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pervcoded · 1 day

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DOG-EARED AND DOUBTFUL starring yuuji itadori. part iii.

──☆*:・ﾟcontent warning: amab!reader (referred to as a boy), canon divergent, college au (18+ characters) inside of the hybridverse. artist!reader, sukuna is related to yuuji. awkward meet-cute, but yuuji is implied to be (and is) slightly unhinged. reader is human and yuuji is a doberman hybrid. fluffy, safe for work-ish. nude modelling. bashful , sorta pushover reader. reader has a stutter. invasion of privacy (yuuji goes through your sketchpad and gets comfortable fast). british use of trousers (pants) and pants (underwear). scent stuff going on, yuuji has a good nose. yuuji is sorta feral and reader's not in a position to (nor does he quite want to) argue. mdni! reblogs and comments appreciated!

wc: 4.2 words.

It’s beautiful, truly. Yuuji is admittedly philistine in his artistic taste, never had a muse for it; but he finds himself wholly appreciative of the opportunity to become yours- even if it’s only for the evening. He can’t control the way his tail wags, heart pattering quicker in his chest as the excitement overrides his previously projected aloofness, his hands moving faster than his mind in that moment. One more page wouldn’t hurt.

You’re just like any other boy in class, really. Maybe the round ears and lack of fur are a bit of a weird look, but Yuuji wasn’t popular when he first transferred to the university either - and some change is always good, he thinks.

“And your tongue—is it really that small?” Someone had asked on your first day in, your classmates ogling your skin, analyzing its novel texture. You’re good at acting nonchalant when you’re placed on the spot. Tone even, eyes level, posture loose and relaxed as you fold your arm over the back of your chair. You’re smarter than they’d ever give you credit for—laughed along with their jibes so they wouldn’t see how gently you swayed. Trembled. The claws of some touchy Wolverine mutt glancing at your collarbones, and you laughed it off, never once minding the sweat cascading down the apex of your temple.

But your scent is disloyal to you. He never thought to mention it. The sour notes of tangerine, key lime, crescendo in the spot where you stand, a heady cocktail of anxiety and embarrassment and horror.

You’re quite popular for a human, however. Maybe that was your conventional appeal. Or rather stood next to them you stick out like a sore thumb, and that makes you far more interesting—purely by virtue of your association. But Yuuji likes to think you have your own redeeming qualities too. You’re an artsy type. Try and spend a lot of time by yourself if you can manage, but your peers seem intent on laywaying your silence; coveting your time like shiny trinkets in a magpie’s nest.

Still, you’re nice to him.

You remember his name. Say “Itadori, hi,” and give him a solemn nod before going on your way. You give him your leftovers you don’t want if your class schedules happen to line up that day. You share your notes from Anthropology, and sketch him in the margins of your notebook on the days you can’t focus.

The patience of hybrids doesn’t often extend to their own kind, and Yuuji’s felt terribly lonely since his grandfather passed - what with his uncle not being much in the way of making conversation. But you’re easy to talk to.

“Ah, Itadori, can you come here?” His tail wags a little at the acknowledgement, but if you notice you failed to comment. “Uh, yeah? What’d you want? I’m a little busy right now, so,” He smiles half-heartedly, suddenly a little uncomfortable to be seen with you like this. You move your stuff away from where you want him to sit at the table, and his eyes are acutely drawn to each movement of your hands. Gathering up runaway pencils, stacking textbooks. “You can call me Yuuji, by the way. I don’t mind.”

Your face lights up at that, and you tell him your name in kind. He tries it. Once for his pleasure. Again to make sure he got it right. He looks back down at the now emptied table, though he doesn’t go to take a seat.

Your lunch is sparse. Two pieces of bread with peanut butter and something else sandwiched in the middle. A browning apple eaten to the core. He thinks about mimicking the impressions of your teeth.

“Ah, well, I know we don’t talk and um - I’m still kinda new here and - please, you can sit,” Your hand fans out to gesture at the chair in front of you, and Yuuji settles into it uneasily. He can smell you’re afraid of something.

“Yuuji…” You tap your pencil on something he can’t see, draped over your thigh. “I.. wanted to draw you.” Yuuji tilts his head, finger absently reaching towards his chin. “Me?” “Yeah. It’s for an art assignment. We’re practicing portraits.” Your smile is disarmingly charming. “If it was okay with you, I wanted to see if… we could find some time to—y’know. Have you model for me.” Yuuji doesn’t let himself get excited so quickly, the hair on his forearm bristling a bit as he digs his nails into his thigh. Keep it from bouncing. “Okay. Yeah. Sure - that’s fine. I’d love to.” Yuuji sounds like he’s speaking through grit teeth, but his expression doesn’t expose anything other than slight apprehension. You sigh, a weight seemingly lifted off your shoulders. “Oh! Okay!” You try not to sound too happy about it, but a smile keeps weaseling onto your face. “Okay so, we’d have to book one of the art rooms, but that shouldn’t be too hard—nobody really lingers around after class. Lucky us, right?” You’re fishing your phone out of your pocket, and Yuuji nearly forgets to grab it with his unbloodied hand.

“Here. Add your number, take a photo if you’d like.” You’re teasing, but Yuuji never was good with sarcasm. He smiles big and wide for it, pointed teeth all in the front row.

He saves his name as ‘Yuuji 😎’, and hands your tech back to you. You send a quick ‘hey’ to make sure you got the right number. When his pocket rumbles he’s off no later, barely waving goodbye as he leaves you to your own devices.

You text out the details later. Tomorrow, at 7:00.

He gets there at 6:56 on the dot. Campus has been largely deserted this time of day, and the few stragglers left, student and faculty, each flock to their club space or the odd, afterhour meeting. You’re all set up by the time he’s there. You’re well-prepared, graphites and eraser shavings finding a home on the floor around you. Sticks of pastels lie short and chipped on the easels mantle, your fingertips already blackened by charcoal. This wing is new to him, but the hallways look just like this rooms walls. Student made murals scaling taller than him, ferals unfurling across the unorthodox canvas; a magnificent sky. Ceramic busts settle atop storage cabinets; baked and glazed vases filled with paper flowers, tucked into empty corners. Paintings hung to dry. Thick ink stains as he sidesteps a rolling chalkboard, gently pushing it to the side.

You glanced up when the door opened, but it was more reflexive than comprehending. You saw him, then looked back at the canvas, focused. Only when he nearly stumbles do you look back up again, and you’re smiling really wide. You wave excitedly. “Hey Yuuji!” His ear twitches near imperceptably, tail high and wagging. “Hey.” He’s decent at acting, if you think he’s faking casual you don’t mention it, just gesture to the seat beside you. The chair you saved for him has tall legs and a strong, straight back; perfect for a model.

“Well, you can take this chair when you’re ready,” he’s taking a peak at the easel sat in front of you, identical setups matching yours haphazardly set up around a squat stage in the center of the room.

Your sketchpage: marked with vague gestures and dancing, people-like shapes. You’ve been practicing. You absently tug at your collar at the lack of distance between you two (forgot you were using charcoal, so you quickly stop) and a strange aura radiates from you, the smell of frayed nerves stinging his nose. His tail lulls in its movement, a tad disappointed you weren’t as comfortable with him as he thought you were.

“For a portrait, you being closer is ideal, so we don’t h..have to use the stage. I’ll just do my thing over here and… Oh! I brought some water and um, snacks.” You tilt your head in a familiar, curious motion, ”You like shrimp chips?”

He shrugs at you and smiles. “They’re okay.” He’s flattered you considered him, mostly. He really did like that about you humans, such soft and compassionate creatures; moreso than any of the hybrids he knew. Where they-mournfully, himself included-took a unique pleasure in watching another squirm, your kind wasn’t like that at all, were they? Perhaps an underdeveloped survival mechanism. A tail to tuck in the presence of a predator’s bared fangs. Regardless, your grin crinkles the corners of your eyes and makes his heart soar, your anxiety easing out as you stand from your seat, revealing your true smell. Heat and sweet and pastry-light; a creme bruele after the top has been carefully cracked open. Tickles his cheeks pink.

“So, how long you been doing this art stuff for anyway?” You seem startled by the ask and pause before you answer, probably not used to being asked about your interests by the other hybrids. “Years now. E..ever since I was a kid I always liked art, drawing-” You curse as something rolls out of your bag and say sorry to nothing and no one. “Drawing, traditional, digitally. I was thinking about going into graphic design! - I’m still technically undecided, but I love art… It just calls to me, you know?” Oh, he has no fucking clue what you’re talking about. But he hums in the affirmative and reckons now’s a good a time as any to check. Take a peek through your lens and see the shape of your artisan mind. An artist’s sketchpad to him seemed the appropriate equivalent to their soul; so he takes the opportunity to flip through the pages on your drawing pad.

He’s admittedly expecting something grander. Maybe the inside of an old world colosseum or perhaps something abstract and profound, the kind of things disheartened schoolchildren write essays about; A Great Wave or Thinking Man, befitting of the brand of mystery he’d superimposed on you. Nothing suitably miraculous happens. The task merely becomes more intimate by virtue of your artistic repertoire. Surely, not the fault of his plain nosiness.

All flesh upon the paper is laid entirely bare. Inscriptions of bodies wrap around the canvas from the top to the very bottom like the prayers in a holy book. Any free tarp is not spared, a bared torso and breast here, the sole of a foot en point over there. Largely unfinished yet tangible, beginnings and inbetweens and many more ends; scores of tails, teeth, tongue and claws. “Oh, wow.” You’re still digging through your bag so you don’t mind him, preoccupied second guessing kneaded erasers and rags to wipe your creativity off on.

To describe your work as a product of mere fascination would be a woefully inaccurate assessment. Not a proper acknowledgement of your time, effort, sweat, (more than a few smudges in the graphite, a whiff of salt that sticks out above the rest) and conviction.

There’s quick notes scribbled between poses and observations, some names - none of which he immediately recognizes, but makes his head fog with some vague posessiveness regardless. Jealousy maybe. He doesn’t linger on it, instead flipping to the next page. Bodies more and more bodies, some without heads; long torsos; hips; thighs and legs and asses,

Lips, mouth wide open, teeth and tongue presenting. There’s a notable lack of vulgarity to the images. A seemingly clinical observation of how the parts move, some independent of the others; but when it all comes together…

One more page wouldn’t hurt. (It’s just admiration he’d say, when the real reason he’s so riled up is because he’d been hoping for this moment; all his anxieties of pursuing you assuaged by your apparent obsession for him- er- hybrids like him—can’t get ahead of himself just yet—) His fingers move with deft purpose.

You come back with a whole bag of stuff; chips, ramune, what smells like pocky, but he’s not looking towards you as you return. Surely, you think, a blank page can’t be that interesting, and you’re right; that’s not what he’s staring at.

He’s found your page.

Your life drawing class encourages you to practice still lifes in your free time. There aren’t many hybrids tripping over themselves to be ogled by a human - some models even abject to posing in the room while you’re there - so when the opportunity presented itself to observe something more than a picture, someone else, removed from your wheedling peers, obviously you lept for it.

You’d grown tired of drawing yourself.

“Ah, Yuuji-” Your inhale quick and sudden, the sharp clatter of a glass bottle twitching him out of his stupor. You stiffen up when he looks back at you despite his brevity (because he is just fascinated with your canvas all the sudden), your hands flapping anxiously as you step close, you’d collapse in on yourself if you had the option. “Um wait, please! That’s private!”

You are deeply gifted. He doesn’t have to stare it like he did the other ones cause he recognizes it as you so immediately. (Letting his eyes wander all those times seems to have payed off). Recognizes the arch and swell of your muscles, the slope of your back and the softness of the dimples in your hips, the gentle curve of your -

A hand darts over the artistic nudity before he can fully commit it to memory, and you shout: “Yuuji! I got the snacks, okay? Just- we can get started now,” He can’t read the expression on your face as you reset your canvas and flip to a blank page. He desperately tries to meet your eye; but your gaze is leagues away. An inkling of some base, carnal attraction blooms in his chest; your unwitting submission appealing to some feral hindbrain before he recalls your humanity, disappointingly gentle emotions and sensibilities.

He feels sad for you after though it only lasts a moment, his tail drooping pathetically and eyes sagging similarly as the compunction grapples him; and in a frenzied moment of attempting to sooth your shame (smells dull and salty like wood grain) he gets a good idea. According to his standard, anyway. He smiles at you and pants a little. His finger is digging into his collar at an angle, tugging up; in demonstration.

“If you want me to get naked, I really wouldn’t mind!” His whip tail thud-thuds into your easel. “Excuse me?” You initially abject, dumbfounded. Your face feels warm and your skin tingles, the blood in your cheeks stinging it darker, body tensing up. “W-why would you..? I..I wouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. I-it’s a, well - Portraits are mostly sup..supposed to be your face, so, getting naked? Really not necessary,”

He’s already taking his sweater off. “Yuuji, please.” His tail wags a little when you whimper and he has a mind to admonish himself for taking pleasure in such a thing.

“It’s fine, really!” Sounds so easy for him to say, when you’re on the verge of an aneurysm. “I was reading a little about it-” (and hardly did he ever read), “-and apparently, portraits can be half, or full bodies. Well, you’d probably know that better than me anyway.” His voice is dampened by the fabric, but you’re too dazed to notice he said anything. Everything is happening too fast.

He kicks off his shoes and drops trou in your choked silence, your hands tremble as dread wars in your mind and you remain uncertain of where to put them. Nevermind your eyes. The thought of trying to stop him warrs with the concept that having to touch him, see him, will surely kill you. “You seem to draw a lot of hybrids- so I assume you’re already used to seeing us naked? Though I didn’t see a lot of dogs in there…”

The room kicks up a few degrees and your blood simmers beneath your skin, your boundaries bent and bowed as you struggle to figure what happens next. Your shirt feels too, too tight. His is starting to come off. The slow drag of cotton across his body is amplified by the emptiness of the space, at a pace entirely too casual for an impromptu strip tease. “But there’s nothing wrong with trying something new every once in a while, y’know?” He stumbles a little when it’s past his shoulders, self consciously fixing his hair after he’s gotten it slung over his arm.

As if he has anything to be nervous about. He looks at you triumphantly when he’s finished (pants regretfully still on), and he wishes you couldn’t meet his eyes this time; get a good eyeful of how excited he is for you. In what must be respectful to you, you catch his gaze this time, with these big round prey eyes that makes the fur on the back of his arms bristle in the studio’s cool air. A vein in his throat jumps and his pupils dilate, but (too) soon you turn away.

You’ve seated yourself back on your chair and fixed up the workspace, though he has a hard time gauging this new expression on your face. Maybe apprehensive, again? Bashful? You chew your lip with this insistence, bruising the delicate skin there. Your hands move with opposed intention; flattening out the canvas and arming yourself with graphite. “O-kay. Y..you can.. Make yourself comfortable I guess..” He can still smell you, too.

This scent is new. Near cloying and knitting to the inside of his nose as it pours off of you, slight, topping off that twinge of orange peel and grapefruit.

“Okay!” He brusquely shoves past your apprehensions; looking mighty pleased with himself-the dog-the muse’s chair dragging agonizingly against the floor as he goes to set it in place. You do nothing at first. He is seated within seconds and after your hand suddenly is no longer your own, flexed potential in every muscle put to pause in the air, your brows furrowing in newfound frustration.

You don’t look at him, still. Yuuji’s triumph of domination having past, he finds the selfish desire to be observed and admired comes gnawing back to him. He doesn’t want to push you (so he says while shoving you) but he really is going all out. He’d like some of that signature human hospitality back, pretty please? He leans closer.

You get infinitely stiffer and he whimpers. An honest to god beaten doggy whine, and your shock is what finally gets you to look up. He’s far more relaxed than you at present, pouting expression at odds with his slouched posture and occasional pant. His floppy ears tilt open and he momentarily mirrors your wide-eyed wonder. “Finally,” he chirps. ”I was starting to think we weren’t actually friends!” You scoff, still staring saucer-eyed. Your eyebrows go up and down and up, your forehead wrinkles. “You ge-get naked for all your f..friends?” The incredulous twang to your voice wants to read to him like jealousy, but projection is a fickle thing.

Yuuji genuinely thinks about your question, further astounding you. “Well. I guess only for the ones I really like.” The statement is made sincerely, the smile accompanying it darling, and could have perhaps romanticized the situation had you not been a sane-minded human man. The warmth in your face has turned to fire hot heat and you sputter on your words. “I’m fl..flattered. But humans? Don’t do t..this,” you attempt to gesture to the entire situation, “With their friends! This is, frankly, too, too-” You stutter into nothing, the thought dying on your tongue. “Too what? I mean, you don’t smell like you hate it,” he sniffs. “My nose is pretty good! If you-” you dislike the way he stresses the syllable, like you’re special some how, “-were scared, I’d smell that miles away. You have a very strong scent you know? It’s not a bad thing though, don’t worry! At least, it isn’t for me anyway. It makes you feel more.. Genuine.” He hums matter-of-factly, your pencil beginning to tremble above the page. “But aren..aren’t you cold? Or-or something? It’s always freezing-freezing in here!” Yuuji shrugs, ”Aw, it’s no worries really. I sorta run hot, so,”

You knew a lot of things about hybrids. About their keen noses, most gifted with perceptive capabilities beyond that of your kind. Still it feels no better to hear that for despite your subtlety, you never had a chance to evade their prying eyes. You sigh with a shake of your shoulders, and Yuuji takes your silence as an excuse to move closer. “Hey, don’t worry. What’d I say about new things?” You don’t feel terribly reassured, but you nod along for your own sake. “You got an assignment due, don’t you? Just focus on that. Forget Yuuji, focus on capturing..” “The form.” You finish. Yuuji would have said ‘these guns’, but shrugs. “Yeah, that.”

You look at him again, but only now do you truly perceive him, resigned yourself to capturing his image and replacing the blankness on your canvas. Your gaze is sharp and surgical, your pencil connecting with the paper as you change focus between him and it. Him, his infuriatingly cheeky grin and easy-going eyes and loose limbs. This body worthy of envy. Laid bare for you to wrangle and tame, reduce to your second dimension.

You begin to draw.

Yuuji sits in a silence punctuated by the sounds of your scribbles. Upwards stroke, down again; quick curving motions. Stare right at him, into the depths of his soul. Turn away, and sketch some more.

It’s a lot more boring than he’d imagined it. He is very excited you have your eyes on him; don’t get him wrong, but your stare doesn’t possess any of the fullbodied fascination, like he has for you. He almost wished he could give you his nose just so you could smell his pheremones, or his eyes, so you could catch every little jump of his muscles or twitch of the tail. He’d refrain for a few selfish reasons; Your changes in mood. The straightening of your spine and the twitching of your eye after you got a rhythm going. You ditch the graphite, go for the charcoal, and make some bigger shapes, Strikes some fine lines. Stillness comes simply to him, studying you as intently as you are him.

Your movements slow to an inevitable stop after a time, “Okay…” You stare stonily at your canvas. Briefly compare in silence. “I… think I’m finished.” You don’t move away, seemingly taken by your own creation.

He shoots up from his seat and moves close. “You’re no..not gonna put your c..clothes back on?” He looks down at you with his head at an angle, suddenly peered over your shoulder. “You want me to?” Your silence is loud. “Okay then.” He smiles, finally taking a look at your drawing.

The expression you gave him is burrowing and severe. An intense glower that catches even him off guard. An unbidden hunger beneath his eyes accentuated by whisps of charcoal, a pinprick of yellow nestled into his irises. He is in both awe of it and horrified that is how you saw him. How he truly was. You define the slant of his collarbones after the fact, rounding out the muscle of his pecs. You sketch and erase, sketch and erase under his curious eye, sketch. Your palette grows. Swirled into colorless grey by your finger, pencil replaced by your finger. You draw without a model, so he no longer sees the point in teasing you with his nudity. Forgive him for expecting something more dramatic- he’s been reading too much manga, surely…

He gets dressed slow and gets as close as possible to your face whenever he has a question.

“Is art always this boring?” He whispers close to your ear and you shiver. “M..maybe if you’re not the one…the one drawing. This.. I-I’m having fun, actually.” He tuts at you, “You need to teach me how to draw then. Next time when we do this, I can take a crack at drawing you!” His clawed finger crawls down your shoulder, you sweat a little under his attentions.

“Y..yeah,” you swallow. “Maybe..” He smiles cooly as he eases back into the seat opposite you. “I just don’t think it’s fair you get to have the fun all to yourself, y’know?” You shoot him a look, lip pursed. “A-a lot more people would be more … excited about getting a free portrait.”

“Well, a lot more people would be more excited about getting to see me half naked.” Practically naked, to be a precise as possible. Your exasperation beats out your nervousness and you’re no longer afraid to set your brows with attitude, scoffing in irritation. Like he knows how you feel. The sheer restraint you’re exercising. How adamantly you will not allow this to get out of hand; you will not allow yourself to do something you'll regret- “G..get them to draw you, then!”

“Nah.” He drags his chair closer, but it’s not casual like before. Now the oxygen feels stuffier. Hotness that makes the air thicken and drag you down, a heat that blazes too close to your ears and seemingly makes the air tremble before you. You look toward him, not knowing what to expect (but twitching, aching for it).

His tongue runs over his canines in a raw, animalistic fashion, the deep pools of his amber eyes threatening to drown you beneath their surface. “I don’t like them nearly as much.”

all content written by me @pervcoded is owned by me, and you are not allowed to repost or translate my works. don't put my shit into ai generators, don't steal my shit and put it on wattpad. thank you.

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actual-changeling · 1 day

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This post by the lovely @thursdayinspace violently hit me over the head with a baseball bat, so here we are. Dropping this mid-Pusher ficlet on your porch like a cat presenting a dead mouse. Technically this is canon-compliant if you squint a little.

I also wrote a longer post-episode fic a little while back, which you can find right here.

50% angst, 50% hurt/comfort, 100% yearning, the usual. Unofficial title for this one is "terrified with you".

———

Scully can't remember the last time she was this afraid.

No, not afraid—terrified.

Absolutely and utterly terrified for Mulder's life. She watches as the other agent (a name, he has a name) fits the bullet-proof vest around his chest, a thin wire running underneath it and connecting to what looks quite similar to a headset; one is waiting for her next to the screens.

If it were any other case, the sight of the defensive gear would calm her, maybe even offer an anchor to hold onto, but not this time. Not with Modell. Theoretically, wearing only a vest is often enough because, unless they're dealing with someone who knows how to shoot, the chances of the suspect hitting the body at all, let alone a small, moving part such as the head, are minuscule.

Modell is in no way experienced with a gun, but he doesn't have to be.

Mulder knows how to aim to kill, and nine times out of ten, he will hit what he is aiming at. He can use him, abuse him, force him to shoot whomever he pleases before commanding him to kill himself, and all she will be able to do is sit and watch.

The agent (she tries and fails to recall his name) steps away to respond to an incoming radio call, leaving Mulder half-stuck in the vest and the two of them in silence.

She shifts in her chair and turns her head until cold metal is digging into her cheek, already hearing her own voice list injury after injury, his body laying lifelessly in front of her.

Cause of death is a single gunshot wound to the head, self- (she can hear her own breath, too shallow, painful in her lungs) self-inflicted.

Self-inflicted. Suicides. Every single one of them died by their own hand. She really likes his hands.

"Scully."

Mulder's voice is soft, dipping into a tone he rarely uses and only ever with her, and she feels more than she sees him stepping closer. He raises his hand, gently grabbing her jaw and nudging it towards himself. Scully knows if she were to flinch away, he'd let her and not try again, but his fingertips are warm against her skin, a warmth she finds in his eyes, too.

Concern rolls off him in waves, and she presses his palm to her cheek, covering his hand with her own.

"Let me go in with you," she tries, knowing he will fight her on this harder than usual. It's a futile attempt, yet she still has to say it—for her own peace of mind and the small chance that he'll say yes.

"No, Scully," Mulder responds, an edge to his words, "one person putting themselves in danger is enough."

Separating never does them any good, but they keep doing it over and over, searching for the definition of insanity in the distance between their bodies.

"Why does it have to be you?"

It's a question she already knows the answer to, and his thumb brushes along her cheekbones as he shakes his head. A calming gesture, a way of offering comfort without addressing whatever it is that's spinning its net around them.

"You know why. I'll be fine, probably not even gonna have a scratch on me."

Scully hums quietly, evading their conversation in favour of discreetly tugging him closer; not that agent what's-his-name is paying them any attention. She blinks up at him, unsuccessfully suppressing the urge to study his features as if it's the last time she will see them flushed with hot, red blood (she hates that she finds it sticking to her hands in more than just her nightmares).

The curve of his lips and nose, the familiar line of his jaw, the affectionate glint in his eyes. So much left unsaid and yet visible to anyone who looks at him, at them, to the point where Modell could spot it from far away. She tightens her grip on his wrist without really meaning to, but Mulder only smiles.

"I will be fine, Scully." They both know he cannot make any promises, but maybe they can lie to themselves for a little while longer.

The radio crackles, popping their haphazardly created bubble, and she hesitantly lets him go. Mulder runs his thumb down her cheek, lingering on the corner of her mouth before stepping back, and the agent whose name she doesn't care about picks up where he left off.

"You better be," she mumbles, suddenly shivering in the cold of his absence. I need you alive.

#alex writes x files #txf #the x files #x files #dana scully #fox mulder #scully x mulder #mulder x scully #msr #msr fanfic #txf fanfic #developing an obsession with this episode is inevitable

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johnwickb1tsch · 11 hours

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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE AMAAAZING @treedaddymcpuffpuff 😘😘😘) - Chapter Thirteen ---> (all chapters)

TW's: abuse of police authority, manhandling, unfair power dynamics, unreasonable hotness in a man this annoying

Days go by, and you don’t hear from Tom Ludlow again. You think to yourself that it’s fine, that that’s exactly what you wanted, but deep down you’re a little pissed off, and more than a little needy.

Maybe that’s why the next time you have to drive home late at night, you go back to your old, faster route of taking the highway. Defiance roils in your bones like lava churning in a volcano, and you just refuse to be intimidated by that man, even if it means digging your own grave. Figuratively speaking, of course. Officer Ludlow doesn't want to hurt you. He wants to fuck you, and maybe even buy you dinner first, and you might have come around to him eventually if he just hadn’t been such a fucking dick about it.

You’re not hoping that you get to see him again, here on the empty highway. But if you do…you kind of want to fight him. Because someone should tell him what a reprobate he is. Not because you love the fiery feeling you get in your veins, or the spark of wicked enjoyment in his dark eyes.

You’re almost to the exit, and there is no cop car in sight. No flashing red and blue lights. No little wooo of the warning siren behind you. Why are you worried? Why are you disappointed? Why are you pouting like the baby who got their candy taken away?

There’s a few options, and none of them appeal to you. Sure, maybe you should be delighted that this meathead has decided to either let it drop or get fatally injured—your stomach lodges in your throat at that second thought. That means you won’t have to deal with his antics anymore. But, god damn you, you were starting to really like those antics.

Tom Ludlow pissing you off has become a vital reason for your willingness to get out of bed, and that thought terrifies you, because this shit never ends well. At least not for girls like you who love too much and expect the same in return. You pulled your heart from your sleeve and zipped it back into it’s protected, designated cavity after a slew of failed one-sided relationships (whether the friend or romantic kind), and now the treacherous organ is trying to claw right back out again for Tom Ludlow to squeeze dry in his big hand.

You get home, and you feel empty. Bored. Worried about a man who has made your life kind of, if you’re being honest, a living hell. Does that stop you from sticking your hand down your pajama pants and fantasizing about him? From wishing he’d call again? No. Not at all.

You are loath to admit it, and you’ll take this to your grave, but you’re actually relieved, the next night, to see the twinkling red and blue lights following behind you while you’re pushing 90 in a 70 only half on purpose.

Your heart transforms into a mini circus as he walks up to your driver's door and taps on the window glass.

Before he can even open his big mouth, you start in on him. You’ve been planning this spiel for days now, after all, and it would be useless to waste it. “You.” You have to take a minute when you see that he doesn’t sport his usual smirk. “What is a detective like you doing working the complaints desk, and now working traffic at night?”

“So what?” He folds his arms over his chest, biceps bulging through the thick uniform shirt, distracting you from your resolve and switching on cavewoman brain for a minute.

You almost have to shake yourself to snap out of it. “Are you just playing cop? You’re not even actually on duty right now Officer Ludlow.”

This smile is less ‘playground bully’ and more ‘hungry wolf’. “Are you challenging the law, Miss y/l/n?”

“No, I’m challenging some dickhead who thinks he’s top dog just cuz he wears a plastic badge. Where’d you get it, anyway? Fisher Price?”

“Please exit the vehicle, Miss y/n.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Please be calm.”

It is the absolute worst thing he could possibly say to you. After a twelve hour shift, your feet are killing you, you’re covered in the grime of your long day, and to add insult to injury–you’re mad at yourself as much as him, because he made you miss him. That is when you do exit the vehicle, and your finger stabs into the middle of his broad chest (and you know part of that bulk is a vest but jesus fucking christ this man is burly in all the right places) and snap, “I’m tired, I’ve had a long fucking day and I don’t need this shit from you.”

Officer Ludlow takes one amused look down at that finger in his chest and suddenly you are turned around, your palms on the hood of your car. He is tall and broad and warm behind you and fuck you if the cavewoman part of your brain does not respond in the worst possible way, a soft but utterly audible little cry escaping your treacherous lips. You know he hears it by the way he pauses behind you, the way a wolf perks his ears at the sound of a rabbit in the brush. You seem frozen in this ridiculous position for several seconds longer than what is necessary (not that any of this is necessary) and you get the sense that this man is savoring this closeness with you.

“Resisting an officer is a misdemeanor, you know,” he says in your ear, and that low baritone sends a thrill to the marrow of your bones, ties your belly up in knots, makes you wet between your thighs. Hearing him through the phone is one thing, having his breath tickling your skin is an entirely different beast.

You turn your head slightly towards him, and you know some of the venom goes from your tone but you just can’t help it.

“What about harassing a civilian?”

“Depends on the civilian.” Well, isn’t that the truth. Like you needed a reminder that you are, in fact, a nobody with no connections in this town. Although, you doubt that he's telling the truth about it “depending on the civilian”, because he handcuffed and assaulted a popular, lawyer ready ER doctor just days ago. Which is just great, because if he felt entitled enough to do that to Julian, what’s stopping him from doing much worse to you? “Are you armed?”

“Clearly,” you snark, because you’re wearing your cute blue scrubs and it would take a miracle to hide something under the thin fabric.

“I mean besides that fiery temper.”

He kicks your legs a little further apart, just hard enough to make your feet slide in the loose gravel of the shoulder, and you think you might self-immolate right there. It’s all you can do, not to arch back into him like a cat in heat. It really has been too fucking long since you got laid. Something firm pokes into the curve of your behind, and it had better be his fucking utility belt.

He actually starts to pat you down, the cheeky fucker, those big hands making their way lightly down your sides. You know he can feel you trembling under his touch–with fear or excitement, it’s hard even for you to tell. Maybe that’s what makes him bold when he reaches your thigh, those long fingers giving you an appreciative squeeze.

It reminds you of that time not so long ago, when you’d drunkenly wanted him to slide his hand up your skirt, and he’d refused you. You shouldn’t want that from him, but you do, and that makes you so angry you could spit. Now he thinks he gets to feel you up? Your foot flails out, catching him in the shin with your Croc-clad heel. It totally throws you off balance, sending you down onto the hood of your car, but you are mad and you don’t care.

“Watch it!”

He, however, couldn’t be more delighted. You can hear the practical glee in his tone as he sings out, “Assaulting an officer? Someone’s just asking to get booked.”

Maybe you’re a healer by nature, but there is just something about this man that makes you want to commit murder. Just the once. You even think Florence Nightingale would understand.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

That’s when you realize he probably, absolutely fucking would dare. So far he has proved that he gives jack-all for the rules that should apply to him as an Officer of the Law. And you cannot have that on your record. Even if you told the truth and it turned into some He-Said She-Said bullshit that would drag out for months–years, possibly, even–your license could be suspended. You live paycheck to paycheck in this expensive fucking city. You cannot afford something like that.

“You asshole.”

“Maybe. But you’re lucky I’m not actually a bad guy, y/n.”

“How do you figure?”

Somehow, his voice lowers an octave, and no matter how livid you are, your lady parts absolutely rebel with an almost violent ache between your thighs. “Because if I was I’d spank that beautiful behind of yours for kicking me. With crocs? Really? I’m going to have to show you a few things, you scare me honey.”

Is this man offering to teach you to defend yourself in the same breath he’s using to blackmail you? You’re nearly cross-eyed from the whiplash.

“Sorry, I’ll be sure to wear boots next time.”

“Great. Wear them to dinner, tomorrow night. And we’ll forget this ever happened.”

How he knows you’re free tomorrow, you don’t really want to know.

You feel yourself deflate, knowing he’s finally got you over the proverbial barrel. The thought should not excite you the way it does. “You’re serious.”

“I tried asking nicely.”

“Most men get the picture when you tell them ‘no’ more than twice? A million times? I forget how many.”

“Maybe, except I see the way you look at me, when you think I’m not looking and my ass is hanging out of a hospital gown. I know how pretty you sound, when you orgasm to my voice while I talk you through it over the phone. And when you’re in trouble, I’m the one you know you can call, because I’ll drop everything to make sure you’re safe. So, you’re finally going to give this thing between us a chance, whether you like it or not. Pick you up at eight?”

You sigh, shoulders slumping, head resting against the warm car. His eyes immediately hone in on the column of your throat, and the way he wets his bottom lip doesn’t seem intentional, which just riles you up even more. You grit your teeth, but it doesn’t really look like you have a choice. “Sure.” Asshole.

This time, you’re smart enough to keep that to yourself.

As though he heard you think it, he spins you around, practically picking your feet up off the ground, and braces you against the door of your car, one hand on either side of your head, full wolfy grin sending a thrill of danger through your spine. The way he can just manhandle you like you weigh nothing crosses some vital wires in your brain–you cannot think.

You try to stay defiant, raise your chin to look up at him, keep some semblance of pride. It’s not fair that he has such sway over you and you seem to have absolutely none over him. You have to even this playing field somehow.

“Maybe you have a badge and you think that makes you hot shit, but at the end of the day you’re just a bully, Tom.”

His gaze travels up your neck, over your face, until he lands on your own guarded, defeated stare. Something changes in his expression. “You think I don’t know you? Well, maybe you don’t know me either. But you’re going to find out, sweetheart, I’m not a bad guy.”

You eye him suspiciously. “I guess I don’t have a choice, right?”

He leans down, brings his nose an inch from yours, invades your personal space. For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you, and it makes you go stiff and lax all at once. The heat of his breath tickles over the nerve rich plump of your lips, and they part for him despite your brain’s vehement protest.

“Right.” He’s gone as soon as he comes, dropping your stomach from throat to feet. You hope he doesn’t hear the desperate, quiet sound that you try to burrow under your tongue.

You think he’s just going to walk away and leave you here in the warm, damp, lonely, dark highway like a sitting duck, but instead he opens your door and motions for you to slide back into your seat.

“Don’t forget to buckle up, honey.” As he saunters away, thumbs looped through his belt—God, he’s fucking painfully sexy—you don’t bother hiding the way you watch his ass move this time.

#tom ludlow #tom ludlow x you #tom ludlow x reader #tom ludlow x y/n #street kings #keanuverse #keanuverse fic #keanu reeves #julian mercer #julian mercer x you #keanu reeves x you #excessive force tom ludlow fic

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quinnysnursery · 4 hours

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hi!! could you do caregiver!chris and little!fem reader where the two are playing around and chris is chasing her around the house until she accidentally bumps into something/falls down, causing her to cry and chris goes into immediate caregiver mode? thank you sm, so excited about this account!! :)

[🥤] bumps 'n bruises | chris sturniolo one-shot

paring : caregiver!chris sturniolo x gn!little!reader

divider credit : @kyejiz

a/n : working on a masterlist this weekend! (sorry for any typos, i'm just a girl !)

“I’m gonna get you!” Chris’ voice echoed through the hallway, along with the sounds of your fuzzy sock-covered feet against the hardwood floor and the soft giggles you were letting out along the way.

The two of you had been playing this game of “Tickle Monster Chase” for around an hour now. What originally started as a way for you to get your energy out before your nap, turned into a full-on game.

Chris wasn’t the best when it came to keeping a routine, it was his biggest weak point as a caregiver. There had been plenty of times you skipped a nap due to both of you having too much fun playing and today was no exception.

As you rounded the corner to take shelter in Chris’ room, you got the brilliant idea that you would shut the door before hiding under the bed away from the “Tickle Monster”.

Genius, right?

You thought so.

Another giggle emitted from you as you quickly turned the doorknob to your caregiver's room, sliding in and quickly trying to shut the door.

However, what you didn’t expect was for the door to move faster than you thought it would. As if in slow-motion you watched the wooden door swing close on your delicate hand.

The fear was more intense than the pain, at first. What if you broke something? What if you had to get the whole thing chopped off? What if dada didn’t want to play with you anymore?

Only after your eyes began to water at these anxious thoughts did your brain decide to register the pain.

And oh god it hurt.

“D-Dada!” You cried out.

Chris, who had stopped a few strides behind you to give you a fair chance, was now by your side in seconds.

“What happened?” He asked, his tone was serious. He quickly realized how you whimpered at this, not recognizing that he wasn’t mad at you and was instead focused on your injury.

“Baby, I need you to tell me what happened.” Chris tried again, letting the caregiver voice™️ seep through his vocal cords. You sniffled, the floodgates of your eyes beginning to open as tears began streaming down your cheeks.

“M’- M’ wanted to hide!” You attempted explaining, letting out a sharp whine as Chris ran a gentle finger over your already-bruising hand.

Chris nodded, trying to piece together what had happened based on the limited information. “And the door smashed your hand?” He asked, gently pushing your hair behind your ears.

You nodded before looking up at him with tear-ridden eyes. “M’ sorry!” You choked out

“Hey…shhh, it’s alright. I’m not mad.” Chris comforted, gently leading his little one to the bed. “Can you move your hand for me, doll?” He asked, his mind already racing about the possibility of a fractured bone.

You trusted him with your littlespace. You trusted him to look after and nurture you while in headspace and he failed you.

Chris was quickly snapped out of his thoughts as you leaned into him, your tear-stained cheeks dampening his shirt (not that he’d ever mind). “Please, angel? For dada?” He asked, placing a gentle kiss atop your head.

After wrapping his arm around your torso and gently rubbing your upper arm, you began to stretch out your curled-up hand. Naturally, it hurt. However, to both your and Chris’ shock, it wasn’t unbearable. Henceforth, it wasn’t broken. In a few days, you’d have a gnarly bruise, but at least it wasn’t broken.

Your caregiver let out a sigh of relief, squeezing you gently. “Let’s get you some ice, okay?” He offered. You sniffled and let out a meek “..’kay dada..” before following the brunette downstairs to the kitchen.

After wrapping a kitchen towel around a few pieces of ice from the fridge, Chris sat you on a countertop. “It might hurt for just a second, but the ice is gonna feel nice.” Your caregiver assured you, gently pressing the compress to your hand.

You couldn’t help but giggle, despite the pain. “Dada rhymed…” You mumbled, leaning your head against Chris’ chest. Chris smiled, “I did, didn’t I?” He played along, relieved to find your sense of humor hadn’t also been smashed.

A few moments of silence passed, the two of you processing the events of earlier.

“I’m really sorry,” Chris mumbled, still ashamed he’d let you get hurt during a game he suggested. You looked up at him, tilting your head in confusion. “You got hurt on my watch, that’s not cool.” He said remorsefully, already planning the full-length conversation he’d be having with you when you came out of littlespace.

“You didn’t mean to…” You said gently, looking up at your caregiver. “It was jus’ an ac’ident dada.” You smiled wrinkling up your nose as you did. Chris smiled too, letting the compress rest on the counter as he engulfed you in a tight hug.

Everything would be okay, even the bumps ‘n bruises.

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strandbuckley · 2 days

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Your Home's Really Only a Town You're Just a Guest In

2.5k words | Logan Sargeant/Oscar Piastri | The Miami GP is over in a matter of seconds for Logan. Losing it all at his home race makes him realize a few things about what home and family truly mean

He was spinning before he’d even registered the impact. He barely had the brain capacity to cross his arms over his chest as his car went careening off the track. The gravel trap rattled his teeth and he tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue. He braced himself for impact just before his car hit the barrier, sending a shockwave down his spine, making his toes tingle and his head snap forward, despite the brace holding him in. God, that fucking hurt.

He’d never get used to this feeling. One might think he had, considering the amount of times he’d been in this position over the last year. He pushed down the self-deprecating thoughts for now, only focusing on moving his hands enough to press the radio button and answer his engineer’s desperate pleas to know if he was alright.

“Oh mate,” he groaned, unable to think of a more intelligent response.

“Not your fault. Not your fault.”

“Ugh. I bit my fucking tongue.”

He knew SkySports would be angry at him for having to spend money on the bleep effect but he didn’t have it in him to care at the moment.

“You okay? Are you okay?”

He huffed into his helmet, trying to catch his breath, “I- yes. I think so. Did I do something wrong?”

He couldn’t think of anything he could have done, he couldn’t even see Kevin in his mirrors. The first look he’d gotten at the car had been blurry at best as he spun his way off the track and the Haas kept on racing.

“No I don’t think you did. I’ll look at the review. Can you get out of the car on your own?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.”

He began undoing his seat belts as the marshals moved toward his car. One gave him a helping hand and he stepped over the halo, hopping from the cockpit, the crunch of gravel under his boots. This was it. His home race was completely undone in less than 30 seconds. And he’d been doing alright too. He’d been on pace with Alex, he’d placed higher in the sprint. For the first time since Australia he’d felt a little glimmer of confidence. However, this sport and everyone around him seemed determined to put out any fire he had as quickly and as harshly as possible.

The marshal led him to the evacuation car and he slid into the backseat, placing his helmet next to him. He wished the ride to the Williams garage was longer than a few minutes. He wished he had more time to come up with something better to say to his team other than a weak apology for fucking up another car. His only saving grace was that his parents weren’t in the paddock. Instead they were probably shaking their heads from their couch, turning off the tv and moving on to do something else since their son had failed so spectacularly, yet again.

As he stepped out of the car into the oppressive Miami heat, he found himself wishing for England. So rarely did he miss the gray skies, but today they would match his mood much better than the inescapable Florida sunshine. He wished for the milder temperatures of Monaco, where the sun didn’t feel like quite as much of a mockery. Where he could hide in Alex and Lily’s apartment and neither of them would push him to speak until he was ready. Where he could escape to Lando’s and play games with him and Oscar and Max Fewtrell until his throat was sore from yelling and he felt slightly human again. Where Max would grow tired of Lando complaining about him moping and invite him over for dinner. Where he could sit in his designated seat on the balcony (declared as such by a drawing featuring entirely too much glitter, made of course by Penelope) and drown his sorrows in cheap European beer. Where people actually cared about him, or at least pretended to.

But no. He was trapped here, as if held down by the humidity that blanketed the entire state he had once called home. Now, he felt more like a guest. He knew that after this race was all said and done, he’d crawl back home to his parents’ house that bore no signs of their second son, save for a few pictures on the walls, relics of his karting and junior formula days. He was a guest in the place where he was raised.

A firm hand gripped his bicep as he was led into the garage, “Are you alright?”

Elias had practically materialized next to him and was leading him past all of the engineers and mechanics, their well wishes and promises of “There was nothing you could have done” nothing more than tv static as they made their way hastily toward his driver’s room. Elias unlocked the door and pushed Logan inside but didn’t follow.

“Take your time. Get cleaned up and settle down. Don’t come back out until you feel human again.”

“What if I never feel human again?” The vulnerability spilled from his lips in the worst case of word vomit he’d ever experienced. He didn’t have a chance in hell of stopping the words once they started flowing.

“You will. I know it doesn’t feel like it and you don’t want to listen to my pep talk right now, so I’ll save that for Alex later. But you will feel human again Logan. You will come out on the other side, stronger and better because of everything you’ve been through.”

“Can you ask James if there’s still room on the flight back for me tomorrow?” he asked instead of acknowledging what his trainer had just said.

“I thought you were staying for a few days. You had plans to fish with Kyle and go to the hockey game.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, I do really want to take you out on the boat. I just don’t know how much longer I can be here before I suffocate.”

“I understand. Don’t worry about me, I’ll get everything sorted with James. Just promise me that you’ll talk to your brother before we go. He’s worried about you.”

“Dalton is always worried about me.”

“He loves you. Don’t take it for granted.”

With that Elias slipped back out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Logan sighed and laid back on the massage table, staring at the ceiling. He could hear the faint roar of engines in the distance. He wondered if Lando was still leading? Maybe one of them would finally have some good luck. He forced himself into a sitting position and leaned over to retrieve his phone from the front pocket of his backpack. He pulled up his brother’s contact and sent a message.

To Dalton: with mom and dad?

From Dalton: Yeah but I can leave. Need me?

To Dalton: yeah

From Dalton: Okay. Give me five

Logan counted in intervals of sixty until his phone began to buzz in his palm. Dalton always kept his promises.

“Hey little bro.”

“Are Mom and Dad around?”

“Nope. I went down to the dock. I figured you wanted this to be a private conversation.”

“Are they still watching the race?”

“Yeah. We’re all rooting for Lando’s first win. They aren’t mad at you Loges, there was nothing you could have done.”

“Yeah that time. What about all the others? They’re disappointed and you know it.”

“I know what they can be like Loges. Trust me, I know better than anyone. They want you to succeed but they don’t understand what the pressure does to you.”

“‘Pressure makes diamonds son’.”

Logan’s poor imitation of their father’s deep southern accent made Dalton chuckle.

“Pressure makes dust. You can’t let them get to you bud. This is how they are about everything, it's how they always will be. You just have to prove them wrong.”

“They won’t give me a chance.”

“Mom and Dad? Or the team?”

“Both. Every time something starts to go well for me, Williams tears the rug out from under my feet. Mom and Dad will always side with them, especially Dad. Nothing is ever good enough, I don’t even know why I bother anymore. I love a sport that hates me and I’m a guest in my own fucking family. I don’t belong anywhere Dalton. I don’t belong in Europe, I don’t belong here, I should just fucking disappear and then everyone would be happier.”

“I wouldn’t. Kyle wouldn’t. Neither would Alex or Oscar or even fucking Lando. Loges, you’re so focused on everything that’s working against you, that you can’t acknowledge that there are people in your corner. Williams fans fucking love you, but all you care about is the keyboard warriors who think you should make your car levitate to avoid being hit. Fuck them. And fuck anyone who ever says you can’t do something. Fuck Mom and Dad. But don’t toss aside the people that want to help you. When was the last time you talked to Oscar about how you feel? Or are you just telling him that you’re fine and that none of this shit affects you? Because I know the truth, Loges. When are you gonna stop lying to yourself and playing tough guy and accept some help? Because until you start leaning on the people around you, you’re gonna keep crumbling. And I won’t be the one that’s left to pick up the pieces. Not again. I love you way too much to watch you destroy yourself because you’re stubborn.”

“I love you too.”

“Now what are you going to do?”

“Stop feeling sorry for myself.”

“And?”

“Go out tonight to celebrate Lando’s win. Then I’m gonna go back to England tomorrow with the team and work over data with Alex so we can find a way to fix this tractor of a fucking car.”

“Good. I’m proud of you little brother. Call me anytime, day or night. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon. But not until you’re ready.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

As he cleaned himself up and changed from his sweaty race suit to his usual team kit, he turned on the monitors to watch Lando win the race. He left the team (with permission from Gaetan) to run down to the pit lane and congratulate his friend. He found Oscar and Alex, leaning against the wall together, waiting for their turn in the media pen and joined them so he could fulfill his own duties to the press.

“Hey Osc,” he linked their pinkies together briefly in greeting, before pulling away. “Shame about your race.”

“Yeah, some people were just itching for penalties today,” Oscar rolled his eyes. “How are you doing? You seem surprisingly carefree.”

Alex regarded him with a raised brow, “You are suspiciously calm.”

“I talked to Dalton. I’m still annoyed about the crash but Kevin got what he deserved and there’s nothing else I can do. Other than comb through the data and try to figure out a way to make this God forsaken tractor go any faster.”

“I’m with you,” Alex agreed. “I already told Gaetan and James to book a conference room and stock the fridge with Monster because we’re gonna be there a while.”

Logan chuckled and bumped their shoulders together, “I’ll be there Monday.”

Alex raised his brow again, “I thought you were staying for a few more days?”

“I was going to. But, I need a change of scenery. And living in London has ruined me. I can’t handle the heat.”

Oscar gave him a look that said they’d talk about it later, but was called away by his press officer, “You’re coming out with us tonight. We’re celebrating Lando’s win!”

“I expected nothing less.”

*****

It was way too late (or early, depending on how you looked at it) when they finally made it back to the hotel Mclaren was staying in. He and Oscar had left the party a few minutes early, leaving Lando in Max’s capable hands. Elias had already retrieved his luggage from his parent’s place and had it brought to Oscar’s room. Once they were both showered and half asleep, Oscar finally asked what he’d been dying to all night.

“So what made you decide you want to leave early?”

“I talked to Dalton. And he made me realize that how I’ve been acting lately isn’t healthy. I’m tearing myself down to meet these unrealistic expectations my parents have set for me and I’m killing myself to try and prove myself to people who don’t actually care. I’ve been realizing lately that I feel like a guest here. Florida isn’t really home. I don’t really feel at home anywhere to be honest. Only with you, or Alex. Sometimes Lando and Max.”

“You know what my mom told me once? It was right after I left Australia for good and I was so homesick it hurt. And boarding school sucked and I was just about ready to give it all up and come home. But my mom told me that home isn’t really a place, it’s people. And family isn’t just the people who raised you. So I’d always be welcome at home with them, but I was also responsible for making my own home and my own family and that once I did that, I wouldn’t be so lonely. A few months after that, we became teammates. And I figured out pretty quickly what my mom meant. I know you’re proud of being from America, to be the first American in F1 in a long time. But that isn’t your whole identity, Loges. And Florida doesn’t have to be your home because you were born here. Your home can be in England with me, or Monaco with Max, Lando and Alex. You can consider both places home if you want because all of us are your family. We care about you so much baby, especially me. It has hurt so bad to see you struggle for so long. I just want you to realize you’re with so much outside of racing and outside of your hometown. You will never be a guest with me Logan, I hope you know that.”

“I do. And I’m starting to figure out this family thing. I just think it’s going to take some time. I have to really figure out where I belong in the world.”

“I know. And I’ll always be with you, there is nowhere you can go that I won’t follow.”

“I’m stuck with you forever huh?”

“You bet your ass you are. You’re stuck with Lando too because he’ll tag along just to be annoying. And Max because he has to supervise when I’m not around. And Alex, because he’s just along for the ride.”

Logan laughed and hugged Oscar close, “I think I’m okay with that.”

He stared at the ceiling as Oscar snored lightly next to him, waiting for sleep to come. So what if he felt like a guest in his home? He’d just make another.

#logan sargeant #logan sargeant fanfiction #loscar #oscar piastri #williams racing #williams f1 #formula 1 rpf #my works

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