although maybe don’t kiss me like that in front of him again. There are some things a father doesn’t need to see.”

Logan chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Noted. So, what now?”

“Now,” you say, tugging him towards the Mercedes motorhome, “we go change. Then we make a brief appearance at the team celebration. And after that ...” you trail off, your eyes twinkling with promise.

“After that?” Logan prompts, his heart racing with anticipation.

You grin up at him. “After that, we start our own celebration. I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for, don’t you?”

Logan nods, unable to keep the smile off his face. “Absolutely. And hey, I’m a quick learner. I bet I can make up for that lost time in record speed.”

You laugh, the sound making Logan’s heart soar. “Always the racer. But you know what? I think this is one race where taking it slow might be the winning strategy.”

As you make their way through the paddock, hand-in-hand, Logan can’t help but marvel at how much his life has changed in just a few short months. From reserve driver to race winner, from pining in silence to ... whatever this wonderful new thing with you is.

One thing’s for sure — this win will always be special. Not just because it’s his first, but because it’s the day everything finally fell into place. The day he not only conquered the track but also found the courage (with a little help) to follow his heart.

As the two of you reach the Mercedes motorhome, Logan pulls you close for one more quick kiss. “Hey,” he says softly, “just in case I forget to say it later ... thank you. For believing in me, for supporting me, for ... well, for everything.”

You smile up at him, your eyes soft with affection. “Always, Logan. Now come on, race winner. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

***

The bright lights of the Tonight Show studio beat down on Logan as he sits across from Jimmy Fallon, trying to keep his nerves in check. It’s his first major American talk show appearance, and he wants to make a good impression.

Jimmy leans forward, a warm smile on his face. “So, Logan, it’s been quite a year for you, hasn’t it? From losing your seat at Williams to winning races with Mercedes. How has your life changed?”

Logan chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Oh man, Jimmy, where do I even start? It’s been an absolute whirlwind. You know, when I lost that Williams seat, I thought my F1 dream was over. I was devastated.”

Jimmy nods sympathetically. “I can imagine. That must have been tough.”

“It was,” Logan agrees. “But you know what? Looking back now, I can honestly say it was one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Jimmy raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really? How so?”

Logan grins, leaning forward in his chair. “Well, first of all, it led to this incredible opportunity with Mercedes. I mean, going from potentially being out of F1 to driving for one of the top teams? It’s like something out of a movie.”

The audience cheers, and Logan feels a surge of pride. He’s come a long way from that dejected kid in Toto’s office last year.

“But that’s not all,” Logan continues, his smile softening. “Losing that seat also led me to the love of my life.”

A collective “aww” rises from the audience, and Jimmy leans in, clearly sensing a good story. “Tell us more!”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up slightly, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. “Her name is Y/N. She works for Mercedes, and she’s ... she’s amazing. Smart, funny, beautiful. She was the one who really helped me believe in myself when I joined the team.”

Jimmy grins. “Sounds like quite a woman. How did you two get together?”

Logan laughs, remembering that day at Silverstone. “Well, I’d been pining after her for months, too scared to make a move. Then I won my first race at the British Grand Prix, and she just ... grabbed me and kissed me right there in parc fermé. In front of the whole team, the cameras, everyone.”

The audience cheers and whistles, and Jimmy laughs. “Wow! Talk about a victory celebration! So, she made the first move, huh?”

Logan nods, grinning. “Yep. Thank god one of us had the courage. Although I have to say, her dad being my boss made things a little awkward at first.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Wait, what? Her dad is your boss? You mean ...”

“Yep,” Logan confirms, enjoying the host’s reaction. “I’m dating the boss’s daughter. Toto Wolff’s daughter, to be exact.”

The audience gasps and murmurs, and Jimmy leans back in his chair, looking impressed. “Wow. That’s ... that’s quite a story. So, how does Toto feel about all this?”

Logan chuckles. “You know, he’s been surprisingly cool about it. Turns out he’d been trying to set us up for months. I think he was just relieved we finally figured it out on our own.”

Jimmy laughs. “Well, that’s good to hear. No awkward ‘stay away from my daughter’ talks then?”

“Oh, there were talks,” Logan says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “But they were more along the lines of ‘if you hurt her, I’ll demote you to test driver faster than you can say DRS.’”

The audience laughs, and Jimmy shakes his head in amusement. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the incentive to be on your best behavior!”

Logan nods, his expression softening. “Absolutely. But you know, even without that ... Y/N is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’d never do anything to mess that up.”

Another “aww” rises from the audience, and Jimmy smiles warmly. “That’s beautiful, Logan. It sounds like things are really falling into place for you.”

“They really are,” Logan agrees. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he adds, “And you know what? I’ve actually got a little scoop for you, Jimmy. The team’s given me permission to reveal something pretty big.”

Jimmy’s eyes light up and he leans in as well. “Oh? Do tell!”

Logan grins, then stage whispers, loud enough for the audience to hear, “I’ve just signed a contract extension with Mercedes. I’ll be with the team until 2028.”

The audience erupts in cheers, and Jimmy’s jaw drops. “What? Logan, that’s incredible! Congratulations!”

Logan beams, feeling a surge of pride and excitement. “Thanks, Jimmy. I still can’t quite believe it myself. Three more years with one of the top teams in F1 ... it’s a dream come true.”

Jimmy shakes his head in amazement. “Wow. From losing your Williams seat to a long-term contract with Mercedes. That’s quite the turnaround.”

“It really is,” Logan agrees. “And you know what? I owe a lot of it to Y/N. She’s been my biggest supporter, my rock through all of this. I don’t think I could have done it without her.”

Jimmy smiles warmly. “It sounds like you two make quite the team. Is she here tonight?”

Logan nods, glancing towards the audience. “She is, actually. She’s sitting right over there.”

The camera pans to where you’re sitting, and you give a shy wave as the audience applauds. Logan feels his heart swell with affection at the sight of you.

Jimmy turns back to Logan, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, Logan, now that you’ve got this long-term contract sorted out ... any other long-term plans in the works? Maybe involving a certain boss’s daughter?”

Logan feels his cheeks heat up, but he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Well, Jimmy, let’s just say that when you find the right person, you want to hold onto them for as long as possible. But for now, we’re just enjoying the ride.”

Jimmy nods approvingly. “Well, it sounds like you’ve got a lot to celebrate. Speaking of which, I hear you’ve brought something special to share with us tonight?”

Logan grins, reaching behind his chair to pull out a bottle of champagne. “That’s right. This is the same type of champagne we used for my first win at Silverstone. I thought we could recreate a little podium celebration right here on the show.”

Jimmy’s eyes light up with excitement. “Oh, this is going to be fun! But wait, don’t you usually spray this stuff around?”

Logan laughs, standing up. “We sure do. Hope you don’t mind getting a little wet!”

As Logan shakes the bottle and pops the cork, spraying champagne all over a laughing Jimmy and the cheering audience, he can’t help but marvel at how far he’s come. From the depths of disappointment to the heights of success, both on and off the track.

After the champagne settles and they’re both wiping their faces, Jimmy turns to Logan with a grin. “Alright, Logan, before we let you go, I’ve got one more question for you. What’s next? You’ve got the dream job, the dream girl ... what more could Logan Sargeant possibly want?”

Logan pauses for a moment, considering. “You know, a year ago I would have said winning the World Championship was the ultimate goal. And don’t get me wrong, that’s still very much on my radar. But now ... now I think my goal is just to keep living this dream for as long as I can. To keep pushing myself on the track, to keep growing and learning, and to keep building a life with Y/N.”

He glances over at you in the audience, his eyes softening. “Because at the end of the day, all the trophies and champagne in the world don’t mean much if you don’t have someone to share them with.”

The audience “awws” once more, and Jimmy nods approvingly. “Well said, Logan. I think that’s a perfect note to end on. Ladies and gentlemen, Logan Sargeant!”

As the audience applauds and the show cuts to commercial, Logan makes his way off the stage, his heart full. He finds you waiting for him in the wings, a proud smile on your face.

“You were amazing out there,” you say, wrapping your arms around him.

Logan hugs you back, breathing in the familiar scent of your perfume. “Thanks. I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much with all that mushy stuff.”

You laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Are you kidding? I loved every second of it. Although I have to say, that champagne spray was a bit much. You do realize you’re not actually on a podium, right?”

Logan grins sheepishly. “Sorry, force of habit. But hey, at least I didn’t kiss you in front of millions of viewers. That’s progress, right?”

You roll your eyes fondly. “My hero. Come on, liebling. Let’s go celebrate your big reveal properly.”

As you walk hand-in-hand towards the exit, Logan feels a sense of contentment wash over him. It’s been one hell of a journey, but with you by his side and a bright future ahead, he knows the best is yet to come.

And as you step out into the New York night, Logan can’t help but think that this — the glamor, the success, the adoration — is nothing compared to the simple joy of having you by his side.

Because in the end, it’s not about the trophies or the champagne. It’s about the journey and the people you share it with.

For Logan Sargeant, former underdog turned rising star, the real victory isn’t just on the track. It’s in the love he’s found, the dreams he’s achieving, and the future he’s building — one lap at a time.

[vivwritesfics]

Padawan Learner

Mrs Vettel, ex Williams driver, current McLaren driver, can't drive while pregnant. Although she's contracted until 2026, she can't drive while she's with child. But she can't stay away from racing, and can't help but take the Williams rookie under her wing.

Sebastian Vettel x Reader, (Platonic) Logan Sargeant x Reader

Warnings: Brief description of smut

She wasn't supposed to retire at the same time as her husband. He felt as if he was at the end of his career and there was nothing more he could offer to the sport, so he retired. He'd had his glory years in Red Bull, moved to Ferrari, every racers dream, and ended things in Aston Martin, alongside his wife's old teammate.

She still had more race left in her. She'd been with Williams for years, racing alongside Valteri Bottas, Lance Stroll, George Russell, and, later, Alex Albon. But then she moved to McLaren, a team she felt would help her fight for wins.

Her husband very thoroughly celebrated the beginning of his retirement. She found herself stuffed full of cum almost every day of winter break.

It shouldn't have been a surprise when they got pregnant. But she wanted to murder Sebastian. For all of five seconds she wanted to drown him in their pool. But, after that five seconds passed, she was overjoyed, wrapping her arms around Sebastians neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

She told McLaren and they pulled Oscar Piastri in for the year. That was how he got his first drive in F1. All because Sebastian Vettel was incredibly horny, but he didn't need to know this.

She might not have been able to drive, but she still wanted to be trackside whenever she could. Her old team gave her this opportunity. She didn't hang around the McLaren garage, as she had half expected.

No, it was Williams and the new team Principle, James Vowles, who gave her somewhere to be during the season. Even in preseason testing, she was there, watching the Williams.

It was great to be in the garage with Lily again. She'd always liked Lily, thought she was great for Alex when they first met. After her move to McLaren she rarely got to see Lily, and as much as she hated sitting in the garage, it was nice to be sat in the garage with her.

Alex was a great driver. Any advice a veteran like her could have offered him, he already knew.

But then there was his teammate.

She watched Logan from his very first race weekend. She had known about the rookie for a couple of years now and had watched him succeed in Formula Two.

But now, in the Williams tractor, he was struggling. Week after week after week he was finishing outside of the points, or he wasn't finishing at all. She really felt for him.

"Hey," she said after the Hungarian Grand Prix.

Logan hadn't spoken to anybody since he got out of the car and did all that he needed to do. Clearly he was struggling. He didn't say anything, just looked up.

She stood beside him. At her stage of pregnancy she could have gotten down to the floor to sit with him, but she wouldn't have been able to get up without help. Her hand rested on her bump as she looked down at him.

"I still remember my first season in Formula One," she said as she looked at the retired car. "It was 2013 and Seb was set to win the championship. I was in my first year in Williams and I think I only finished maybe ten races," she said with a laugh.

"Wait, seriously?" Asked Logan as he looked up.

She nodded her head. "I crashed out of most, or the car fell apart on me. Most people wondered why I had a seat for the next year, but Williams saw potential in me. I know they see it in you, too."

Every time Logan didn't finish a race, every time he came dead last, she was there. Nobody could comfort her like she did. Sometimes Seb joked that they might as well adopt him, and Logan agreed. Most up and down paddock called Logan her padawan learner, which was very fitting.

Logan began being the person she spent the most time with when Sebastian wasn't there. He'd looked up to her for many years and having her support meant the world to him. He was there for her too, making sure she had somewhere to sit and something to drink whenever she needed it.

In September, a month before her due date, Sebastian begged her to stop travelling. Just in case he wanted her home with him, where he could take care of her. They still watched every race together and she made sure to send Logan a good luck text before every practice session, qualifying, and race.

When Logan got his first points, nobody celebrated more than Sebastian Vettels wife. She was so proud of him, even if those points were because of two disqualifications. She posted a picture of him and her from a previous race on Instagram like a proud mum. Funnily enough, Logan comments 'thanks mom' on the post.

Just two weeks after this, her water broke. Sebastian got her to the hospital. He stayed by her side, holding her hand through the hours of excruciating labour.

Leon Vettel didn't cry when he was born. He was so quiet, that it actually scared his mother. But the doctors and nurses assured the new parents that he was perfectly healthy.

He was their perfect little man.

She insisted on asking Logan to be Leons godfather. They had grown so close over the last few months that it seemed fitting.

Logan accepted. As soon as the Vettels could, they were taking Leon to races. Or, Sebastian took Leon to races, to watch his mother race. Of course he was wearing a Williams hat and McLaren shirt.

"Papa," Leon said at four years old after watching the Australian Grand Prix qualifying session.

"What is it, my little man?" Asked Sebastian as he sat Leon on his lap.

"I wanna be like mama and Uncle Logan," he said, and Sebastian couldn't stop himself from grinning.

[inkdrinkerworld]

Hello! I had an idea for a Logan x reader where every time he makes a self deprecating comment/joke or something sad she hugs him. Eventually he starts doing it on purpose in front of her because he knows he’ll get a hug! She’s none the wiser and the rest of the x-men think it’s disgustingly-cute. Xx

Logan has a weird view of himself. He’s a mess, he’s a killing machine. He’s a weapon the government made and he was good at doing his work for them.

Then he’d left, joined the X-Men but that guilt, that hatred of himself for the decades he’d spent consumed in violence, it never went away.

“I’m not a good man,” he’d told you variations of this before and every single time you’d just kiss his face, give him a hug and tell him, “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Logan. Doesn’t change what I see.”

It happened slowly and unconsciously at first, Logan would say something demeaning about himself and you’d tsk and give him a tight hug.

Now, Logan hardly believed any of the bullshit he said about himself, but he loved your arms around him when he said something deprecating.

It didn’t matter if you were with Ororo or Scott or anyone else, you’d just always wrap your arms around him and give him a little kiss at his temple.

“I think you’re putting too much faith in me, Storm. I’m a liability more than I am helpful.” Ororo rolls her eyes.

“You know that’s not true-“ your knock on the door cuts her off, your head peeking in with a smile.

“Hey Ororo, Scott’s looking for you. Got his mind all messed about some teaching thing.”

Logan keeps going, “You know I’m right. I’m also not as sharp as I used to be. I’d be useless.”

Your smile fades away and Ororo smirks as you walk over to him and wrap your arms around his shoulders. Logan melts into you and Ororo wishes she’d had a camera to capture the way you dote on Logan and the way he leans into it.

“Stop talking about yourself like that, James. I don’t like to hear it.”

He nods, leaning his head back on your shoulder to kiss below your jaw.

“I’ll go check on Scott. Logan, think about what I’ve said please.” Ororo leaves and you kiss Logan’s forehead.

“Can we go have lunch outside? I made sandwiches and I stole some chocolate from Jean.”

Logan huffs, it’s full of adoration though. You’ve become a sort of expert in all of his huffs and grumbles. This one is a hidden chuckle. “Yeah, let’s go before the kids steal your favourite bench.”

[iluvloganhowlett]

I HATE YOU .𖥔 ݁ ˖

in which logan leaves for a mission unexpectedly for almost a year and still expects to be welcomed home upon return

warnings: angst, no happy ending (oops!), a little violence, mutant!reader, that’s it fr

reader has same powers as logan bc they were both experiments at the same time

i also switched up the timeline slightly so pretend logan isn’t a grumpy old man and is more so how he was in x-men (2000)

i also saw some other story that was kinda like this one but i couldn’t remember who’s it was so if anyb knows drop it so i can credit

part 2

“why are we here again?” wade questioned, stuffing a handful of cheetos he stole from a vending machine a while back.

logan only glared at him, “because. i left her for 9 months, the least i can do is come home and show her that im alive.”

wade shrugs, “who even is this ‘she?’ is she hot?”

in seconds, wade finds himself pinned against the wall of the hallway, logan’s claws only centimeters from his neck. “she’s my girl, you don’t get to talk about her being hot,” logan growls, retracting his claws and releasing wade.

“well damn wolvie! don’t get your panties in a bunch, im not stealing your girl! unless the charm is just too much for her then-“

“do you ever stop fucking talking outta your ass?”

wade only sighed, halting to a stop as logan did the same. “137,” logan muttered, looking up at the 137 sitting next to your door.

as logan rose his hand to knock, the door was swung open. logan’s eyes widened. he thought he’d gotten himself back into the right headspace to see you again, clearly he’d been mistaken.

the way your low-set brows rose up at the corners in anger, your long lashes drawing his eyes straight to your deep brown ones. your plush lips curled in slightly and your hair flowed down your back smoother than water.

wade whistled, “hey hot stuff-“ before he was cut of with a punch to the nose, dragging him down to the floor.

logan still had yet to say anything, admiring all the parts of you he’d missed.

however he was cut off with a groan, looking down at your claws that had made their way through his abdomen and back out, retracing back into your forearms.

“what the hell are you doing back here? and who’s the red sex-toy lookin’ thing that i j punched?”

as much as logan wanted to laugh at your dig at wade, he knew how to read the room. and frankly, he was still to stunned. “y/n? baby?”

“don’t call me that,” logan’s eyes widened, “you don’t get to call me that after disappearing for 9 months without notice, lo!”

logan couldn’t help but admire your use of his nickname you created even though you’re pissed at him.

“listen. i know, okay? i know and im sorry but if you let me in,” logan stepped closer, “i can expl- ah fuck!”

you’d stabbed him again in the same spot, pushing his body against the hall with your claws. “no you listen to me, logan. and you listen to me good. i’m not letting you come into my- our house after going awol for fucking forever and coming back with some random gay in a red suit,” you pulled your claws out of him but didn’t put them away this time.

your face softens, eyes moving rapidly between logan’s. he knew you better than anyone, he could see the way your eyes shifted from angry to vulnerable and the way your eyebrows lifted; you were a mini him, despite you being the same age.

“i thought you died, lo. i spent the past months thinking the only person i had and loved was fucking dead,” your eyes welled up as you backed away from logan, putting your claws away alas.

“i’m sorry, doll. im so sorry you have no idea,” logan’s calloused hands grazed your forearms, thumbs tracing the spot where your claws rested.

you sighed, holding back the urge to give in and hold onto him as long as you could.

“but you dont understand-“ you looked away, only for logan to lift a hand and cup your face in it, forcing your glossy eyes to meet his.

“you’re right, james! i don’t understand! so jesus fucking christ enlighten me.”

logan was taken back at your use of his real name, lip parting slightly. his heart ached more and more every time he watched your bottom lip quiver. he knew you were trying to keep up your strong facade, but were beginning to fail.

“i had a mission to go on. i had to save the world, baby!” your brows curled back into anger, and logan knew you thought he was bullshitting. “cmon, angel, stay with me. the asshat over there in the red, he dragged me into this. so if you’re gonna kill anyone for this, have it be him. i just- i need you to let me in.”

you shook your head. “lo- just-“ you stuttered, scavenging for words. “but why didn’t you say anything? you couldn’t have called? sent a letter? hell, baby i would’ve been happy with a fucking pigeon!”

“i didn’t have access to that shit.”

“for 9 months?”

he took a deep sigh, “yes, for nine months.” his tone grew louder. “because if i hadn’t left you for those 9 months there would be no more you for me to come back home to!”

“get out of my damn building, logan.”

“what?”

“leave! i want you and that goddamn red thing to get as far away from me as you fucking can and stay there.”

“y/n-“

“bye logan!”

you slammed the door in his face, leaving him standing there in utter disbelief.

logan’s claws retracted, “FUCK!” he screamed through the hall, leaving a giant claw park across your door.

he looked down at wade, who was watching from a safe distance on the floor. he put his claws away, grabbing wade by the fabric of his suit and dragging him onto his feet.

“get up, you heard the girl; let’s get the fuck away from her.”

logan was breathing heavy, more than ever before. it was like his heart couldn’t catch up to everything he was feeling in the moment. the last thing he wanted to be doing right now was walking out of your apartment building and leaving you, but he was weighed down by so much anger and hurt that he wasn’t exactly in control of himself at the moment.

“well,” wade started, “you handled that well.”

and before he knew it, wade was stabbed into a wall. “ow?”

logan growled, “i’m coming back for her.”

wade only let out a long laugh, stopping logan in his tracks.

“what the fuck are you laughing at? you should’ve heard the joke she made about you! she said you look like a sex toy-“

“i’m not laughing at that, you ape. i’m laughing at the fact that you’re coming back to her! look how it turned out the last time you ‘came back.’ “

“you don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. i’m coming back, whether she likes it or not. i’m not losing the love of my life after all i did to make sure i wouldn’t lose her.”

“i-“ “and next time im here, you won’t be.”

so! should i make a part 2 WITH a happy ending when he does come back??? 🫣🫣

♯ taglist! ∿

@spazwayy @oatmilkriver @sseleniaa @mei-simp @wittyjasontodd @wolverinesangel @realsimpbitchshit @pickuptruck01 @keigohawks @thereallchristine @velvrei

[sweet-allien]

If I keep reading comments from people comparing Logan and Colapinto I swear I'm going to stop being a friendly blog and I'm going to be one of the most fucking aggressive blogs.

To begin with, they did not have the same car, LOGAN DIDN'T EVEN HAVE THE SAME CAR AS ALEX and let's not forget that JV was not the one who saw that spark in Logan, he never saw him as a possible driver for Williams or as someone to accompany Alex, the the one who saw that potential in Logan was Jost Capito, not James. Not to mention all those derogatory comments from journalists towards Logan for being American (I really don't understand why that was a problem).

Colapinto has the support of both the Argentines and his own fans and James himself. Logan didn't really have a support network like Franco's, which, realistically, added to the pressure of being in one of the most competitive sports, is not exactly the most favorable for a person's self-esteem and confidence.

Logan was not only compared to Alex, his teammate with more experience in both F1 and Williams, but also to Oscar, Oscar, who drives a McLaren, who probably had more experience regarding F1 cars, Oscar, that always stood out in the rest of the categories and that has Mark Webber as support.

There's really no way to compare Logan and Franco, firstly, because they're both completely different, and secondly, because they were never on equal footing.

[f1boistrash]

nowhere else i'd rather be | l.s

a/n: here is more of logan x verstappen!reader. i've also got another part in the works which i'm excited to start

summary: you comfort logan after the news broke that he wouldn't be racing in the australian grand prix

<- previous part

You were in the Red Bull garage when the news was announced. You had heard the rumors after Alex's crash in free practice one but you didn't think they would actually do it or at least you hoped they wouldn't. Williams had given Alex Logan's car for the rest of the weekend and you were angry.

You quietly left before anyone noticed, making your way to Logan's room for the weekend. No one batted an eye, too focused on getting the car ready for free practice two so you were able to sneak in. You found his room easily, the layout similar to Red Bulls garage, and knocked on the door. You heard some movement inside but no one came to open the door.

"Logan? It's me, Y/N." You tried again. You didn't want to just barge in but you also wanted to see him, to make sure he was okay. Well as okay as anyone can be in this situation.

"The doors open." You heard him mumble and you quickly slipped inside.

The sight before you broke your heart. Logan was sat on his couch, his head in his hands. He looked defeated. You sat down next to him, immediately wrapping your arms around him. It was like a dam broke inside as tears started falling. You held him tightly, your way of letting him know you weren't going anywhere. It took everything for you to not go in James' office and give him a piece of your mind for treating Logan like this.

It was a few minutes before Logan sat up, moving out of your arms. He brushed his hand over his face as if he was trying to hide the fact he was crying. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, too embarrassed to look at you.

"You don't need to apologize, Logan. What they did was shit. You have every right to be upset." You told him, placing your hand over his. "I don't ever wanna hear you apologize for your feelings, okay?"

"Thanks, Y/N." Logan thanked you, sending you what was probably the first genuine smile of the day. "You being here means a lot."

"There's no where else I'd rather be." You admitted, heat rising to your cheeks at your admission. Before you could hide, afraid you made the situation weird, Logan cupped your cheek and leaned forward. Neither of you had a chance to make a move before your phone went off, interrupting the moment. You cursed silently at your brother for choosing now to text you. "I should probably get going or Max will send out a search party."

"Yeah, I should probably show my face in the garage." Logan groaned. He didn't want to but knew he had to keep up appearances for the team.

"I'll text you later." You promised him as he walked you to the door. You hugged Logan goodbye and left but not before you bumped into Alex. "Hey Alex."

"Hey Y/N." He called after you. Alex then turned to Logan giving him a knowing smirk.

"We're just friends." Logan said, trying to convince himself more than anything because there was no way he could have a crush on a fellow drivers sister. Alex grinned at his teammate, not believing him one bit.

-x-

Logan was nervous. More nervous than he was before he got into his car on race days. He had no reason to though because you were just friends. That's what he kept telling himself, afraid of embarrassing himself in front of you. You had texted earlier that you were coming over to his hotel room, bringing food with you, and since then Logan was on edge. It felt like a date but you hadn't said anything to suggest it was.

A knock on the door broke him out of his thoughts. He opened the door and there you were, takeout bags in each hand and a grin on your face. It was enough for the nervousness Logan had to melt away. "I heard about this place from Oscar and he reckons its the best food in Melbourne. So if its bad we can just blame him." You said as you walked into his room. "And I know it may be breaking our diet but we can just do an extra lap of the track tomorrow." You rambled on, taking the boxes out of the bag. When Logan didn't say anything you looked up, seeing him softly smiling at you making you self conscious. "I'm overstepping, aren't I? I am so sorry. You probably want to be by yourself now after today. I'll leave you alone now."

"Please don't." Logan pleaded, interrupting your spiraling thoughts. He gently grabbed your hand to stop you from leaving his room. "I enjoy your company. In fact you're making this whole weekend bearable." Logan pulled you close, his nose brushing yours. "So please don't leave." He mumbled against your lips before kissing you. You melted into his kiss, forgetting any worries you had.

[bratscave]

IN ANOTHER LIFE !

summary. falling in love with an old! driver, who's name was james while you were still in college was one thing — but finding out that he was wolverine after his death and meeting another version of him, was another.

includes/warnings. chapter two yay :), lots of flashbacks (omg they were so in love it hurts so bad), sex implied / lightly described once, she finds out about his death :/, laura!

Logan, as you knew him back then, liked to take walks with you. He just knocked on your door, hands stuffed into his jacket pocket, stayed silent and waited for you to gather your stuff to go outside. Didn't really talk much during it either, he'd rather listen to you, always.

And when you reached out for his hand, he didn't say anything, just let you. You'd sit down on bench and talk about the current drama going on with your friends and he'd smoke a cig and nod along. It wasn't much but it was comfortable.

You liked looking at sunsets, the pastels when it was late noon, various shades of yellow, orange and red. He wasn't the type of man who admired sunsets — at least, not before you.

You weren’t sure when it had happened, but at some point, Logan had started staying the night. It was never planned — he’d just show up after dark, looking more worn out than usual, and before you knew it, he was in your bed, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

One of those nights, you were lying in bed, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His hand was in your hair, his fingers lazily combing through the strands as you traced patterns on his skin with your fingertips.

“Tell me something,” you said softly, your voice barely breaking the quiet. “Something I don’t know about you.”

Logan was silent for a long moment, his hand stilling in your hair. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles tightened beneath your touch.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he muttered, his voice rough, like it hurt to say the words.

You lifted your head, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him. His face was in shadow, but you could still see the hard lines of his jaw, the weight he carried. “I know,” you whispered, your heart aching for him. “But I want to.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “You don’t wanna know,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”

You frowned, but you didn’t push. You never did.

Instead, you leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, your lips brushing against the scruff of his beard. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” you whispered, your breath warm against his skin.

And you stayed true to your words, you didn't go anywhere. You stayed waiting for him, waiting for him when you found a small sticky note saying 'I'll be gone for a little while. Don't worry bout me.' in his usual gruff writing. And you stayed waiting for him, a week and a half, ten days.

And you had hope, fucking hope that it was going to be James, or well as you later found out- logan, behind the door, when it rang at midnight.

Instead you were greeted by a girl, no older then thirteen.

Logan used to like kissing you good night, always came around if he drove by your apartment complax while on his shift because you 'needed to go to bed, well kissed'

Logan used to like having his hand on your thigh when he was driving, he'd rub small circles and patterns over the clothed skin. Sometimes, when you were rambling about something, he’d squeeze it gently, like it was his way of saying he was listening, even when he wasn’t saying a word.

Logan used to wake up before you, his heavy, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your spine, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to wake you but couldn’t help himself from touching you. If you stirred, he’d mutter something gruff under his breath —“go back to sleep, kid”—but there was no missing the warmth in his voice, the tenderness in the way he pulled you closer.

Logan used to make love to you like it was a slow burn, always taking his time, even when he was in a hurry. He’d kiss you deeply, rough hands holding your hips in place as he moved, like he wanted to savor every second. Afterward, you’d lie tangled together in the sheets, your fingers tracing the lines of his body, and he’d grunt something sinful under his breath.

Logan used to bring you coffee on mornings when he had nowhere else to be. He didn’t say much, just handed you the cup with that same gruff expression, watching as you sipped it, his eyes softer than usual. When you’d smile and say thanks, he’d shrug it off like it was no big deal, but you knew better. It was his way of saying he cared.

Logan used to call you late at night, usually after a long shift. His voice would be rough, heavy with exhaustion, but he’d still ask about your day. “Tell me somethin’ good,” he’d mutter, like the sound of your voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep with the phone still in his hand, the steady sound of his breathing a quiet comfort on the other end of the line.

"Logan is dead."

The girl's voice got you out of your trance as you looked down to meet her eyes, she had very intense ones, what was such a young child doing out late at night? But you don't question just brush her remark of, "Sorry, I don't know a Logan."

"He said you might say that. I need to tell you something."

You spend the whole night on the coach, the same coach where you and.. logan, shared your first kiss and more. Is now the same coach you sit on and find out that he died. That he was some sort of hero, that he had tried changing his identity.

You cry, ugly ugly tears. A shit ton of them. You try your damn best not to, in front of the kid, laura as you now knew it, but you couldn't keep it in. Logan didn't like it when you cried, said it wouldn't get you nowhere, but rested his hand on your back, going up, down, up, down in the same pattern over n' over again to calm you down, in quiet support no matter what it was.

Now your back was cold.

Time moved like it always does — quickly, harshly, without much care for your grief. Before you knew it, months, years had passed. Laura didn’t leave, and you never asked her to. She stayed, silently adjusting to your small apartment and even smaller routines. You weren’t exactly maternal, but something about her—something in the way she’d sit quietly on the edge of the couch, watching those old cartoons Logan always scoffed at: made you feel less lonely.

She didn’t talk much at first. But you understood. Words weren’t always necessary, and you’d never been one to push someone to speak when they weren’t ready. You learned to share the silence, learned that she needed space just like you did.

Life was different now. You’d finished what you set out to do —graduated, finally became the professional you always wanted to be. Journalism, like you’d always dreamed of, except the joy wasn’t there, not the way it used to be. The thrill of chasing stories and deadlines had dulled, the passion that once fueled you replaced by a quiet, steady determination. You wrote because it was what you were good at. Because it paid the bills. Because it gave Laura stability.

And she needed that. More than anyone, she needed a steady life—a soft place to land, to heal, even if neither of you said it out loud.

Sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of her sitting at the table, head bent over some math homework, you’d see pieces of him in her. The same furrowed brows when she was deep in thought. The quiet way she watched the world, always alert but never speaking too much.

You missed him. It never got easier, not really. When it got really bad, you’d sit in the small kitchen, nursing a drink and staring out the window. You could almost imagine him coming through the door, smelling faintly of motor oil and cigarettes, grumbling about something while he kicked off his boots.

But he never did. And you told yourself you’d learn to live with that.

Well, apperantly life had other plans for you, besides drowning in misery.

It had been late — too late for visitors. The kind of hour where the streets outside your apartment were dark and empty, the faint hum of city life muted through the window. You were pouring yourself another cup of tea, trying to wind down from a long day at work. Laura was in her room, tucked away, buried under her blankets as usual.

A knock came at the door.

It startled you; mostly because no one ever came by this late. You set your mug down and padded across the floor, wondering if maybe Laura had ordered something again, some late-night doordash she hadn’t mentioned.

You opened the door. And froze.

The world felt like it tilted sideways for a moment, because there he was. Logan. He looked different, rougher in a way, a little younger than you’d ever seen him. But those eyes, those same dark, stormy eyes — they were unmistakable.

His voice was rougher, too, when he spoke, like it had been scraped against gravel.

“Wade told me I could find you here.”

[giuseppe-yuki]

feathers

alex albon x cockatiel shapeshifter! reader

w.c.: 1.2k

warnings: one suggestive comment

part of my shapeshifting!reader series

summary: you annoy alex; ft. james vowles

picture credits from pinterest :)

the parc ferme was packed with people as you fluttered around alex’s head, feathers swaying in the wind. he wasn’t hard to follow, considering his tall 6’1 figure and unmistakable forest green aa23 hoodie. the crowds parted like moses and the red sea as he crossed, recognizing him as 1 of the 20 drivers on the grid. from your birds-eye view, you were pretty sure you saw zak efron five meters away from you next to the red bull garage and scotty james hovering around daniel’s blue vcarb next door.

nobody batted an eye at your presence- they all assumed you were just one of the many albon pets. 

chittering, you land on alex’s shoulder and give him a few hard pecks with your beak, ripping out a few strands of his bleached hair. you giggle internally- he was so easy to annoy when you were in cockatiel form. 

“hey!” he protests, stopping in his tracks front of the aston martin garage. he raises his hand, about to forcefully push you off his shoulder for being mean. before alex is able to, he spots two young fans, sporting fernando alonso caps, looking at him. not wanting to be labeled as “alex albon the bird assaulter,” he slowly lowers his hand, and instead converts it to an awkward wave. to avoid another awkward situation, he takes off running towards his original destination, the williams garage, but not before shooting a glare at you. 

when you arrive at the williams garage, you find logan standing in front as well. alex waves his hand in greeting and you chirp in a greeting.

“took you long enough,” logan quips, smiling. “james called for you a while ago!” 

“well, i would have gotten here quicker if this cockatiel would stop being irritating!” alex says, gesturing towards you. turning his head towards you, he places a kiss on top of your feathery little head. “you’re kinda lucky that i love you, or else i would probably have donated you to the zoo!” he jokes. 

for the second time that evening, you give peck his head, hard.

logan laughs at the interaction in front of him. “if you’d like, i know a hawk that can act as ‘animal control’ for you! she’s back at home in miami right now, though.”

the gall of this man! you know logan is joking, but still, you hop off of alex’s shoulder and purposely fly at logan’s face, flapping your feathers in the direction of his eyes. 

“okay, okay, okay,” logan laughs, trying to cover his face, “tell your girlfriend to stop attacking me or else i’m sending my girlfriend after her when you guys come to the states!”

ten minutes later, when you enter the air-conditioned williams motorhome, you are dressed in a flowy white pants and a williams blue silk halter top. you loop your arm through alex’s as he asks his race strategist the whereabouts of his team principal. 

 when he finishes with his conversation, he leads you towards his driver’s room 

“i thought you came here to meet james,” you question, looking up at alex.

“yeah, i did,” he responds, “but apparently he had to have a quick meeting with the engineers and will find me later, so i guess we have a little time to rest in my driver’s room before the race.” a flashes a devilish smile and little wink at you.

a flash of shock runs across your face, and you shoot him a dirty glare. “we are NOT doing that in your drivers room.” 

“what do you mean?” he replies innocently, “ when i said rest, i meant that we could maybe chill on the couch and watch a little bit of high school musical- i saw you looking at zac efron in parc ferme earlier.”

you groan exasperatedly, but follow him into the small room. 

when you first started dating alex, he was always ever the gentleman, complimenting you and whispering sweet things into your ear when you were with him. you trusted him with all your heart, and instead of freaking out when you told him that you could shapeshift into a cockatiel, he immediately started researching info about cockatiels and began carrying sunflower seeds around for you. as time passed, your relationship evolved into a loop of you bullying alex in bird form and him teasing you nonstop in public. (he obviously still knew your limit though, and was always the sweetest behind closed doors)

you hop on the couch as alex navigates to disney+ on the tv and starts the movie. he places his arm around your shoulder and leans his head against yours. you curl up into him, breathing in the smell of him. to your disappointment, within in the first twenty minutes, alex is dead asleep on the couch. you frown, lifting his arm off of you. you were about the shake him awake when you came up with a brilliant idea. 

turning back into your cockatiel form, you shake off your loose feathers onto the couch. you smile to yourself. alex hated when you left your feathers everywhere. you pick up a feather or two with your beak, and place it strategically on the floor. one on the couch hand rest, three on alex’s head, two behind the couch (when you placed those, you found a giant glossy picture of george russell behind the couch?? you’ll have to talk to him about that later). after arranging the finishing touches, you nudge alex’s cheek with your feathery head to wake him up. as soon as he opens his sleepy eyes, he immediately sees the absolute mess you made everywhere. but before he could say a word, a knock sounds from the door. 

“alex, it’s james,” says the voice outside the door.

alex’s eyes widen, and (screw his ultra-quick reflexes) proceeds to quickly snatch you off of his lap and unceremoniously shoves you inside a nearby drawer. he slides it shut, except for a little crack so you could breathe.

oh you were gonna kill him.

you hear the door open, and footsteps into the room. 

“hey, says james, “so i was gonna come here to talk to you about a chassis problem, but i think that it would be better if we could talk about it as a team in a meeting after the race. i was going to send you an email about it, but since i was passing by your drivers room, i just wanted to pop in in-person to let you know.” 

you hop towards the crack and raise an eye to see through. alex is standing awkwardly, half in front of the coach with his hands next to his sides, pointedly trying to block the mess of feathers on the couch. 

“err.. yeah! of course!” your boyfriend says. 

as if just noticing the feathers all over the couch, james raises an eyebrow. “did you kill a bird in here or are you making an art project?” he asks, looking at alex with an incredulous look. 

“art project,” alex responds, almost immediately.

“okay.” james says, in a tone that suggested he didn’t really believe alex. he turns to leave, hand on the handle. but before he does, he turns around. “wait a second, i could have sworn logan said that you were in here with your girlfriend?”

a/n: second installment of the series! ( i wrote this at 3am) if you didn't get the george russell picture reference, here's a link to a video that i watched: link

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin @ale-522 @formula1-motogpfan @aceyalonso

[sinofwriting]

Water Bottle - Max Verstappen (I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Words: 546 Summary: Logan has a thing about water. Note(s): Takes place in 2024, Japan GP. Also just like 2023, the 2024 season will be different with different point scorers and events. (Part of the I ❤️ MILFS verse)

Masterlist | Support Me! | Part of Sin's 5k & B-Day Celebration | I ❤️ MILFS verse

Logan was horrible at drinking water, Max had come to find out. Or rather, was horrible at remembering to carry water around. If it was in his hand, he’d remember it and drink it. If it wasn’t though, forget it.

It was surprisingly endearing the way Logan would just forget water existed as soon as his water bottle was out of his hands. Max knew it drove Pan crazy, he had seen the way she pushed water into his hand constantly, but now, and he can’t help but grin, that was his job.

Passing a bottle of water to Logan, he pats the younger on the shoulder before joining him on the sofa. It was a relief to be right at the end, Logan next to him, then Lando, Esteban, and Kevin. The latter two drivers had made his nose wrinkle a bit when his press officer told him his schedule.

As the interviewer begins with talking to Kevin, Max lets himself zone out, looking at the rest of the people in the room, observing them.

He briefly registers Esteban beginning to speak, when the very quiet muffled sound of Lando laughing hits his ears. It makes his eyebrow raise and he glances to look at him. Lando’s face is slightly pink as he tries to stifle his laugh. Max has to give him that’s doing a somewhat good job at it. Better than he ever did last year, at least.

As he looks at Lando, wondering what made him crack up, the corner of his eye catches on Logan and his attention immediately shifts.

The younger was frowning at his lap, and Max looks down and sees him staring at the water bottle in his hands, his dominant hands fingers struggling with the cap.

Max looks over at Esteban as the Frenchman says his name, nearly rolling his eyes at the shit joke of him winning everything.

“Well,” he begins, reaching over grabbing the water from Logan. “It’s the car and the team really. I mean, the car just feels excellent. How is the car for you Esteban?” He asks, passing the now opened water back to Logan and cap, giving a small tap to the bottom of the bottle and smiling when immediately Logan takes a drink.

His attention refocuses on Esteban only to see him looking at him slack jawed.

“What?” He asks, confused. But as he looks at Kevin, the interviewer and the other people in the room, they all have the same response. Lando even is no longer laughing, having the same expression as everyone else. Looking at Logan, the American shrugs, just as confused as him. “Did you,” the interview starts. “Did I what?” The interviewer’s mouth opens, then closes. “Did you just open Logan’s water for him?” Max looks at Lando in confusion. “Yes. Why? What’s the problem?” The Brit continues to look at him, slack jawed. “Mate,” he finally manages to say. “What?” Max shrugs. “Can we go back to questions about Australia?” He sends a sorry look to Logan, who just shrugs. And Max in response can’t help but ruffle his kid's hair. One of these days he really was going to go into Williams garage and strangle James Vowles, one of these days, he sighed.

@spookystitchery @saintchxx4 @lovecarsgoingvroom @bloodyymaryyy @lilipiggytails

[pucksandpower]

Mad World

Logan Sargeant x Vowles!Reader

Summary: no matter how cruel the rest of the world may seem, Logan will always have a home with you

Logan stares blankly at James Vowles, unable to process the words coming out of his team principal’s mouth.

“I’m … I’m sorry, what?” Logan stammers, his heart pounding. This can’t be happening.

James looks immensely uncomfortable but pushes on. “Alex needs your chassis since his is too damaged and the team does not have a spare. You’ll have to withdraw from the race weekend.”

The room falls into an oppressive silence as the words sink in. Logan can feel his chance at remaining in Formula 1 next year slipping away with each agonizing second. Why is he being punished for a crash that wasn’t his fault? The questions swirl dizzily in his mind.

James regards him with remorseful eyes. “I’m sorry, Logan. There’s no other way ...”

The words hit Logan like a punch to the gut. He stares at James, numb, his mind spinning. After a long silence, he nods mutely and forces out, “I … I need a minute.” His feet move without conscious thought, carrying him blindly down the corridors as burning tears blur his vision.

Logan’s heart pounds in his chest as he rushes through the hallway, tears streaming down his face. He can barely see where he’s going as he barrels toward his driver’s room. His breaths come in ragged gasps, the weight of James’ words crushing him.

How could they do this to him? After everything?

He fumbles with the handle, finally wrenching the door open and slamming it shut behind him. Logan leans back against it, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor. Sobs wrack his body as the reality sinks in — he’s out for the weekend because of someone else’s mistake.

It’s not fair. None of this is fair.

His career, his dreams, his entire future flashing before his eyes, slipping away because Williams can’t get their act together. Why did they even re-sign him if they have so little faith? The questions swirl in his mind, only compounded by the hurt and anger burning in his chest.

Logan stays like that for who knows how long, gasping for air between cries that feel like they’re literally tearing him apart from the inside.

He’s so consumed by emotion that he doesn’t hear the tentative knock at first. When it comes again, louder this time, he jolts slightly, raising a hand to wipe uselessly at his tear-streaked face.

With trembling fingers, he pulls open the door, and you’re standing there. The mere sight of you breaks through the haze of devastation, if only for a moment.

You step inside without a word, wrapping your arms around him, and the dam breaks again. Fresh sobs spill out as Logan crumples against your chest, clinging to you like a lifeline while you softly hush him, guiding the two of you to the couch.

You maneuver him gently until his head is cradled in your lap, your fingers combing soothingly through his hair. “I came as soon as I heard,” you murmur, voice thick with shared pain. “I can’t believe they would do this to you because of their own mistakes. It’s not right.”

Logan tries to speak, to voice the turmoil inside him, but all that comes out is a strangled, “Why? I don’t … I don’t understand. It’s not my fault, so why am I being punished?” His words dissolve into hiccuping gasps. “They must not have faith in me at all. This … this is it, isn’t it? The end.”

You shush him again, cupping his face to brush the tears away with your thumbs. “Don’t think like that. The team is the one in the wrong here, not you.”

But the storm won’t be quelled so easily. Logan sits up abruptly, putting distance between you despite how his heart aches at the loss of your touch. “But soon I won’t even be a driver anymore,” he chokes out, meeting your eyes with his own reddened, devastated gaze. “You shouldn’t … you deserve so much better than me, Y/N. Better than someone whose career is over before it even started.”

“Logan Sargeant, don’t you dare say that.” You’re on your feet in an instant, hands on your hips in a stance he knows all too well — the fierce protectiveness that still makes his heart flutter, even now. “I am with you because I love you, every amazing, incredible part of you. Not because you’re an F1 driver, but because of the person you are.”

He can only gape at you, stunned into silence by the intensity of your words, the unwavering certainty in your tone. You step closer, cupping his face again, making him meet the blazing love and conviction in your eyes.

“I don’t care if you never race again, though you know I believe in you with everything I have. I’m not going anywhere, do you understand me? We’re in this together, always, no matter what.” You press your lips to his brow, his cheeks, finally claiming his mouth in a searing kiss that leaves him dizzy. “I love you,” you breathe against his lips. “I love you so much, Logan.”

He’s dumbstruck, overwhelmed by the ferocity of your devotion, even in the face of his lowest moment. How did he get so lucky as to have you in his life? In a heartbeat, Logan is kissing you again, tears of a different kind streaking his cheeks as he murmurs the words over and over. “I love you, I love you, I love you ...”

Eventually, you guide him back until he’s lying down on the couch once more, placing a small pillow under his head. “Get some rest, babe. You’ve been through the ringer today.”

He catches your hand before you can move away fully. “Where are you going?”

The fiery look in your eye makes his stomach flip. “I need to go have a … conversation … with my father.”

Logan lets out a teary laugh at your protective fierceness — one of the many things he loves most about you. “Yes ma’am.”

Leaning down, you brush one last lingering kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

As you turn and head for the door, Logan feels his heart swell watching your receding form. For all the hurt today has brought, he knows more than ever that he’s the luckiest man in the world to have you by his side.

As Logan drifts into an exhausted doze, his last conscious thoughts are of you — his forever, his everything — and how lucky he is to have such an amazing love in his life.

No matter what happens next.

[vivwritesfics]

Mrs Vettel's Anger

The long awaited (not really) sequel to Padawan Learner

Vettel!reader X Logan Sargeant (platonic)

She sat there, staring at her phone. Her baby was sleeping in the crib she had set up beside the sofa, never too far away from her. But he wasn't the focus of her attention at that moment.

She'd stayed off of social media since her impromptu retirement (she had every intention of returning to racing, but she wasn't ready to leave her baby yet). She hadn't checked any kind of feed, the only place her pictures were posted were to her family groupchats.

Her Formula One obsessed brother was the one that sent her the link to the article, the one about the future of Logan's career.

F2 racer Colapinto replaces Sargeant at Williams for rest of 2024 season

She didn't click on the article, just looked at the headline. She didn't want to click it, didn't want to read the rest of it. It couldn't have been real.

She looked over at her sweet baby, sleeping so soundly in the crib. She would be fine on her own for just a few minutes. Standing up, she gripped her phone as she raced through the house, desperately searching for her husband. "Seb!"

He emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. "What's the matter, Meine Taube?"

Words failed her, so she just held up her phone. Sebastian took it from her hands and read the headline of the article. He clicked the link and gave the article a quick read. The grim look that crossed his face confirmed it for her.

"Fuck," she hissed as she took her phone and slipped it into her pocket. Logan really had been fired. James Vowles had ended his career, and she was fucking mad.

"I'm so sorry, Meine Taube," he muttered and pulled her in. His hand was on the back of her hair, nails scratching at her hair as she held back tears. "I know how much potential you saw in him."

"He's still got potential, Seb. I don't know why James doesn't see it."

He kissed the top of her head. "Have you spoken to Logan yet?"

She shook her head and went to go and do just that.

***

It was easy to convince Seb to go to Italy. The hardest part was leaving their little girl in the hands of the babysitter. Sebastian took her phone from her to stop her from calling the moment they got into the car.

The trip to Italy wasn't meant to be fun. It was purely business. Her hand was ready to do some slapping.

Seb held her hand as they walked through the paddock. Their first stop was Kimi (Räikkönen), the ex teammates catching up. Sebastian instantly had his phone out to show Kimi pictures of their sweet baby girl, going through seeming every moment of her life.

But his wife wanted to go to the Williams garage.

Finally, she got to go. She marched her way over to the Williams garage, steam coming out of her ears.

Alex, bless him, tried to greet her. He tried to say 'hello', to her, tried to stop her for a chat, but she was a woman on a mission. She marched straight past him, further into the garage.

There wasn't much Sebastian could do to stop his wife at this point. He stopped at the edge of the garage, wished Franco Colapinto luck on his first race.

James Vowles should have known to hide. But, instead, he smiled as Mrs Vettel approached him. He opened his mouth, ready to say hello to her, but her hand met his cheek.

The slap seemed to silence the garage. All eyes were on him as she stared up at James. "How dare you," she said lowly. "How dare you axe Logan in the middle of the season! You've never supported him in his career, James! You never wanted him in that seat! He had so much fucking potential and you go and replace him with another driver who won't get to show his full potential either!" She was breathing heavily as she stared at him. "Logan just wanted to make this team proud. That's all he's ever wanted to do, and you didn't give him the tools to do it."

James was staring at her, waiting for her to go on. But she had stopped, stopped long enough to hear a response. "It's purely business."

She slapped him again. "Mark my words, James. I'm going to get him into another team, a better team. Just you fucking wait." She turned on her heal and marched back towards her husband.

There he was, talking to the newest William's victim. She steadied herself, painted a smile onto her face, and approached him. "Hey, kid," she said. "James gives you any kind of shit, give me a call," she said and stepped into Sebastian's hold.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. He was so damn proud of her.