can I request logan sargeant x tattoo artist x oscar piastri..
(the tattoo artist is really into doing like fantasy / tv show / movie related tattoos)
tattooed and trouble — ls2 + op81
smau + blurbs
logan sargeant x !tattoo artist reader x oscar piastri
you’ve inked celebrities, rappers, and billionaires—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the day logan sargeant stumbled into your miami studio, half-drunk, grinning like a fool, and demanding a lightning mcqueen tattoo. apparently, he lost a bet. apparently, he is the real life lightning mcqueen, according to his friends. and apparently, that dumb little tattoo is what started it all. now, months later, you’ve got logan wrapped around your finger, a viral post that keeps resurfacing every other week—and just when things start feeling normal, his old friend oscar piastri shows up fresh off a grand prix win, quiet and annoyingly cute, and leaves your world flipped all over again. you should’ve known better than to trust men with fast cars. especially when they’re both a little in love with you. and each other.
fc : maggie lindemann
(a/n) : omg i loved this idea so much that i literally stopped everything to start writing it and working on it. I MISS MY LOGAN FALDUWJSND FUCK.
—
inked_by_yn
liked by logansargeant & 225,075 others.
inked_by_yn : bits and pieces of my last few days…ft the tattoo I gave the “real life lightning mcqueen”
—
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yourbff : slinky is underage. no wine for him
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↳ inked_by_yn : that didn’t stop you when you were underage 🥴
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↳ yourbff : shhhhhh
↳ yourbff : im just trying to be a good influence on my godson 🤧
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yoursister : baddddieeeee😻😻
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↳ yoursister : also is he cute????
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↳ inked_by_yn : i would say yes but i know he is lurking and i don’t want to inflate his ego
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username00 : omg do you have anytime for walk-ins today???
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↳ inked_by_yn : had a last minute cancellation so if you can make it in, im ready for ya💋
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username10 : omg that is def logan and he is in the likes!!!!
logansargeant : tell them all how you said i was your favorite client 😁
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↳ inked_by_yn : lies. my fave clients don’t cry 😏
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↳ logansargeant : i didn’t cry. it was a single tear 🤧
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↳ inked_by_yn : whatever you say, mr mcqueen.
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↳ username15 : OMGOMG
—
The bell above the door jingled violently — more of a slam than a polite entry — and before you could even glance up from your sketchbook, someone shouted.
“WE’RE HERE FOR THE STUPIDEST TATTOO EVER DONE IN MIAMI!”
You blinked. Three guys stood in the doorway like they were filming a bad reality show— one of them already laughing, one looking mildly horrified, and the third — the loud one — grinning like a golden retriever. That one was Logan Sargeant.
You recognized him immediately. He was hard to miss — tall, tan, Florida-born chaos with a hint of washed-up F1 fame and a whole lot of boyish charm. The kind that made women roll their eyes… and then double back just to look again.
He sauntered in like he owned the place.
Wearing sunglasses inside. Naturally.
“Hi,” he said, leaning dramatically on the front counter. “I’m here to ruin my life.”
You didn’t look up from your tablet. “It’s Miami. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
His friends burst out laughing. One of them — a lanky blond who looked too sober to be here — muttered, “I told him this was a bad idea.”
“You also told me I could pull off frosted tips in 2021, so your judgment is forever in question,” Logan replied, peeling off his sunglasses and grinning at you. “Anyway. I lost a bet. And now I need Lightning McQueen. Like, the Lightning McQueen. On my arm. Forever.”
You stared at him.
“Do you mean… the Pixar car?”
“Ka-chow, baby.”
He said it with his whole chest. With conviction.
And when you didn’t laugh, he just looked even more impressed. “Wow. Cold-blooded. That’s hot.”
You set your pencil down and finally looked at him fully — tan skin, perfect teeth, too much confidence for a man requesting a cartoon car on his bicep.
“How drunk were you when you made this bet?” you asked, tilting your head.
“I was sober,” he said, smiling proudly. “Which makes this even more tragic.”
“Right. And you want this… where?”
“Dealer’s choice,” he said smoothly, rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt. “I trust you. Mostly because you’re hot, but also because your Yelp reviews are fire.”
“You read my Yelp reviews?”
He leaned in like it was a secret. “Only after I stalked your Instagram for 20 minutes and forgot what I was doing.”
His friends groaned in unison. “Bro, please. Let her live.”
You ignored them and stood up, walking around the counter toward your setup. “Come on then, McQueen. Let’s give you something to regret.”
“Oh, I already regret not meeting you sooner,” Logan said, following close behind. “You think I’m your hottest client so far orrrr…?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re certainly the loudest.”
“I’ll take it,” he said cheerfully, sitting down in the chair and flexing unnecessarily. “Wanna make it say ‘speed. I am speed’? Or is that too cliché?”
You snapped your gloves on. “You’re lucky I’m not tattooing slow. Across your forehead.”
He smirked. “Kinky.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. But your smirk said enough.
As you prepped his arm, Logan glanced up at you through thick lashes and said, quieter this time.
“Be honest. Do most guys fall in love with you while you’re tattooing them?”
You gave him a look. “Only the ones who say Ka-chow unironically.”
Logan smiled wider.
“Then I’m already halfway there.”
—
The buzz of the machine stopped, and Logan’s head popped up immediately.
“That’s it?” he asked, dramatically craning his neck to see his arm. “I survived?”
“You barely flinched,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “I’m shocked. I pegged you as a screamer.”
“Oh, I am,” Logan said instantly. “But I kept it together for you.”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile as you wiped down the fresh tattoo. “Alright, Lightning. Wanna see?”
“Do I ever,” he said, sitting up straighter.
You turned his arm toward the mirror. The little red car sat perfectly on his bicep — bright, clean lines, smug grin and all. It was stupid. And hilarious. And honestly? A little iconic.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “That’s… incredible. Like, actually incredible.”
“I know,” you said, amused. “That’s kind of my job.”
Logan looked at it like he’d just been handed a masterpiece. “I’m not kidding — I think this might be the best decision I’ve ever made. Aside from choosing to be born in Florida. And now this.”
“You didn’t choose to be born in Florida.”
“Exactly. Which makes this number one.”
You laughed, cleaning your station as he gently ran his fingers near the edges of the bandage. “So, what now?” he asked. “You kick me out and never speak to me again?”
“Pretty much,” you deadpanned.
“Damn. Cold again. That’s fine. I like it,” he said, then added quickly, “But, hypothetically — hypothetically — if someone wanted to, I don’t know, repay you for the best Lightning McQueen rendering on the planet…”
He slid his phone onto your station.
“…would that someone be allowed to take you out for drinks?”
You raised a brow. “Is this your version of a tip?”
“No, this is me shamelessly flirting and praying you don’t already have a boyfriend who drives something lame like a Corolla.”
You snorted. “You do know this is Miami, right? The bar for car flexing is in hell.”
“Perfect,” he grinned. “Then I still have a shot.”
You picked up his phone without looking at him and typed in your name and number. Saved it. Handed it back.
He blinked, surprised. “Wait—actually?”
“Don’t make it weird,” you said. “You earned it.”
Logan lit up like a kid on Christmas. “Okay. Okay, cool. Chill. Totally normal response to getting a hot girl’s number after getting a Disney tattoo.”
You arched a brow. “That’s the bar?”
“Listen,” he said, pocketing his phone and standing, “I may have lost a bet, but I feel like I just won something way better.”
You handed him the care sheet. “You better follow the instructions. If that tattoo gets infected, I’m deleting your number.”
He took it solemnly. “I’d never hurt Lightning. Or disappoint you.”
You walked him to the door, and just before he stepped outside into the sun, he turned back one more time, already pulling his sleeve up to admire the tattoo again.
“Hey,” he called.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Ka-chow.”
Then he winked. And left. You stared after him for a long second, then shook your head and laughed under your breath. Fucking Florida boys.
—
Two days after his tattoo appointment, Logan texted you at 11:47 a.m.
so how much time needs to pass before I ask you to grab a drink without sounding obsessed
probably like 48 hours
sick so i’m early. wanna grab a drink tonight?
depends. are you planning on wearing sunglasses indoors again?
no promises
but i will attempt to impress you
oh honey
you’re gonna have to try really hard
i love a challenge
—
He picked a laid-back rooftop bar in Wynwood, the kind with overpriced cocktails, neon signs, and a DJ spinning remixes of Bad Bunny and Frank Ocean. He got there early — rare for him — hair done, sleeves rolled up, pacing slightly because okay, maybe he was trying to impress you. He leaned against a palm tree out front, texting his friend about “not being nervous, just hydrated,” when he heard the low, unmistakable purr of an engine.
Then he saw it. A matte grey 2025 Mercedes AMG GT63. Pulling up like it owned the street. Smooth, deadly. Sexy as hell.
“Holy—” he straightened. “No fucking way.”
You stepped out like you were in a music video — high-waisted jeans, cropped top, sunglasses, the glow of sunset bouncing off your skin and paint stained rings. He literally blinked.
“You good?” you asked, smirking as you shut the door with a click.
“I—I was gonna open the door for you,” he stammered. “But then you just… drove that here.”
You walked up to him slowly, amused. “What were you driving?”
He pointed vaguely. “A Jeep. It squeaks a little when I turn left.”
You laughed. “Charming.”
“I know. It builds character,” he said, trying to shake off the shock and falling into step beside you. “But like, I was gonna try to flex tonight and then you pulled up like a Bond villain.”
“I thought you liked danger.”
“I do. But now I feel like I should be the one buying you a drink and asking what it is you do for a living.”
You smirked. “Torture grown men for fun and money.”
“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Marry me.”
The date ended up being easy — laughter over terrible cocktails, Logan telling stories about F1 chaos and you countering with tattoo shop disasters.
Every time you made a sarcastic comment, he grinned like an idiot. Every time he got flustered, you raised an eyebrow like you were collecting his weaknesses one by one. Halfway through the night, he said.
“You’re kinda scary.”
And you replied, “Only to men who can’t handle me.”
He let out a laugh, held his hand up. “Okay, fair. But for the record—I’m doing great.”
By the end of the night, he walked you back to your car, hands in his pockets, chewing on his bottom lip like he was thinking about something.
“You don’t kiss on the first date, do you?” he asked, hopeful and a little sheepish.
You leaned against the driver’s side door. “No.”
“Right. Cool. Me neither. Not unless it’s like… a really good one. Or I’m asked nicely.”
You tilted your head. “Are you saying this was a really good one?”
“I mean,” he shrugged, grinning, “it wasn’t a Lightning McQueen tattoo level experience, but it was pretty damn close.”
You laughed — soft, unexpected — then leaned in just enough to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
Logan blinked, stunned.
“Holy shit.”
“Easy, Sargeant,” you said, sliding into your car. “Don’t crash on the way home thinking about it.”
He stood there like he’d just blacked out, watching as the AMG peeled out smoothly into the Miami night. Then he whispered to himself.
“…I’m so screwed.”
—
Logan had officially declared your third date The One That Counts. He had sent you a text earlier in the day.
i feel like the third date is when you either get ghosted.
or get kissed. or arrested. depending on how spicy it gets.
You left him on read for an hour just to mess with him. Then replied—
better bring bail money, lightning
So when he picked you up that night — yes, in the same squeaky Jeep, which he’d lovingly wiped down for the occasion — he was buzzing with chaotic hope and trying to play it cool. He took you to a late night taco truck near South Beach, the kind of spot that didn’t show up on Google Maps and probably violated several health codes. But the food was divine and the mood was perfect — casual, warm, wrapped in laughter and the ocean breeze.
Logan, in a gray tee and that same stupid grin, leaned against the counter beside you as you licked hot sauce off your thumb.
“Okay,” he said. “If I asked nicely, would you tattoo a taco on me?”
You didn’t even look up. “Do you want a taco on your body forever?”
“Only if it reminds me of this exact moment.”
You looked at him then — a little surprised, a little soft.
“You’re serious?”
“Half of me is always serious,” he said. “The other half is just desperate to impress you.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
After tacos, he drove you down to the water, parking the Jeep so it faced the ocean, radio low, both of you curled up in the front seats with a bag of cinnamon churros between you.
“So,” he said, turning toward you. “Am I ghosted now, or…?”
You tilted your head. “Are you always this impatient?”
“I’ve been very patient. I didn’t even try to kiss you last time.”
“You tried,” you said, smirking.
“I didn’t try that hard,” he defended. “I mean, I wanted to. But you had that look. The ‘touch me and die’ one.”
You chuckled. “That’s my default setting.”
He looked at you then — really looked. Less teasing, more open.
“I know I joke a lot,” he said, “but I’m not playing around with you. I really like you. I like hanging out, I like the way you talk, I like that you make fun of me but still show up. I don’t know, it just… feels good.”
You stared at him for a second, letting his words settle. Letting them mean something.
Then, quietly. “So kiss me.”
He blinked. “Wait—really?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
But he was already leaning in — not rushed, not cocky, just soft and a little in awe, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually been given permission. And when his lips finally met yours — warm, sweet, slow — the world kind of fell quiet around you. No jokes. No chaos. Just Logan. Just you. Just right. When he pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot.
“That… was worth the wait.”
You raised a brow. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’d wait forever for that,” he said, then paused, eyes flicking to your lips again. “But like… I really hope I don’t have to.”
You laughed, leaning into him again, churros forgotten, ocean breeze wrapping around you both. Yeah. This was definitely The One That Counts.
—
inked_by_yn
liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri and 457,005 others.
inked_by_yn : somehow got talked into doing another lighting tattoo…this time for some grand prix winner 🙄
—
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oscarpiastri : this was a terrible decision but somehow you made it feel right
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↳ inked_by_yn : just think of it as a celebratory tattoo...done by the best tattoo artist in the world ;)
liked by oscarpiastri and logansargeant
↳ username15 : OSCAR? PIASTRI? TATTOO? LOGAN SARGEANT?
lando : i leave him alone for 5 minutes and he is getting tattoos like he is in a frat
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↳ oscarpiastri : you're just jealous. i have a fun tattoo done by yn and you do not.
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↳ lando : lowkey yeah
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logansargeant : this whole post brought out my feral instincts tbh
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↳ inked_by_yn : down boy
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↳ username7 : LOGANNNN
username000 : who is this girl and why r oscar, lando and logan in her comment section
↳ username17 : she is a miami based tattoo artist and she is RUMORED to be dating logan currently. but i think after that comment we can confirm.
yourbff : god you are so fucking hot. gimme a piece a dat.
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↳ logansargeant : MINEEEEEEE.
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↳ inked_by_yn : you can share logieeee
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—
The door to your studio slammed open with the same chaos as last time.
“YOUR FAVORITE CLIENT HAS RETURNED,” Logan announced, stepping inside, arms wide, smile feral, sunglasses absolutely unnecessary. “AND I BROUGHT A NEW VICTIM.”
You didn’t even look up from your station.
“I have pepper spray now,” you said calmly.
“Oh please, you love me,” Logan grinned, already walking in like he paid rent. “Anyway. I’m not the one getting tattooed today.”
That made you pause. Finally, you glanced up. Trailing behind him—somewhat reluctant, clearly annoyed, and very unfortunately attractive—was Oscar Piastri.
Fresh off his Miami Grand Prix win, still slightly sun-flushed, shirt rolled at the sleeves, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else except inside this exact room. You could tell from the way his brows were knit and his hands were stuffed into his pockets.
“I’m being hazed,” he muttered.
You raised an eyebrow. “You won a race. How is this your punishment?”
Logan clapped a dramatic hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Because he promised if he ever won my home race–he’d get a tattoo. And then he went and won the whole damn Grand Prix, so guess what, bro?”
He turned back to you with a devious grin. “He’s yours now.”
Oscar’s eyes flicked to you then—cool, cautious, amused.
“I didn’t realize I was being handed over like property.”
You smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. I take very good care of my things.”
Logan choked in the background. You stood and walked toward them, slowly pulling off your gloves, your eyes narrowing on Oscar.
“Alright, Piastri. Let’s see the canvas.”
He blinked. “The what?”
“Your skin, genius,” Logan said, already pulling up a chair like he lived here.
Oscar exhaled and started rolling up his sleeve, exposing a clean, tan forearm that definitely did not belong to a man who got spontaneous tattoos. He sat down, clearly unsure of his life choices.
“What exactly am I getting?” he asked you.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked smug.
“Another Lightning Tattoo,” he said.
You raised a brow at Oscar. “You sure about this?”
Oscar looked at you. Paused. And then—very calmly—nodded. “I think so.”
“Okay,” you said, already grabbing your tablet to sketch. “But I get to design it.”
Oscar’s mouth quirked. “What happened to dealer’s choice?”
You smiled, head tilted. “That is dealer’s choice.”
—
Logan sat across the room in a throne-like chair he clearly claimed as “his,” watching you prep Oscar’s arm with way too much interest. Oscar, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But his eyes kept flicking to you—your hands, your rings, your tattoos, your hair falling into your face as you leaned over his skin.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, almost like he wanted only you to hear.
“Not yet,” you murmured. “But I could make it.”
He glanced up at you, startled.
Your eyes met. The tension cracked—just a flicker—but it was there.
From across the room, Logan groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t start flirting. This was my bit.”
“I’m not flirting,” Oscar said quickly. “She’s literally stabbing me with a needle.”
“Respectfully,” Logan said, pointing, “you’ve never let someone stab you and looked that into it.”
You ignored them both and focused on the linework. But Oscar kept watching you—quiet, analytical, curious.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said eventually.
“Meaning?”
He paused. “Logan described you as scary hot with a mean right hook.”
You smirked. “That’s shockingly accurate.”
Oscar bit back a smile. “I didn’t think you’d actually be this good.”
You looked at him, not skipping a beat. “At tattooing?”
“...At everything.”
That shut Logan right up. Twenty minutes later, the tattoo was done.
Oscar stared at it, then at you, then said, “I might actually like it.”
You smiled, unwrapping your gloves. “Dangerous thing to admit around here.”
Logan walked over, glancing between the two of you with squinted eyes. “Yeah. No. I hate this.”
You handed Oscar the care sheet, brushing your fingers across his as you did.
“Welcome to the club,” you said.
Oscar didn’t say anything. Just smiled—slow, unreadable—and nodded.
Then, as they left the shop, Logan called over his shoulder, “You’re playing with fire, Piastri!”
Oscar didn’t even turn around. Just said, under his breath.
“Maybe I want to get burned by her."
—
It had been a few days since the tattoo. Logan had texted you a couple memes, sent a picture of his dog in a Lightning McQueen costume, and ended it with.
you’re thinking about me, aren’t you
i’m thinking about your tragic life choices, yes
But there hadn’t been another date. No label. No talk. Just…vibes. Dangerous ones. So when the bell above your studio door chimed again, you didn’t even look up.
“Forgot something?” you called, assuming it was Logan, back to reclaim his throne and ego. But it wasn’t Logan. It was Oscar. Alone.
Fresh t-shirt, jeans low on his hips, and a very un-Oscar Piastri expression — calm, but calculated. Quiet fire under still water. You blinked.
“Well,” you said, setting your machine down. “Look who didn’t get peer pressured this time.”
He shrugged, shutting the door behind him. “I was… in the neighborhood.”
You tilted your head. “So you wandered into my shop?”
“I had a question,” he said, walking slowly toward your station. “About my tattoo.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think I messed up?”
“No,” he said. “I think it’s perfect.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Oscar looked at you for a long moment.
“What are you and Logan?”
Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
You laughed under your breath. “You jealous?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
You turned, leaned against the edge of the station, arms crossed. “Logan and I are... friends. Sort of.”
Oscar looked at you again. Then stepped a little closer.
“Is that what you are?”
You paused. “What are you doing, Oscar?”
He tilted his head slightly, soft but deliberate. “Just trying to figure out if I’m wasting my time.”
“You came here to flirt?”
“I came here,” he said, “because I haven’t stopped thinking about the way you looked at me when you were holding that needle to my arm.”
You sucked in a breath.
He kept going. “You’re good at your job. You know that. But there’s a difference between being good at tattoos and making someone feel like they’re the only person in the room.”
Your voice was quieter now. “And what do you think I did to you?”
Oscar looked down. Then up. “You ruined me.”
That shut you up.
“I’ve been calm about it. Logical. But the truth is? I don’t know if I want to share.”
You swallowed.
“I only kissed him, twice.” you said.
Oscar raised a brow. “Hm.”
You stepped toward him. “Are you trying to stake a claim on something that’s not even yours?”
“I’m trying to find out if it can be.”
And then—without asking, without hesitation—he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing your inked wrist, his other hand lifting to your jaw. He didn’t kiss you. But he got close enough that you felt the option. Close enough that your breath caught. Close enough that you knew if you leaned in just an inch, everything would change. And maybe it already had.
“You shouldn’t have come here alone,” you whispered.
Oscar smiled, soft and sure.
“I don’t think I’m leaving that way either.”
You weren’t sure if it was a promise or a challenge.
But you were leaning into it. Into him.
You grabbed your bag, locking the tablet drawer with one hand and slinging your hoodie over your shoulder.
“So where are we going?” Oscar asked quietly.
You didn’t answer. You just gave him that look—the one that said follow and find out.
He was just reaching for the door when it opened. Hard. Loud.
And in walked Logan.
Sunkissed, tousled, cocky, with a water bottle in hand and a backwards cap on like he hadn’t just walked into a scene from his own personal worst case scenario.
He paused.
Took in Oscar’s proximity to you.
The way your fingers were still grazing the strap of his shirt.
“Oh.”
Oscar straightened just a little. “Hey, man.”
Logan blinked. “Don’t ‘hey man’ me like you didn’t just try to walk out of here with the girl I’ve been talking about for the last three weeks.”
You stepped in quickly. “Logan, it’s not like that.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, tone light but voice tight. “Looks a lot like that from here.”
Oscar didn’t move. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Nothing yet,” Logan snapped.
You raised a hand. “Okay. Stop. Can we not turn this into a competition over who gets to claim me like a fucking trophy?”
The silence was sharp. Then Logan let out a breath.
“You’re right,” he said, softer this time. “You’re not a trophy. But you’ve got us both acting like it.”
Oscar stayed still. Watching you. Watching him.
Logan stepped forward. “Look—I’ve been playing it cool. Flirting, joking, not pushing. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
You huffed a soft laugh, heart thudding.
“And now I come in and see him looking at you and touching you,” he added, gesturing at Oscar. “It’s messing with my head.”
Oscar didn’t flinch. “Because she’s kind of impossible not to look at that way.”
Logan turned to him. “So what now, man? You just waltz in and take your shot?”
Oscar looked between you and Logan—something flashing behind his eyes.
“No,” he said slowly. “I think we’re all circling the same problem.”
You blinked. “Which is?”
He looked at you when he said it.
“I want you. Logan wants you. And I think maybe… you kind of want both.”
Your breath caught. And Logan—who’d clearly expected to storm in and maybe storm out—suddenly didn’t look angry anymore. Just confused. Intrigued. Turned on in a deeply inconvenient way. The tension in the room shifted. You bit your lip.
“I didn’t plan for this,” you admitted.
“No one ever does,” Oscar murmured.
Logan laughed once, dry. “Are we seriously about to have this conversation?”
Oscar met his eyes. “I don’t think it’s just a conversation anymore.”
You could feel it building—electric and heavy and dangerous. Logan stepped forward again, gaze flicking between your mouth and Oscar’s.
“I hate how into this I am,” he said under his breath.
Oscar raised a brow. “Then leave.”
He didn’t. You swallowed, heart pounding. “This is insane.”
“And yet,” Logan murmured, voice dipping low, “you haven’t told either of us to stop.”
The air went still. You could say no. You could say it right now and walk away from both of them. But instead— You stepped forward, just enough that your body brushed between theirs. And quietly said.
“Then shut the door.”
Oscar moved first. Logan didn’t blink. And when that door clicked shut behind them—the tension exploded.
—
The first thing you felt was heat. Not the overwhelming kind—more like the warm weight of a blanket that wasn’t yours and the slow drag of sunlight creeping in through half-closed blinds. Your eyes blinked open, bleary and adjusting, and it took a full five seconds to remember you weren’t alone. You were very much not alone.
There was an arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. Two slow, steady heartbeats—one behind you, one in front.
You turned your head just slightly and saw Oscar, already awake, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. His hair was a mess. His mouth was a little swollen. He looked... at peace.
Behind you, Logan was still dead asleep, one arm slung over your hips like he’d always slept like that. His breath warm against your shoulder, his presence grounding in a way that made your chest ache.
You were tucked between them like you belonged there.
And that was the most dangerous part.
It didn't feel wrong.
Oscar reached up slowly, brushing a piece of hair off your cheek. His fingers barely grazed your skin, feather-light. Like he didn’t want to break whatever this was.
“Morning,” he whispered.
Your throat was dry, voice hoarse. “Hi.”
He smiled softly. “Still real?”
You gave a tiny nod. He looked down. Then back up. “Okay.”
You didn’t say anything, because what was there to say? It was 7:42 in the morning. You were in someone’s bed—maybe Logan’s—wearing nothing but a t-shirt you couldn’t identify and the memory of the night before stitched into every inch of your skin.
Behind you, Logan stirred.
“Ugh,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck.”
Oscar huffed a soft laugh.
You felt Logan’s arm tighten slightly, his face nuzzling against your back. “Okay but—if this is a weird dream, don’t wake me up.”
You turned onto your back between them, pressing your palms into your eyes. “What do we even say right now?”
Oscar propped himself up on one elbow. “Nothing.”
“You don’t think we should, I don’t know, talk about it?”
Logan yawned, then said, “Let’s talk after coffee and a group therapy session.”
You laughed despite yourself. Oscar leaned over and kissed your shoulder. Gentle. Barely there.
Logan reached across and lightly flicked his forehead. “Don’t be a sap.”
Oscar didn’t stop smiling. “Too late.”
You sighed, sinking back into the pillows, feeling two different kinds of warmth pressed against you. There were still questions. Complications. Labels that didn’t exist. A hundred reasons this should be messy and reckless and maybe even a little stupid. But in this moment—soft sheets, soft skin, soft hearts— It just felt right. And that was enough. For now.
—
It had been a few weeks. A blur of half slept nights and stolen kisses, of Logan showing up at your place with a smoothie and no warning, of Oscar FaceTiming you after midnight from hotel beds in places that didn’t matter. There were no labels. No promises.
But the three of you kept orbiting each other like gravity had its own rules. And every time one of them touched you, looked at you, held your hand like it was second nature—it felt less casual and more like a truth no one was brave enough to say out loud. Until today.
You were cleaning up the studio late in the evening, humming softly with a brush between your fingers and the music low, when the door opened. You didn’t expect anyone. You didn’t even look up.
“Closed,” you called.
“I flew here,” a voice said.
You froze. Turned slowly. Oscar stood in the doorway. Dressed down, travel-worn, backpack slung over one shoulder and his eyes fixed on you like he’d been carrying the weight of you for miles.
You blinked. “What—Oscar, what are you—”
“I had to come,” he said quickly, stepping inside, door shutting behind him. “I couldn’t do another race week pretending I wasn’t thinking about you. About this.”
You set the brush down slowly. “You could’ve called.”
“I was scared if I called, you’d talk me out of it.”
You swallowed.
Then a voice came from the back—warm, easy.
“Hey, babe, where’d you put my—”
Logan stopped in the doorway, half-in, half-out, holding his hoodie, and froze when he saw Oscar.
Oscar blinked. “You’re here.”
Logan raised a brow. “So are you.”
You stood there, between them, like a live wire.
Oscar looked at Logan, then at you.
And then he said it.
“I’m in love with her.”
Your breath caught.
Logan didn’t move.
Oscar’s voice was lower now. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. Pretend it’s a fling, or fun, or whatever. But I’m not built for this kind of pretending. Not with her. Not with you.”
You stared at him. “With you?”
Oscar’s eyes didn’t leave Logan. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her? How you soften around her. How you get quiet when she says your name.”
Logan ran a hand through his hair.
Oscar stepped closer. “But it’s not just her. You’re in this, too. And I’m tired of pretending that doesn’t matter.”
Logan looked at you. At Oscar. Then back again.
Then—softer—he said, “I’ve never been good at saying this shit.”
“Try,” you whispered.
He let out a shaky breath.
“I like you. Both of you. It’s been messing with my head, trying to be cool, casual, whatever. But the truth is—when I’m with you, I feel like I finally shut up. Like everything just makes sense.”
You felt your heart cracking wide open. Oscar looked at you now.
“I didn’t fly across the world just to tell you I miss you. I came because I don’t want to do this separately anymore.”
Logan nodded. “Yeah. What he said. But, like, with slightly more panic.”
You laughed, tears in your eyes, but you weren’t alone. Oscar stepped forward first, his hand brushing yours. Then Logan. One arm around your waist, the other grazing Oscar’s shoulder in something tentative but real. You breathed in. It smelled like home. And then you whispered it.
“I love you. Both of you.”Oscar closed his eyes. Logan leaned his forehead to yours. And for the first time, it wasn’t a triangle. It was a circle. A closed loop. One where all three of you belonged. Together.
—
It started like most of Oscar’s big moves- understated, deadpan, and laced with dry sarcasm. You were in bed—legs tangled between sheets, the early morning Miami light bleeding through the blinds. Logan was on his stomach, half-asleep and snoring softly into the pillow. Oscar was in the ensuite, brushing his teeth and leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a grin that meant trouble.
“You know,” he said, spitting out toothpaste, “you two could just move to Monaco.”
You didn’t look up from your phone. “Right. Because international relocation is so casual.”
Oscar shrugged, wiping his mouth. “You act like I didn’t fly ten hours to confess my feelings in a tattoo studio. This is actually the less dramatic option.”
Logan groaned into the pillow. “Tell Oscar to shut up and come back to bed.”
“I’m just saying,” Oscar continued, walking back over and dropping onto the mattress beside you, his arm brushing yours. “We keep playing this long-distance game and pretending it’s sustainable. Monaco’s nice. Quiet. Sunny. And I have a killer espresso machine.”
You side-eyed him. “That’s your pitch? Love, stability, and espresso?”
Oscar smirked. “Did I mention the terrace overlooks the harbor?”
“I hate how good this pitch is,” Logan mumbled, voice muffled.
Oscar rolled over so he was facing both of you now, chin propped on his hand. “I’m not saying we have to do it now. Just... think about it. No more red-eye flights. No more FaceTime falling asleep. No more ‘wish you were here’ texts when I’m on the other side of the world.”
He looked at you, then at Logan.
“I want to come home and have that mean you two.”
The words sat in the air for a minute—heavier than the morning light, softer than the duvet wrapped around your legs. You weren’t sure who moved first. It might’ve been Logan, flopping dramatically onto Oscar’s chest with a groan. It might’ve been you, leaning in to kiss Oscar’s shoulder, your fingers lacing into his slowly like it was second nature. All you knew was that no one said no.
A Month Later
The Monaco apartment was light and clean and full of promise. Boxes still unopened, kitchen only half-stocked, Oscar was messing with the espresso machine while you sorted through sketchbooks and Logan struggled with couch assembly on the living room floor.
“This says step three,” Logan muttered. “But I feel like step three is a lie.”
Oscar called from the kitchen, “You skipped step one, didn’t you?”
“Don’t act like you know me,” Logan snapped back. “You left me with Swedish furniture instructions.”
You were curled on the floor nearby, flipping through swatches and laughing under your breath.
Logan looked at you suddenly, eyes soft. “Can’t believe we actually did it.”
Oscar glanced over his shoulder, espresso cup in hand. “I can.”
Logan raised a brow. “You’re that confident?”
Oscar walked over, kissed you on the cheek, then bent down and kissed Logan just behind the ear.
“I’ve always known how this story ends,” he said. “Right here.”
And just like that, with espresso foam on your nose, IKEA screws between Logan’s fingers, and Monaco sunlight pouring through the windows— You realized this wasn’t just domestic bliss. This was forever, and it had finally begun.
—
Your new Monaco studio wasn’t finished yet, but it was yours, and it already felt like home—even with Oscar and Logan very much making a mess of it.
“Okay, don’t hate me,” Logan called from the front. “But I may have ordered a neon sign.”
You looked up from unpacking your ink drawers. “What does it say?”
Oscar chimed in from the corner, grinning: “Some quote from the Cars movie.’”
You nearly dropped the machine in your hand. “Logan.”
“What?” he said, dramatically offended. “This entire empire exists because I got a Lightning McQueen tattoo.”
Oscar raised a hand, still crouched beside the new display cabinet. “I got one too.”
Logan pointed at him. “See? It’s a movement now.”
You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “I should’ve tattooed something worse.”
Oscar stood up and walked over, smirking. “You love us.”
You tried to hide your smile, but failed miserably. The place was chaos. Boxes everywhere. Art leaned against the walls. Logan had somehow already found the studio speaker and was queuing a playlist. Oscar was fixing the lights above your workbench like it was his full-time job. Neither of them were helpful. Both of them were everything.
“You know what would really christen this place?” Logan said, hopping onto your work table like it wasn’t sacred.
“Don’t say it,” you warned.
Oscar grinned. “A tattoo.”
You crossed your arms. “I’m the artist.”
Logan wiggled his brows. “Artists can be canvases too.”
Oscar stepped closer. “We’re just saying… both of us have the Lightning. You started this chaos. You might as well join the club.”
You blinked. “You want me to tattoo myself?”
Logan slid off the table and took both your hands. “It would be iconic. Matching tattoos with your two boyfriends. The Monaco McQueen Trinity.”
Oscar deadpanned, “I want that on a t-shirt.”
“I’m going to regret this,” you muttered.
But you were already pulling out the stencil printer.
And there you sat cross-legged on your new studio chair, arm propped up, mirror angled so you could see the inside of your forearm where the stencil was placed. The number 95 — Lightning’s number — but done in your style. Sharp lines, delicate lightning bolts, tiny stars orbiting it.
Logan was literally bouncing. Oscar had his camera out, ready to document everything.
“Don’t pass out,” Logan warned.
“I tattooed you with zero whining.”
“Yeah, but you weren’t emotionally involved back then,” he said, overly dramatic. “Now it’s personal. Now you have to live with the consequences of loving us.”
Oscar added helpfully, “And of being chronically online. Because the moment you post this, it’s over for you.”
You smirked and turned on the machine. The needle buzzed to life. And then—quietly, carefully—you started. The studio fell mostly silent, save for the hum of the machine and the faint background music Logan had insisted on. Oscar leaned against the table, watching you work. His voice was soft.
“You really do look the most yourself when you’re tattooing.”
You glanced at him. “Covered in ink and sweat?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Focused. Fierce. At home.”
You paused long enough to let that land in your chest.
Logan leaned in, watching the tattoo take shape. “She’s officially Lightning.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make me do a second one on you out of spite.”
“I dare you.”
Oscar snorted. “No more dares. That’s how we got here in the first place.”
Thirty Minutes Later
The tattoo was done. Clean, bold, tiny lightning bolts flaring out from the number 95 in delicate, shimmering ink. A perfect mirror of Oscar’s and Logan’s—your own take, your own skin, your own mark.
Oscar leaned down, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Now we match.”
Logan held up his arm beside yours. “Tattoo soulmates.”
You smiled, flushed and warm, letting them pull you in between them. The shop was still unfinished. The sign wasn’t even up. But in that moment, standing in your new Monaco studio with ink on your skin and love in your bones—It felt perfect. Home wasn’t the shop. It wasn’t the view. It was them. And now, it was official- You were Lightning-certified.
—
logansargeant
liked by oscarpiastri, inked_by_yn, lando and 5,700,005 others.
logansargeant : so happy that i lost a bet and ended up with a sick tattoo and these two.
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