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after-witch · 2 months

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Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly.

In surprise.

In trepidation.

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance.

How lucky for him.

How unfortunate for you.

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill?

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear.

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later.

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise.

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you.

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches.

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy.

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate?

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front.

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way?

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him.

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis.

It’s you that he focuses on, now. And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted.

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person.

You.

What to make of you?

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find.

He remembers such a living.

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats.

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them.

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you.

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm.

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you.

You stiffen.

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say.

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.” He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City.

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.”

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach.

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels.

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that.

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them.

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it?

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more.

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear.

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.”

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips.

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant.

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies.

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised.

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter.

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him.

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.”

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs.

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets.

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining.

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement.

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You.

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume.

What would you be like, once you were fully his?

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden?

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it.

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder.

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits.

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it.

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate.

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping.

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two.

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb.

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least, you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit.

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut.

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer.

At least, not before today.

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good. Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?”

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.”

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you.

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside.

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom.

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think.

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.”

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself.

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top.

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest.

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner?

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears.

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling.

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm.

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why?

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap.

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you.

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin.

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you.

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology.

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do.

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild.

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap.

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it.

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two…

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there.

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras.

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years?

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be.

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this.

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever.

#yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere chrollo lucilfer #afterwitch writes

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zegrasdrysdale · 1 month

Text

[ 5 more minutes ] l. hughes

paring : Luke Hughes x fem!reader

summary : Luke’s girlfriend surprises him in Newark after his last college hockey game

warning(s) : none really. just very fluffy and emotional. also very short bc it was 1 am when i came up w this idea

author’s note : in honor of today being my last day as an ncaa student athlete, i quickly wrote this up. i was feeling very emotional and i needed a way to express how i felt. hence why we now have a very fluffy / emotional fic. some of the comments luke makes are some of my thoughts about how my own season ended yesterday. it’s kinda sad but it had to be done. you’re welcome (i think ?)

༺═──────────────═༻

Jack texts her when he has picked up his younger brother from the airport. She begins to pace around the living room of Jack’s apartment that he’s now going to be sharing with Luke.

She has no clue what state Luke is going to be in when he walks through the door. He’s probably going to be so pissed that he spent the last two minutes or so of his college career in the penalty box instead of on the ice or on the bench with his teammates. He’s been so busy traveling that he hasn’t had time to sit and reflect on the season.

That’s the reason that she hopped on a flight to Newark as soon as the clock hit zero against Quinnipac. She just wanted to make sure that he’s okay before he goes and signs his NHL contract in two days and joins Jack on the Devils.

Either he’s going to be really upset and pissed or he’s going to be excited to start the next chapter in his career. She has no idea which version of Luke she’s going to get.

Keys jingle in the door about a half hour after Jack texts her to let her know he has Luke. She stops pacing and stands in the middle of the living room. Her eyes are on the door as Jack pushes it open.

“… not really in the mood for any surprises,” Luke says as he walks through the door. “I’m so tired.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” Jack tells his brother as he shuts the door behind them. Luke drops the big duffel bag that contains his hockey gear on the floor by the door in the foyer area. Then he finally makes his way to the living room with his suitcase.

He freezes mid-step when he sees his girlfriend.

With a small wave and a smile, she says, “Hi, Lukey.”

Luke crosses the room in five strides because of his stupidly long legs. He envelops her in a hug and buries his face in her neck. She wraps her arms around his torso and they stand like that for what feels like an eternity.

She doesn’t mind. If it means that Luke’s okay then she’ll stand like this forever.

She presses soft kisses into his shoulder and whispers to him, “I’m so proud of you, Luke. So incredibly proud of you. I know that’s not how you wanted the season to end but you did everything you could, and for that I am so, so proud of you.”

A quiet sob wracks Luke’s body as he pulls back from the hug. She sees tears in his eyes and frowns. A couple roll down his cheek and she reaches up to wipe them away. Jack silently sneaks out of the apartment. He thinks he’s slick but she saw him leave behind Luke.

“I hated that I wasnt out there those last two minutes,” he tells her, voice shaky. “Maybe I could’ve done something that pushed the game into overtime or won it for us. Instead I was in the penalty box while my team had to fight even harder to get goals because they were down a man.”

“I know, baby,” she softly replies. “I wish I could’ve given you guys five more minutes. You all fought so hard. So fucking hard. I’m so sorry that’s how your season ended.”

More tears roll down Luke’s cheeks and she continues to wipe them away.

“I feel like I let them down,” he whispers. “I could’ve fought harder for them. For this season. I let them down when they needed me most and now I’m abandoning them.” His words break her heart.

She shakes her head and cups his jaw. “You didn’t let anyone down,” she tells him. “You did what you could in the sixty minutes you had. They know that and they will always remember how hard you fought for them. You’re so important to everyone on that team and you played such an important role in getting as far as you did as a team. They’re just as proud of you as I am because you are about to start an amazing new chapter in your hockey career. You aren’t abandoning them, Luke. They want you to move forward in your career. They understand that you’re ready and that this is what you want.”

Luke nods and wraps his hands around her wrists. She continues to look up at her boyfriend.

She’ll never understand how he feels because she isn’t an athlete. All she can do now is try to help him realize that he isn’t the worst teammate that he thinks he is at the moment. She doesn’t want him to have that mindset as he transitions from college to the NHL.

Losing is tough in any sport. She knows that much and she is going to make sure that Luke understands that it is okay to feel this way but that he also has to get ready to move forward.

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a moment of comfortable silence. “Sorry I’m such a mess. I didn’t think it would affect me this much.”

“It just shows how much you love every team that you’re on,” she replies. “You dedicate so much time to hockey because you love it. You’re allowed to feel this way and feel it for a little bit. You do have a contract to sign in a few days so I’m giving you tonight to get out everything you feel about the Michigan season ended. Tomorrow, it’s time to get excited. I’m here to help you get excited.”

A smile finally cracks through the frown that’s been plastered on Luke’s face since he saw her. She dries his cheeks one more time before she pulls him back into a hug.

Luke presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “I love you,” he says into her hair. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up. Yes you do,” she retorts. “I love you too. Let’s go get you unpacked then we can take a nap because I heard you tell Jack how tired you are.”

When she pulls away from the hug and starts to walk to his suitcase, Luke grabs her hand and pulls her back to him. She looks up at him for a quick second before his lips are on hers. The kiss surprises her because of how emotional he is, but sometimes a kiss is all it takes to feel better.

She happily smiles into the kiss and runs her fingers through his curls as she returns it. It’s one of his favorite things she does so many he’ll start to feel better a little faster. Luke loves feelings her fingers in his curls. It’s the reason he doesn’t try to tame them.

The front door opens again and a voice says, “Okay, we are establishing some rules. Rule one, the door stays open three inches when your girlfriend is over. I don’t need any babies crying in my apartment at three in the morning right now.”

They both pull back and she looks behind Luke at Jack, who has a disgusted look on his face. She smiles but Luke’s cheeks turn a tomato red. She laughs and shakes her head.

“Rule two,” Jack continues. “No making out anywhere I can see you. That means the-”

“Jack!” Luke snaps. “I get it. We get it. Also, I’m not going to be leaving my door open three inches. If I want to have sex with my girlfriend then I’m going to. It’s my room and we split the rent now so I’ll do what I want.”

“None of that premarital kissing stuff where I can see or hear it,” Jack tells his brother. “I don’t need that in my life.”

She laughs and takes the opportunity to grab Luke’s bag and suitcase. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We won’t traumatize you. Again.”

Both Luke and his girlfriend laugh as they make their way to Luke’s new room, leaving a disgusted and definitely traumatized Jack Hughes in the living room.

༺═──────────────═༻

MASTERLIST

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#hockey imagines #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey oneshot #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl oneshot #umich hockey fic #umich fic #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fluff

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norrisleclercf1 · 2 months

Note

PLSSSS SEB SHARLLLLL

sebs not racing anymore and private poly relationship with reader and Charles so he supports from home but Charles seeing Ollie reminds it of them being together at the track just angsty fluffy vibes

A/N: Okay this is adorable

"Is it weird?" You whisper, leaning over the railing as Charles leans back, his head resting awkwardly on your shoulder. "What's weird?" He mummers back, eyes following the 18-year-old, making sure he wasn't lost. But really he was far from it, he looked excited and like he belonged there.

"Seeing history repeat itself?" You move your head a little place a chaste kiss on Charles's hairline. He makes a noise and moves around before settling back into his spot. "He's not me," You snort at the way Charles's says it and whisper softly. "No, he's not. He's not going to fall in love with his teammate and said teammates girlfriend and be little lost puppy." Charles grumbles and stands up straight when the camera pans over to you two.

To everyone, it just looked like Y/n Vettel was here to support Charles while Sebastian was back home with the "children". You smile at the camera and Charles ignores it and seeing it wasn't going to get anything leaves the garage and Charles leans back again, but the garage was starting to get busy so he couldn't lean his head on your shoulder like he wanted too.

"I wasn't a lost puppy, I just-" You giggle and run your fingers down the outline of his back and he goes silent enjoying the pressure you applied when you do that. "You were a puppy, a very adorable, innocent puppy. But, I meant how Sebby was your idol, and you're, Ollie's. He's a sweet kid, all wide eyes and joy, eager." Charles sighs and drops his head and turns around to face you.

"Why isn't he here?" Charles asks, and you sigh wanting to hug your husband, but knowing it would cause anger within the fans. They already had an issue with you hanging around the Ferrari garage and calling you a cheater. "He's busy Charlie, but you know he's tired of traveling the world, besides he's with the children." You remind him and Charles scuffs softly taking his gear and starting to slide it on for FP3.

"Children? I think you mean his bees," Charles corrects you and you roll your eyes. Charles had every right to be hurt that Seb barely came to the races. Charles always wanted Sebastain to be there, to make sure that he was doing right by his husband and old mentor. "Charles, don't get an attitude." You whisper gently and fix his wires as his eyes bore into you.

"Ollie does remind me, of me. And I hate it, I'm here to support him and guide him, and where's Seb? All the way in Switzerland, not Monaco where he refuses to live but Switzerland," Charles spits the last part.

It was always an argument about where you three should live and raise children. Charles wanted them to be in Monaco with his family and where he was raised, but Sebastian hated Monaco and wanted his babies to grow up surrounded by nature. You sigh, not wanting to start this again and place a hand on his chest.

"Charlie, he loves you so much. And- Hello Ollie," You pull your hand away and Ollie act's like he doesn't know what just happened in front of him. "Hi, um I'm having some trouble, do..do you mind helping me Charles?" You smile being taken back to when Charles joined the team and used to same sentence to get Sebastian to help him. "Of course, come on let's go. Bye, Y/n, tell Sebastian I say hello." And walks off and you smile knowing the future of Ferrari was in good hands.

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undercoverpena · 1 year

Text

had to see you

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here

simon ghost riley masterlist

You love the rain.

Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit.

But, at home, it’s refreshing.

It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next.

Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.

It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called.

On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices.

At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat.

Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather.

Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.

You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts.

Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.

You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.

The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.

When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.

That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them.

Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness.

It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.

It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock.

Short. Deliberate.

Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door.

When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them.

Only to see him.

“Ghost?”

He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.

His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.

You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.

“You lettin’ me in?”

Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it.

Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks.

He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second.

Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“

“Someone broke into my place.”

You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was.

Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back.

“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?”

“Not sure.”

Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain.

“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper.

As if it’s so rarely ever said.

You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything.

He’s Ghost.

Silent. Quiet, Ghost.

Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound.

Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?”

Silence.

A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.”

You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.”

He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to.

“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.”

You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him.

But you’re more nervous.

Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is.

Him being here.

And yet, not that odd at all.

“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.

He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him.

His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit.

“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add.

Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show.

And then, he says, “It’s nice.”

“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”

“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly.

“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.

Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.”

His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table.

“It’s not what I expected.”

“You’ve thought about my place?”

Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down.

You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward.

“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”

You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement.

“You were closer.”

Oh.

Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason.

Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months…

It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.

Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat.

“I had to see if you were okay.”

You don’t place the plates down, not immediately.

Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat.

He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue.

Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you.

“Well, I’m fine.”

“Had to be sure.”

You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.”

His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.

“Tea?” you ask.

Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips.

“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”

You make him snort.

And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.

If anything, it adds to it.

Shit.

Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.

“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand.

You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him.

Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between.

He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it.

It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down.

That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room.

He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes.

You cannot die.

Why?

But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again.

Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost.

Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm.

“What?”

Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’.

You forget how good he is at reading people.

Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle.

Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart.

Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat.

Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.”

Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk.

But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you.

Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.”

“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.”

“How then?”

Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit.

“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.”

You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name.

Your real name.

Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier.

“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”

“It?”

You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense.

“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?”

Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you.

He’s silent.

So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it.

Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.”

You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.

For what you’re not sure.

Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination.

So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.”

He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.”

But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape.

Go back.

Go back to him.

Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.

He came to check on you. You.

Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak.

It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.

It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again.

His hoodie is gone.

Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.

Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin.

“Tell me to go back to your living room.”

Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side.

You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again.

As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined.

“Words, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you.

“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.”

Speechless, your lips part.

Yes. Please, yes.

Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—

His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality.

“Simon…” you manage to whisper.

Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough.

He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.

Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips.

Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed.

He smells different than usual.

Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough.

“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?”

His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for.

“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up.

His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.”

If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it.

All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.

And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do.

“Wait.”

It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you.

Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.

And he smirks.

The devious bastard smirks.

Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him.

“Fuck…”

“Part them, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back.

The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.

You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big.

Almost too big.

The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans.

He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers.

You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him.

The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side.

“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours.

Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you.

“I want you.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”

“I hope you fucking don’t.”

His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.

You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds.

You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.

“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.”

“Simon…”

Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched.

He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you.

You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows.

“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.”

It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.

He does ruin you.

Not the first time, the second, but on the third.

Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom.

You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.

A painting in colours of his own design.

You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care.

Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe.

You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.

"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.

Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.

Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.

“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move.

Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building.

"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."

His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.

"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."

You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.

Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.

“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.”

Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.”

You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart?

His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.

“The latter.”

You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.

Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.

“You make shit tea, though.”

read part two

a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost riley #cod ghost x reader smut #simon ghost riley x reader smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley x you #cod ghost x reader #cod ghost angst #cod ghost smut #ghost smut

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youkissedareaderinthedark · 3 months

Text

Pay Attention

Synopsis: The 3 times everyone else knew you and Lando were in love with each other, and the 1 time you two actually admitted it

female driver reader x lando norris

A/N: for this one, reader is 22 and drives for mercedes with george. also, most of the story is told from lando’s pov because this originally started off as an entirely different 3+1 fic, and I don’t have the energy to fix it. and obviously, things like race results, driver lineups, ect will be changed to better fit the story

Lando Norris knows Formula 1 is unpredictable. He knows you can’t tell what will happen during a race, nonetheless a season. But no matter how unpredictable the sport is, this was the most surprising part by far.

It’s barely been 10 years, but Lando feels like he’s known you forever. You two first met at the Karting World Championship in 2014, a race you were teammates with both him and Zhou Guanyu in. Even though he beat you to first place, your 14-year-old-self didn’t let that stop you from becoming best friends with him.

It was hard to keep track of each other when the two of you were traveling all over Europe to compete in different series, so Lando almost thought he’d never get to see you again. Until in 2020, when he heard talks of the most successful female driver yet making her way through the ranks.

Since you were announced as apart of the Mercedes driver line up in the beginning of 2022, you two have been attached at the hip. You both lived in Monaco and whenever you weren’t busy with media or team duties, you were together. Traveling, in the paddock, celebrating races; if you were there, so was Lando.

Fans were used to that fact and they usually expected it off the track, but not for races and track battles, so everyone was a bit surprised when you two placed P3 and P4 in Bahrain.

It was Round 1 of the 2023 season and even though everyone knows your results at Bahrain don’t dictate your entire season, Lando was still excited you were on the podium. He had qualified P6 behind George and yourself in P5 and P4, and with both Fernando’s Aston Martin and both Red Bulls in front of you, you weren’t expected to make it on the top steps.

Though after a few badly timed pit stops, Lando ended the race in P4, 5 seconds behind you in P3. Cheers rung out from around the grandstands as both the Mercedes and McLaren cars crossed the finish line. Your team garages were ecstatic, climbing the fence to meet you at the checkered flag and shouting congratulations through the radio.

Lando watched from behind as you steered your car into perc ferme alongside Max and Sergio and climbed out to celebrate with your team. It wasn’t P1, but it was a huge achievement to place so high so early in the season and it was obvious how proud everyone was of you.

He couldn’t help himself from leaving his car and engulfing you in a hug. You were both laughing and the Brit could practically hear your grin through it.

“You did amazing! I’m so proud of you” He says, the words muffled through your helmets.

“Thanks, I wish you were gonna be up there with me, you deserve it” you say, looking up to the podium.

Lando smiles and he’s suddenly grateful his helmet is there to hide his blush. “Thanks. Don’t worry though, soon enough we’ll be up there with a 1-2”

“With me P1, I assume?”

Your eyes are playful underneath your helmet, and he laughs. “Yeah, we’ll see. Go celebrate with your team, Y/n. Don’t ditch me for the after party though!” He shouts as you walk over to your post-race interview, starting to laugh.

“I’d never ditch you!” You shout back over your shoulder, your helmet and balaclava coming off to reveal your grin.

Lando leaves to get weighed and meet his team back in the McLaren garage, keeping his head gear on because of the stupid smile he’s all too aware is still on his face. He was supposed to go to the media pen to finish up some race interviews before sitting down for the debrief with McLaren, but you were his best friend; he couldn’t miss your first podium of the season.

Lando, still clad in his orange race suit, arrives just as Max’s national anthem is playing. He probably should be paying at least a bit of attention to the winner, he’s one of Lando’s best mates after all, but then he saw you, grinning on the third step under the many bright lights of the street circuit, and he couldn’t look away.

He watched with his own smile as you opened your bottle of champagne and poured the majority of it on the Red Bull drivers, before downing the rest of it yourself. He’d wait until you came back to street level, where he’d be waiting for another hug and feeling the sticky champagne and bright grin against his neck.

You’d start talking about the race, the moments where you didn’t think you’d make it to the podium and how happy you’d be if you could get another one. You’ll ask about his race and tell him that next weekend, he’d better be up there beside you, no matter what.

And Lando will be next to you, like he always is, smiling and hanging on to every word you say because you’re happy, so he’s happy too.

What Lando would not realize is that each moment, from when he hugged you after you got out of your car to just then when you were walking through the paddock together, had been caught by multiple people, each one thinking the one thing you two had not yet realized.

“They’re so in love with each other”

Lando Norris did not hate the Miami Grand Prix, at least not usually. But this time around, F1’s 2023 stop in Florida is one he could’ve gladly missed.

It was a double header weekend, and after coming off an extremely mediocre P9 finish in Azerbaijan, Lando was less than excited to spend 4 days in the hot sun in an even more mediocre car. There were so many unnecessary media obligations to go with the flashiness of Miami, and by Friday evening he was already looking forward to the flight back home.

The one thing that did brighten his day was you, who he also had dinner plans with after FP2. He let you distract him with whichever details about your life you had neglected to tell him before, let you get him excited for Sunday’s race again, and let you put him in a better mood.

You two were walking from the restaurant to Lando’s car, still talking and laughing as usual, when Lando asked to you come by his hotel after qualifying the next day.

“If both our qualifying are shit, we can get ice cream and mope together,” he posed jokingly, “and if it goes great, we can celebrate together as well”

But then you stop laughing and your tone changes. “Oh, sorry Lando, but I’m going out with Logan after qualifying; he’s gonna show me around Miami a bit. I’m sure he won’t mind if you come though? Do you want to?”

He pauses; Logan? “No it’s fine. I should probably be relaxing after tomorrow anyways, I think the heat’s getting to me a bit. You two have fun, though” He assures you, keeping a light-hearted tone to mask his distaste.

Logan?

Lando didn’t have anything against Logan, he thought he was a nice guy with a lot of potential. But now he’s taking his best friend away from him and for what reason? You can see Miami any day, any time you want, and if you wanted to, you certainly didn’t need him as your guide.

But fine. Lando does not own you, you’re perfectly allowed to have your own friends, and if you wanted to have an evening out with Logan Sargeant, it was perfectly okay with Lando.

The Brit drove you back to your hotel before setting off to his own, and while you were his best friend and of course, delightful company, he couldn’t help but dwell on the sour taste left in his mouth. He didn’t know why this bothered him so much.

By the time Lando was back in his room, he was too tired to figure it why and decided it was a problem for Future Lando.

He woke up Saturday morning completely forgetting about the events of last night and instead focused on getting the best results possible today. He met up with his trainer for breakfast, left for the track, and joined his PR officer in the McLaren garage. She was escorting Lando to the media pen when he suddenly slowed.

“Lando? What’s wrong?” The woman took note of his tense figure, his hard-set eyes.

All because you were walking away from the media pen with Logan at your side, laughing and looking way too happy for his liking.

He felt the sourness this time. He felt it rise throughout his body and spread like wild fire. His only question was why.

Why were you laughing so much? Why did he feel this way? Why couldn’t he let any of this go? Why were you with Logan and not with him?

“Nothing,” the McLaren drives says. “let’s go” Lando never usually hurries to the media pen, but he didn’t want to look at you and Mr. American boy-next-door any longer.

He was asked questions and he gave answers, Lando just couldn’t tell you what any of them were. This was the problem Past Lando had left for him, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He ruled out anger; he didn’t feel mad, per se, more frustrated than angry. He wasn’t upset; he certainly didn’t feel sad. Possessiveness? He wasn’t usually possessive over his friends though, and you two weren’t dating or anything like that, so there was no real reason to feel protective. Still, Lando couldn’t shake the sourness, and was once again left without answers about you and his feelings.

It wasn’t hard to miss the Brit’s change in attitude, and it wasn’t something his friends were going to ignore.

“Are you okay, mate?” Carlos says, walking alongside him through the paddock after FP3. “You’ve been quiet all day”

“Yeah, ‘m fine. Just tired, I guess” Lando shrugs, not sure if he should tell the Ferrari driver.

“C’mon, you’re seriously not gonna tell me? It’ll make you feel better, trust me” Carlos pushed, and he hesitated before answering.

“I don’t know. I barely know what’s wrong myself” Carlos gives him a look, and he sighs before continuing.

“It’s just weird with Y/n lately. I don’t know but the entire weekend’s just been weird”

“Why? Because she’s hanging out with Logan?”

“How did you-”

“Lando, it’s not that hard to notice, and it’s not that hard to notice why you don’t like it” The Spaniard nudges him, looking at him with a mischievious glint in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“You like Y/n, so you don’t like her hanging around with Logan” He says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“What’re you talking about? I don’t like Y/n, she’s my best friend, that’s ridiculous” Lando makes a face. That makes no sense, of course I don’t have feelings for Y/n.

“Yeah, and the Haas is going to win tomorrow. Lando, I told you, you can trust me. Just admit it, cabrón”

“Admit what? I don’t like her, I told you that” Lando insists, because he doesn’t. There’s no way.

“Okay mate, whatever you say” Carlos says, putting his hands up in surrender and moving towards the Ferrari garage. “Let me know how that ‘not liking my best friend thing goes’”

Lando just shakes his head and sighs. Carlos has no idea what he’s talking about.

Qualifying turns out to be the thing Lando needs to get his mind off everything; he qualifies P6 with Oscar right behind him and confidence in his car for tomorrow. The man spends some extra time going over the data from today with the strategists and leaves the track just after sunset to head back to his hotel.

He wasn’t completely lying to you yesterday night; the heat was having a bit of an effect on him, and it was probably a good idea to relax and stay in for the night. He ordered something from room service that his trainer would approve of and took a shower before climbing into bed.

A knock on his door is the thing that stops Lando from falling asleep.

It’s past 10, no one should be knocking at his door, but that’s not good enough of a reason to ignore the person, so he gets up to answer it and should probably be more surprised that’s it you.

“Not here to collect team secrets for tomorrow, are you?” Lando questions, jokingly.

“I don’t think we need anymore help beating you McLarens, thank you” You play along with a laugh.

“I’m offended. I hope you have an apology along to go with whatever that it” He gestures to the bag in your hands, and you nod.

“I do, but you’ll have to let me in first to get either” Your best friend moves aside to let you into his room and onto his couch.

“Seriously though, what’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Oh no, nothing’s wrong. I just felt bad for ditching you today and figured I could make up for it with ice cream” You shrugged, opening up the bag and holding a container covered in frost.

“I appreciate the gesture Y/n, but we both know our trainers-” You cut him off. “Would kill us if we eat this, I know. That’s why I only bought one, so we could just share and have half. That way it’s not really eating an ice cream sundae, it’s just eating a scoop and a half”

“I like your thinking”

“That’s why you keep me around” You both smile, and Lando gets up to get two spoons.

“You don’t have to be sorry, by the way. It doesn’t bother me that you went out with Logan” He knows you must’ve felt really guilty, because you’re still wearing the clothes you wore in the paddock, meaning you went immediately from wherever Logan took you to straight to get the ice cream and come here, despite the fact you should be in bed and it would be chaos if someone found out you were here this late Saturday night.

He also knows you wouldn’t do this for just anyone.

“I know. I still felt bad though” You shrug, thanking him before taking a spoonful of ice cream.

“Don’t be. Where’d he take you, anyway?” Lando questions. He knows that if he was talking about this any time else, he feel that sourness all over again. But there was no reason to if you were right here beside him.

“Nowhere special; we just walked around, shopped a bit, and stopped to get some food before we realized we should probably head back to our hotels”

“And aren’t you having the same realization now?” He asks, taking another spoon of ice cream.

“Yeah, but I’m not worried enough to the point where I’m actually gonna do it” You explain, and Lando laughs.

“So what? I’m stuck with you for the rest of the night then?”

“You say it like you don’t totally love the idea” You smile playfully.

“You’re right, I’d rather you here with me than anywhere else”

“Me too” The man misses your soft gaze and love-sick smile.

Truthfully, Lando just likes when you’re with him in general.

It was the Austria GP and for the first time in a while, Lando Norris felt a little carefree. He had over two weeks to recover from Canada, the next round was his home race, and things were looking positive for Sunday. He was happy with racing, and he was happy with you too.

Ever since Miami, you two have been closer than usual; fans were used to seeing you guys always together, but this time, they really never saw you without seeing Lando, and Lando without seeing you. Both of you seemed oddly smiley recently and it didn’t go without notice. Even more than usual, it was like you and Lando were in your own weird little obliviously-in-love bubble that nothing could break through.

Maybe that was why you and Lando finished P4 and P5, each of you one place away from a repeat of Bahrain. It obviously wasn’t your best finishes you two have ever had, but it was good enough for there to be a celebration afterwards. The drivers you and Lando were closest to also finished high in the points, and before you knew it, you had agreed to attending the after-party happening in a few hours at the nearest club.

You put on some makeup, fixed your hair, changed into a beautiful outfit, and stuffed your purse with your essentials before you got a text from Lando telling you that he was outside. You insisted that you could drive yourself and he didn’t need to pick you up, but Lando persisted, saying that it was stupid to bring two cars incase you weren’t fit to drive at the end of the night, and had to leave your very expensive car on the street all night.

“You look gorgeous, it almost makes up for the ridiculous amount of time I’ve spent waiting here for you” Lando says with a smirk as you open the door to his car.

You roll your eyes through your blush. “It wasn’t that long. Besides, my room’s on a high floor, it was the elevator’s fault.” You reason, clicking your seatbelt into place before Lando pulls out of the hotel parking lot and onto the streets.

“Yeah sure, blame the machinery because it’s never your fault you’re late”

“It’s not!” You insist with a laugh. He hums sarcastically in response, turning on the radio and letting it fill the comfortable silence

The streets in front of the club are lined with dozens of high-end cars, so you and Lando are forced to park nearly a block away from the entrance. The bouncer lets the two of you in without hesitation, and even from outside, you can hear the bass from the speakers inside.

The interior is exactly how you expected it to be, colorful strobe lights from overhead, music that you have to shout to hear someone over, and a dance floor that’s packed to the brim with celebrities, drivers, and everyone in between.

You and Lando claim the nearest booth to the exit, and he leans in close enough to be audible. “I’m going to get us a few drinks, try and see if you can find a few people” You nod, and the two of you go off in different directions.

You manage to locate Alex, Lily, George, and Carmen in a booth together and after a few very loud greetings, manage your way through the mob again to find Lando and lead him back to your friends. You all start talking and laughing, placing bets on which drivers are going home with a mystery girl, which ones are going to get black-out drunk, and which ones are going to show off their embarrassingly bad drunk dance moves in front of everyone.

Drinks and shots get handed out, a few more drivers join your table, and soon enough, you and your group are somewhere between tipsy and drunk and are moving onto the already-packed dance floor. Lando moved up to the DJ, telling you he’d be back to dance soon, and left you with your fellow drivers and their girlfriends.

You spend a few hours dancing with the girls, giggling through your drinks, and wandering around the club in search for more friends. At the point where your vision starts to got a bit blurry and the music is making your head hurt, you feel a hand on your shoulder and a familiar voice in your ear.

“Hey stranger!” Lando shouts, turning you around to face him.

“Lando!” You call out loudly, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. “Missed you” Alcohol made you a bit affectionate.

“Only been gone an hour and a half, love” Even though you can’t see his face and you’re not at your sharpest, you know he’s got a dumb smirk on his face.

“Missed you too, though” He says, taking the drink out of your hand and taking a sip before wrapping his hands around your waist.

“Are you here to dance with me?” You pull back, looking into his eyes. His pupils aren’t dilated, so you know he’s sober and the designated driver for the night.

“Wouldn’t want to do anything else” Even though everyone else around you is dancing at a fast, eager pace, you and Lando keep your arms wrapped around each other, bodies swaying softly, heads laying on each other’s shoulders.

Even with the flashing lights and booming music, you probably could’ve drowsed off on your best friends shoulder. You don’t realize how much time has passed but at some point, Lando taps your arm and pulls away from you.

“Time to go home, I think” He says, placing his hands on your shoulders to get you to focus on him.

“You think?” You reply, both drowsy and a little drunk.

“I think so. I’m gonna see if anyone else needs a ride and say goodbye, then we’ll leave, okay?” Lando tells you, intertwining your hands together before leading you further onto the dancefloor.

The Brit finds the other drivers and does what he said before handing you your purse and guiding you out of the club, hands still held together. Your best friend hands you his jacket to wear and places his arm around your waist as the two of you walk back to the car.

You know that Lando will get you back to your hotel and to your room where he’ll take your heels off for you. You know he’ll place a glass of water and a few Aspirins’ on a nightstand for you and lay down underneath the duvet with you because he’s too tired to drive back to his own hotel.

You’ll know you two will fall asleep almost immediately, and wake up closer than you were laying last night. You know Lando will not mind doing any of this, will actually like it, because you don’t let him take care of you as much as he’d like.

You know all of these things and a lot of other stuff too, you just don’t know that the person you did it all with is the person you’re in love with, or that he’s in love with you too.

+ 1

Lando always appreciated the summer break after half a season of racing, but there was something special about this one that made him wish it would never end.

You, Lando, and a group of your mutual friends planned a week-long trip to an island in the Caribbean as ‘one last hurrah’ before you two had to fly to Zandervort for the second half of the season. It was your fourth day on the island, and even though every moment since you arrived has been filled with some sort of fun and exciting adventure, this was already your favorite day of the trip.

You and Lando had connecting rooms, ‘a complete coincidence’ as your friends had put it, and this morning, you two decided to take advantage of it and make breakfast together. You weren’t supposed to meet with the others until a few more hours, and you loved cooking with Lando, so shortly after you woke up you made the short journey into his room.

“Morning,” your best friend greeted you, clad in black sweats and an old T-shirt you’ve seen millions of times. “I bought pancake mix from the store in the lobby, but we can run out and get something else if you like?”

“No, it’s okay,” you insist, “pancakes are fine. Besides, I know you make the best ones.”

“I know, you must be so jealous” Lando smirks, grabbing a mixing bowl and pan from the hotel’s kitchenette cabinet.

“Totally. So what’s on our agenda today?” You say, moving around him to take ingredients from the fridge.

“Not much, actually. I think we’re just going to the beach and walk around the town a bit” You nod as you grab your phone and click on the shared playlist between yourself and Lando.

You let the music fill the comfortable silence as the two of you move around the small kitchen. It’s a beautiful and all-too domestic scene; the morning sun streaming through the windows, the soft music in the background, the way you both seamlessly know your way around the kitchen, how easy it was to work around each other. They’re the facts your mind notices too quickly, and it’s hard to stop your brain from thinking about a future where things could be like this everyday.

Within a few minutes, you each had a reasonably-sized stack of pancakes that you brought outside onto the balcony with you. You settle into the adjacent chairs that look out to the waves crashing onto the beach and deep blue ocean. It’s still early; this part of the island isn’t awake yet, and it’s easy to relax in the still quiet.

While you shooed away the image of the future like this, Lando welcomed it with open arms. He thought how effortless it would be to make a scene like this; a hotel room, an apartment in Monaco, a house in the UK, Lando would take either and all of them. As long as you came with it.

His mouth speaking before his brain can control it. “I wish it was like this forever” He blurts out.

“You don’t want to go back to racing?” You look over at him, eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t look back at you, keeps his eyes on the view in front of him instead.

“No, I do. I mean-” Lando pauses, thinks it over. He gets up from his chair to lean on the railing, his back facing you. This could ruin everything, he thinks. If he says it, he can’t go back, and nothing will be the same again.

He stops thinking.

“I mean with you. I honestly don’t care where we are; racing, on an island, whatever. We could be on another planet for all I care. As long as it’s just you and me, I think I could handle it” He finishes, feeling your presence next to him a few moments later, your shoulders brushing.

“Really?” You ask, eyes widened. You would’ve never thought he felt the same.

“Really. I’ve always felt that way” Then he’s looking you in that way, the way everyone’s been trying to explain to you for a while.

You don’t second-guess yourself when you put your hands around his face and press your lips onto his, and especially not when he starts moving his lips against yours. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him, and you don’t think you’d be mad if this was your forever.

You two finally pull away from each other, and even though the waves on the beach are still the same waves and the ocean is still the same deep blue, you think that everything changed just a little bit.

You’re still so close you could probably count his eyelashes if you wanted to, and you smile.

“I love you”

His smile mirrors yours the second after he hears it. “I love you too”

You two don’t really have to tell people; everyone figures it out within the first five minutes of being around both of you. Everyone teases you relentlessly, but internally, they’re just glad the two of you finally saw what’s been there all along.

i think this is really bad, so if u see it one moment and then don’t the next, it’s because I deleted it. i also never really know how to end these. anyways, a lando fic to make up for the time i’ve been gone. sorry about that btw, i got major imposter syndrome and the lack of f1 content makes for a lack of motivation. this is also my first ln4 fic, and i have no idea what to expect from it. hope u enjoyed tho 🫶

#reader insert #formula 1 #driver reader #f1 imagine #f1 grid x reader #formula 1 driver imagines #female driver reader #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x female reader #lando norris x female driver reader #3+1 #slow burn #oblivious characters

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cheriladycl01 · 3 months

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Surrounded by Ice - Kimi Raikkonen x FigureSkater! Reader

Plot: The Iceman just surrounds himself with Ice in every aspect of his life

A/N: Just a short little Kimi drabble, more exciting stuff coming soon, just been swamped with Uni!

Credit to summerblueringo for the GIF

"How does it feel to bring home a gold medal for your country, again?" the interviewer asks and a big grin appears on your face.

"I mean, i love the sport and I've worked hard to get where I am. I think this year there were many other contestants who also deserved gold and everyone who took part today were amazing!" you keep smiling, it had been a really amazing set for you today. You'd even broke some records while here.

"And now what is your plan?" they ask holding the mic closer to you.

"Well my husband is waiting for me, just over there. So i think he wants to give me his congratulations" you say pointing out our stoic looking husband who was waiting in the background, keeping to himself watching the world go past.

"Ah yes, Kimi Raikkonen! The Ice Man, who arguably married Queen of the Ice" he jokes making you laugh a little. You had heard similar jokes many times since you'd married Kimi.

"Yes, obviously being here in South Korea for the Winter Olympics has been amazing, and I'll be sure to train hard for 2022 but now I'm needed to go support my lovely lovely husband in his fast cars" you exclaim, knowing that the Australian Grand Prix was round the corner.

"Ah yes, it's looking like a good season for Ferrari! And we can tell from your outfit today they already have your support"

"My support is for whatever team my husband is in, so Ferrari have had my support since Kimi has raced with them!"

You left the interview thanking your team before finding Kimi waiting for you quietly.

"Home?" you ask and he nods silently grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the arena.

"You were fantastic today!" he smiles, holding you and pulling you into a kiss.

"Yeah? You liked the new twist i did?" you ask, your routine today being one of the hardest you'd ever done. You mascara had infact started to run, from the sweat building on your forehead throughout the day.

"I like everything you do"

You guys both went back to the hotel, packing up all of your gear that had been here for the past month you'd stayed in Korea for. Once you were sure you hadn't left anything behind you made your way to the airport.

Kimi now only had a month until Australia, his personal trainer had come with you to Korea to help him train while he was out there supporting you.

Now, you'd train while you were travelling with Kimi. Finding ice while on the road with him was always difficult, but finding places to just work out and keep your fitness up was never hard as you'd train alongside Kimi. It was one of the ways to spend extra time with him during the season when he was most busy.

In the free month before Australia you started your research on where you could go in Melbourne to skate, you found somewhere that Kimi was happy with you going too as it wasn't too far from the hotel you'd be staying in or the race track for if anything went wrong.

"Will you watch me on the Sunday though?" he'd asked you as you were both lying in bed the night before you were due to fly to Australia.

"When have I ever not?" you ask, turning over in bed to look at him.

"Hmmm, I can for sure think of one time..." he smirks looking over you.

"If your talking about China, almost 10 years ago that doesn't even count!" you laugh, poking his cheek a little.

Your husband never failed to amaze you, his striking blue eyes and his soft blonde hair was what initially drew you in. But it was your first interaction with him that made you fall for him fully.

It was the Autumn of 2008 and you were 22 and you had just won your second Gold Medal in China, you'd stayed there for the months after the games as they left the Beijing Olympic Park open and it seemed like a good place to stay and to train.

You managed to get tickets to other sporting events in the months you stayed there such as Snow Boarding, Golf but the best one was when the Chinese Grand Prix came about.

You were active on the socials you had back then, and so it wasn't hard for Sauber BMW to reach out to you and give you a guest pass.

You'd been walking round the paddock, just investigating when you'd bumped right into the Finnish Ferrari driver. He had just stared at you while holding a tight grip on your wrist so you didn't fall over.

You remember him asking if you were okay, and some other questions that you hadn't heard fully as your brain had gone foggy at the sound of his soft, yet deep voice.

It was a little embarrassing, when he'd tried to speak Finnish to you, and then decided on English, but with no reply he was left stumped and awkwardly standing there.

He'd soon left after that but you were on each other's minds for the whole day. You tried to keep up conversations with the BMW drivers Robert and Nick but your mind kept drifting the the Finnish Driver for Ferrari.

He found you after the race, and just stared at you for a while before you made the first move speaking to him. And the rest was history.

You spent the next 5 years together as partners, it was convenient for someone like Kimi who raced all through the year apart from summer and winter to end up with someone in a sport who only competed for a month in the summer and winter. It meant that they also still got a break with each other.

After 5 years, Kimi let the big question unload and now you'd been married for 5 years.

"Of course, my love! You know that!" you smile, pulling him closer to you. You tuck yourself into his surprisingly warm embrace, considering his nickname was 'Iceman' he was the warmest person you'd ever had the privilege of meeting.

"I was thinking ..." he breathes, his voice a little higher and whiny than normal.

"Mmmmm, you don't do that often?" you tease, a hand running up and down his back.

"Well, I'm the ice man, your the Ice Queen... i was thinking maybe it's time we have an Ice Baby?" he whispers in the softest most unsure tone you'd ever heard.

"You think now's a good time?" you ask, and thinking about it... it was. You yourself had two years before the next Olympics in 2020, and Kimi was at a point in his career where he could leave and live comfortably if he needed and wanted to.

"I haven't told you this, but they want the Sauber kid in my spot. I'll be going to Alpha Romeo next year. I feel like I've done what i can and I've had my time in the sport... and we aren't getting any younger. Especially me..." he jokes, being 44 now.

"Mmmmmm I think now is the perfect time" you smile.

Flash forward to the Austin Grand Prix and you were 6 months pregnant. You'd already announced it and so many people were excited for you and Kimi, through the season he had loads of interviews. All against his will of course but people saw a different side to him when he talked about you and the soon to be baby.

It was a great race for Kimi in Austin, he pulled through with his first win of the season, valuable points that helped contribute towards his position in the drivers standings.

"So Kimi, first win of the season today! How are you feeling?" an interviewer asks, he was sat in a panel with some of the other drivers in a debrief.

"It was good to get a win, this season has been tough. We've had an interesting year with veteran drivers like myself, Seb, Fernando and Lewis being pushed by newer or younger drivers who are proving to be good competition like Charles, Max and Pierre" he answers.

"There have been rumors that you wont be here with us next season?" he pushes and Kimi roles his eyes.

"If I'm not it's not an issue... racing is my hobby that i get paid to do. I'll leave when i want to" he admits without letting anything slip that Ferrari wouldn't want to come public knowledge.

"Lets move on to you Lewis..."

And for the rest of the interview all he could think of was coming back to you.

Once your daughter was born in January before the start of the 2019 season and Kimi moving to Alfa Romeo everyone on the grid wanted to meet her. So of course, you were obligated to come to Australia for pre-season testing. Your 3 month old being so intrigued at the busy rush of everything around her.

She was a fan and driver fav around. Everyone had a picture with her and introduced themselves as her uncle and that they would look after her. People like Lewis, Seb and Charles all came with little gifts for her, Seb even had someone make her a custom team Ferrari top so she could fit in with her father and her Uncle Sebastian.

"Today was amazing!" you sighed as you leaned into your husband who currently held your daughter against his bare chest.

"Mmmm, I think you should both take a break though, at least until Summer break and join me afterwards" he smiles, knowing that the heavy time change from Monaco to Australia wasn't good for your or the baby.

"Well, I may as well come to Bahrain with you... its on the way back. But I will leave after that" you smile, pulling him in for a kiss.

"I love you, thank you for giving me this life" he smiles looking between you and his daughter.

"I wouldn't have it any of way" you grin.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhh @georgeparisole @dakotatankbig @youcannotcancelquidditch @zzonsbeek @tallbrownhairsarcastic @mellowarcadefun @ourteenagetragedy @otako5811 @countingstacksandpanicattacks @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @hopexcroc @mirrorball-6 @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @bigsimperika @blueberry64857959 @eiraethh @lilypadlover @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @the-fem1n1ne-urge @21stcenturytaegi @dark-night-sky-99 @spideybv28 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @kapsylia @laneyspaulding19 @lazybot @malynn @cassielikereading @viennakarma @teamnovalak @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @jlb20416

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula one #formula one fanfiction #kimi raikkonen #kimi räikkönen #kimi raikkonen x reader #kimi raikkonen one shot #kimi raikkonen x you #kimi raikkonen imagine

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earlgreyflowers · 3 months

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Hey ! I love how you write, Do you think you could do 3,16 and 48 of charles ? Thank you in advance and continue like that, that’s amazing!

A/N - I’m praying this isn’t too repetitive compared to my last fic but i’m proud of it so enjoy <3

sorry for the delay, I've been super busy and then got sick over the weekend but I'm back

—————————————————

You had no problem being a passenger princess whenever Charles rented a car on a Grand Prix weekend. You enjoyed being able to control the music, resting comfortably in your seat as you admire your boyfriend. The way his hands wrap around the gear stick, or the way his thumbs move back and forth over the wheel when in traffic. Your sleepy mind drifts to the thought of Charles' thumb tracing patterns on your thigh instead of the wheel, his rough fingertips leaving goosebumps over your soft skin.

Your tongue slips out to wet your lips, your mouth suddenly feeling dry as you continue to roam your eyes over Charles. His jaw is clenched slightly, attempting to concentrate on the road whilst also processing his frustration over the results of qualifying this weekend. Your hand reaches out to rest at the base of his neck, gently scratching at the hair and smiling as the tension in his jaw eases. You lean over the centre console, pressing a kiss to his jaw, leaving a soft red stain in your wake.

"Tout va bien mon amour?" Charles murmurs, eyes darting over to you before quickly returning to the road. "All good honey, just thinking." You hum, your hand travelling over your boyfriend's thigh. You feel the muscle clench under your touch, his legs closing slightly. The sight makes your own legs squeeze together, dampness beginning to coat your underwear as your thoughts run wild.

"What are you thinking about cherie?" Asks your boyfriend, his hand coming to rest atop yours. The consistent speed of the motorway meant he could neglect the gears for a little bit of time. "Your hands, how they feel on my skin, how much I like the way you touch me." You mutter, words barely audible over the faint music and passing cars surrounding you both. The breathy tone to your voice was beginning to affect Charles, heat prickling the surface of his skin. Your hand was migrating up his thigh, closer to where he was starting to throb with need for you.

"What are you doing mon amour? I am driving." Charles mutters, his eyes darting to where your hand now rests in his lap. You squeeze his bulge gently, his mouth dropping open at the feeling. "Want to make you feel good Charlie, please can I?" You whisper, your Ferrari red nails scratching his neck in an attempt to get him to agree to your request.

"I am never going to say no to that, but if I have to pull over you won't be able to walk for a week, do you understand?" The dominance in his tone sends shivers down your spine and shockwaves to your core, nodding happily in agreement with his demand. "Of course I understand mon homme." You purr, the French escaping your lips making Charles harder than before. He loved the effort that you had put in to learn his language, his heart filling with joy at the foreign words on your tongue. It made his stomach fill with butterflies and shamelessly he felt his cock throb in his jeans.

You reach over, encasing the metal of his zip in your fingers, pulling to release him from the sudden tightness in his lap. He sighs in relief as your hand delves into his underwear, his cock hardening further at your touch. The weight of his cock in your hand causes you to release a breathy moan.

Leaning closer to your boyfriend, you kiss his neck gently. His stubble scratches your lips, but the quiet groans leaving his mouth as you slowly pump his cock make it worthwhile. You detach yourself from his neck, adjusting in your seat so you can lean over to reach his lap. His hand rests atop your head softly as you pull him free from bis underwear.

Your mouth waters at the sight of his glistening head, pre-cum leaking from the reddened tip. You purse your lips, press a wet kiss to the head of his dick. You feel it twitch at the sensation before you engulf his head in your mouth. Charles groans at the warmth, relishing the way you swirl your tongue, dipping it lightly into his slit to taste him.

“So good to me cherie, always want to make me feel good.” Charles mutters, eyes flicking down to his lap before returning to the road. You hum around him in agreement and he chuckles, “Don’t talk with your mouth full baby. Come on, you have until we get home to make me finish in your pretty little mouth.” You moan at his words, the vibrations sending tingles up your boyfriend’s spine.

Your mouth travels further down his shaft, leaving rings of red lipstick as you go. The salty taste on your tongue makes you dizzy, desperate for more. You double your efforts, head bobbing and tongue swirling faster than before. Charles’ cock is saturated with your spit, allowing your hand to move smoothly over what couldn’t fit in your mouth.

Charles had managed to keep the car steady, but the feeling of your soft hand wrapped around the base of his cock while the warmth of your mouth surrounded his head was making his job harder. You don’t hear the indicator as Charles pulls the car over, and you don’t question anything when Charles’ other hand threads itself into your hair.

You moan around his cock, pre-cum spilling onto your tongue as Charles moans your name. “So fucking perfect mon amour, don’t stop, gonna fill your mouth, gonna cum for you.” He mumbles, head thrown back against his headrest, neck straining.

His hips buck into your mouth, fingers tapping your head in warning. You take him as deep as you can, choking on his thick cock as it hits the back of your throat. The constriction of your throat sends him over the edge, his cum filling your mouth. You whimper at the taste, swallowing all he gives you. You keep sucking, your tongue swirling around his length as it twitches with sensitivity.

Charles groans, pulling you off his length as he pants. His chest heaves, head still thrown back as he tries to catch his breath. "Fuck baby, that was so good." He mutters, voice breathy and strained. You smile, kissing his cheek. Charles turns his head, capturing your lips with his own. "So good, but I had to pull over so it looks like you won't be able to walk if I'm done with you. Put your seatbelt on, no promises I'll follow the speed limits to get us home." He tells you.

You smile shyly, a blush coating your cheeks as your thighs clench. Your whole body tingles with excitement as Charles pulls back out onto the main road, you were hoping for this after all.

Taglist: @myownwritings

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the-californicationist · 4 months

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The False Alarm

TF141+/Reader TW: gangbang --- MDNI/18+ AO3 Link

Cleaning a long, hard pole was slippery business, and at your fire station, it was a particularly dangerous job. You had to be small enough to fit into the harness, but strong enough to self-belay, shining the gleaming gold rod as you traveled downward, repelling to the floor.

So, imagine your frustration when you were left to clean by yourself while the rest of the house responded to a three alarm fire. You tried to make quick work of it, but there was a lot of pole to tend to, and you didn’t want to miss a spot. A dirty pole was bad news for everyone who needed to ride it. Safety first.

It was all going pretty well until you neared the end of your job. You were about to lower yourself to the last section, your feet nearly able to touch the ground when you lost your grip on the rope attached to your harness. The clip liked to jam, so you tried to get it unstuck, but you realized pretty quickly that it was solidly knotted against you. You weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. To make matters worse, you were leaning at an odd angle, having tried to reach down to grab the radio that had been knocked to the ground when you lost the rope. But, it was flung too far, and you quickly discovered that it was way out of your grasp. At this point, you looked like a Christmas ornament, hanging loosely in your harness, swaying slightly around the pole. The only thing to do now was wait.

Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long for help. The three alarm fire had been a false one, and all of the men had returned rambunctious but unharmed. Your boyfriend, Captain John Price, was the first one through every door, and he was the one who discovered you in your trapped state. His eyes lit up in shock, and you heard his gravelly laugh as he approached you. Behind him, Sergeant Johnny MacTavish and his Lieutenant, Simon Riley, began to strip their gear for Gaz, the firehouse quartermaster. They were laughing right along with Price, jeering at you in your trussed up position.

Price spun you around toward him, and you came face to face with his bulging zipper. You were at the perfect height, staring right at his crotch, and he had to bend down to look you in the eye,

“In a bit of a predicament, pretty girl?”

You weren’t sure you liked his tone. It was lurid and suggestive, especially in front of his men.

“Latch is stuck. I’ve been telling you to replace it.”

“Which one?” He knelt underneath you to fiddle with the harness, “This one?”

He tugged at the rope and moved it between your legs, purposefully shoving it out of alignment.

“John!” You hissed, feeling the thick rope, as big around as one of his fingers, slip across your cotton pants and into the crease of your pussy, rubbing along your clit mercilessly.

“Mmm, I kinda like you like this, love. Might have to make you a permanent fixture. What d’you say?”

“Get me down, babe. Please?” You resorted to begging. It didn’t help.

“Oy!” He whistled loudly, “Come look what we caught on the line today, boys.”

All six of the other firefighters sauntered over to you, jeering and laughing.

“Wee lass is truly stuck?” MacTavish asked.

“Aye, look,” Simon smiled, showing him the latch, “She used the old clamp.”

As he stuck his finger underneath it, it tugged on the rope next to your clit, making you writhe.

Gaz laughed behind them, bending over from his glee,

“Ha! Guess the captain didn’t tell you he bought a new one.”

“Count your blessings, compa,” Vargas grinned, clapping a hand over Price’s shoulder, “Maybe we should leave you two here, hm?”

“I was about to dig into Johnny’s homemade chili, but now I’m hungry for something else,” Alex crossed his arms and shook his head as if in disbelief.

You tried to look to Price for some guidance. The boys flirted a lot, but it was mostly harmless. This felt… different somehow. There was something predatory in their stares that made your body feel like it was ablaze.

Price ran a finger along the rope that now stretched between your asscheeks and through the folds of your pussy, biting into your pants.

“Shouldn’t let such a bloody good opportunity go to waste, huh, lads?” Price’s voice sounded like an invitation, and you felt all the air get sucked out of the room.

You were parallel to the ground; face down, ass up, right in front of all of them. You were trapped, surrounded by seven enormous men, and all you could see were their legs from their belt buckles to their boots. You knew who they were; you’d been friends for years, after all, but it didn’t feel so friendly now. You felt like their prey.

You watched Price kneel beneath you. He smiled sweetly at you and whispered,

“You trust me, pretty girl?”

You nodded, and brought your hands up around his neck to kiss him. His mouth melted into yours, sending static tingles of pleasure though the rest of your body. He kept kissing you while his men stood around you, watching like dogs as Price literally dangled their treat in front of them.

Then, he pulled away, standing up in front of you. You felt his fingers digging under the bottom of your shirt hem, and he tugged off your tee shirt, exposing your body to his team. Your breasts were contained only by a thin cotton bralette, and at this angle, they hung away from you as you swayed in your harness.

Price took the bra off of you and bent to suckle from your nipples, licking and biting them gently to make you moan with sharp desire. You suddenly felt a hand that wasn’t his on your ass cheek and you gasped. Price chuckled, fondling your breasts with his huge, callused hands, teasing you,

“Are you shy, baby? It’s just MacTavish. You know he gets handsy.”

“Sorry, lass,” you heard the Scot behind you as he squeezed your ass and thighs, pulling them apart from your center, “Couldnae resist. Look good enough to eat.”

“Dig in, Sergeant,” Price offered you up like an appetizer, and tossed Johnny his emergency shears.

Your eyes went wide,

“John! My –”

“I’ll buy you another pair, love. Now, let’s give you something else to do with that mouth, why don’t we?”

You felt the cold metal of the blunt shears as Johnny cut across your waistband and down the crease between your legs, letting the shears do the work for him. He knelt to slice around to the front and then pulled your pant legs off of you, leaving you hanging there in nothing but your flimsy thong.

He situated the rope back into position between your thigh and groin so that it wouldn’t bite into you, and then you felt his mouth. You groaned loudly. You couldn’t help it. It felt like heaven to have him licking and sucking at your tender flesh, writhing his tongue into your already soaking hole.

“Listen to that sound. So damn pretty,” Price pet you on your cheek and stuck his thumb into your open mouth as you keened, the pleasure building within you like a smoldering blaze.

You heard his buckle rattle open, and the whine of his zipper led to the quick release of his cock, hard and smooth. He pressed his head to your lips and you kissed it gently, licking around its crown hungrily. Unwilling to waste any time, he pushed into your mouth, rubbing himself deep enough to touch the back of your throat. You listened to his delicious moans and tried to take him in as much as his girth would allow.

Then, MacTavish added a finger, stretching the walls of your pussy with it ever so gently, and you felt yourself starting to come. You were shocked by it, and it overwhelmed you so suddenly you knew that you were in for a turbulent storm of pleasure.

“Oh, fuck, tha’s it, love. Come for us,” Price commanded, “Such a good girl.”

Your whole body trembled, unable to press or brace against anything as you hung suspended, and you heard Johnny moaning as he felt you contract with pleasure, listening to the muffled screams he was pulling from you as you were trapped around the captain’s cock.

Price’s hand fisted your hair, guiding you down, grunting with each thrust. Then, he removed himself, stepping around to the side of you and placing one of your hands on his wet shaft. You started jacking him off, confused until you saw another pair of boots below your face.

It was Alex.

Price’s hand was still in your hair, and you felt your face being lifted up to view Alex’s long cock. He let it rest against your cheek, its warmth teasing you in a surprisingly comforting way. You used your tongue to lick up and down his generous length.

Alex moaned,

“Fuck… No wonder you rush home from work, Captain. Holy shit.”

Price chuckled, releasing your hair so that Alex could do as he pleased with you,

“She’s bloody brilliant, aye?”

You felt something tugging your body backward, and you knew Johnny had moved beneath you because his mouth was punishing your clit, making you want to come again. You moaned around Alex, making him cry out as well from the feeling.

Then, you felt the tell-tale prod of someone’s cock nestling itself against your wet hole. Surprised, you tried to pull away from Alex to look behind you. Alex grabbed your head before you did, though and forced your mouth back down,

“Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay, sugar. It’s just Garrick. Lookin’ like he’s gonna die if he doesn’t get to fuck you right this goddamn second. Ain’t that right, Gaz?”

“Fuckin’ right,” Gaz grumbled, feeding himself into you as Johnny ate you out.

You thought you might die from the pleasure. You came around him as he entered you, forcing him to stop. You were bearing down so hard that you thought you might accidentally wet yourself. You tried to get it under control, riding wave after wave of your orgasm as Johnny sucked your folds and fondled your clit.

“Tha’s beautiful, lass. Your poor wee cunt doesnae ken what to make of all this, hm?”

“She’s being such a good girl, Cap. Takin’ me so well,” Gaz crooned, reaching forward to rest his big hands on your hips as he began to thrust in earnest.

Every time he pushed you forward, you would swallow deeper onto Alex’s cock, and Johnny’s tongue would rush through your folds and across your clit.

Suddenly, your other hand was being given a task to complete. It was Alejandro. He had taken your hand in his and bent to kiss your knuckles, soft and sweet as if you were a princess. Then, he let it rest on top of his uncut cockhead, allowing you to find a similar rhythm for him as you had for Price, rubbing his rod as steadily as you could manage.

Alex increased his pace, grunting like an animal as he fucked himself into your throat. Price encouraged him,

“Don’t feed it to her, Keller. She wants it in that sweet cunt of hers, don’t you, pretty girl?”

You felt Gaz and Alex pull away from you at the same time, and you gasped, agonized by the hollowness that you were experiencing. Then, a warm hand braced against your ass cheek, squeezing you fiercely, and Alex pressed himself in where Gaz had been steadily putting in the work.

The new sensation of another man’s cock was incredible, and with Johnny eating you like he was starving, you had no trouble coming with Alex as he pounded himself into you mercilessly. His guttural screams were tantalizing, and you wished you could see his face.

“Fuck! Oh, my God – Fuck!” Alex grunted through gritted teeth, holding onto your body as tight as he could, filling you full of his come.

As he fell away from you, Gaz replaced him, getting back to his mission dutifully and with renewed vigor, slipping through the other man’s come easily. Johnny moved up your body, kissing your belly, sucking on your skin, finding your nipples as they jiggled while Garrick was fucking himself into you, and you watched someone new come up to your face.

Simon bent down to kiss you, biting your lip and tasting his friends on your tongue. He licked your neck, sucking on the skin hard enough to leave a bruise. He joined Johnny at your breasts, suckling from the opposite one as the eager sergeant.

Just as you were being lulled into an orgasmic trance from their ministrations, you felt Gaz shudder. He came breathlessly, gasping out quiet moans and little yeses and pleases and wordless prayers as he started to spill out into you. His cock reached further than Alex’s, and you felt a different sort of fullness as he held himself inside of you, throbbing against your cervix, tickling the entrance to your womb.

You felt his plump lips leave a trail of kisses along your bare back, and then he pulled away from you, letting his and Alex’s come drip onto the concrete floor below you.

Simon and Johnny stood, each taking their place at your throat and your pussy, entering you at the same time and letting out similar groans of agonizing pleasure. Johnny was stuffing himself into your cunt, and Simon was dragging his cock down your throat, going much deeper than you had ever taken anyone before.

MacTavish was almost too thick, and he had to stretch you more than Gaz or Alex. He wasn’t particularly long, but he was curved in just the right way, and you started to scream, muffled by Simon’s dick in your mouth.

It made Simon wild. He spoke to his sergeant in staccato’d bursts,

“Fuck, Johnny. Just like that, mate. Makin’ her scream around me. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

“She’s so tight, Si. Shite! I’m gonna come so fast,” MacTavish groaned, pulling your ass cheeks apart as he fucked you, watching your asshole gape open as he did, “God, Cap. How do you last?”

Your captain chuckled darkly, petting your breasts as they swung freely,

“I fuckin’ don’t, mate.”

Johnny was now sheathed in your pussy to his hilt, grinding into you rather than pounding, almost as if he was massaging your walls from the inside, making you feel so full. His hand found your clit that he’d been punishing, and he used your own fluids to smear lazy circles around and around.

You could feel your legs begin to shake involuntarily. You tried to stop it, gripping onto Alejandro and Price for dear life in your hands, and crying out around Simon’s cock in your throat for relief.

All four of the men were noisy now, basking in your rolling pleasure, watching you writhe and tense beneath them. Gaz returned to you, kneeling down to lick your breasts, sucking on them harder than Johnny did, taking more of your flesh into his mouth.

Gaz looked up at your face, stuffed full of Simon’s cock, and he talked to you even though you couldn’t respond, drool dripping out of the sides of your lips,

“Are you havin’ a good time, babe? You’re so damn pretty. Look at these gorgeous fuckin’ tits.”

The way he was sucking on them was so intense that you felt yourself clench hard around Johnny, hearing him moan.

He slapped your ass, grunting,

“Fuck! Again. Do it again, lass.”

You tried to oblige, bearing down on him and squeezing with all of your might.

“Yes, yes, yes, gonna make me come - fuck!”

Johnny grabbed ahold of your harness and threw himself into you at a breakneck pace, the fluids inside of your core splattering you and him as he crushed himself into you. Simon pulled out of you, commanding you,

“That’s right. Scream for it. I wanna hear you.”

You let out a long, trembling whine, and then,

“Oh, fuuuuckkkkk…”

Johnny ground himself into you again, painting your pussy with his come. There was so much of it that you could feel it now, settling in your belly.

The sergeant pulled himself out of you with a slick pop, and bent to lick his own come off of your folds. You screamed again, feeling as if you would be shoved into another wild orgasm if he kept it up. But, then, Simon came to your rescue, grumbling,

“Out of the way, mate.”

Simon moved into place behind you, grabbing Johnny by his mohawk and shoving him back, and hungrily rubbed his cock through your ass checks, massaging himself. Alejandro took his position at your mouth and used you easily. Simon had done a good job of getting you used to his roughness when he fucked your throat, and his treatment of your cunt was no different. Johnny had been big, but he was a lamb compared to the lion taking you from behind now.

Simon had pulled your legs around his waist, holding you in place there, and he was eager to fuck you hard. You felt your bones rattle as he slammed his length into you, making the most animalistic sounds as he did so.

“Tha’s how she likes it, innit, Captain? Like a dirty little slag,” Simon observed, able to feel how your walls fluttered around him, excited and anticipatory.

Price smiled down at you, and you could see his hand leave your breast and search for your ass. He grabbed your ass cheek and pulled it away until your hole was wide open for him, and he used his thick finger to tease you within an inch of your life. You were transported to another dimension of pleasure, and he knew exactly how to turn you on.

“This is how she likes it, Simon. All her pretty holes filled.”

“We can do tha’, can’t we? Proper stuffed.” Simon laughed, understanding what you liked and fully happy to give it to you.

Price removed his hand and Simon replaced it, spitting into his fingers and rubbing two of them just inside of your asshole, stretching you out. He then put them deeper in and pressed downward, feeling his own cock through the thin membrane between your two holes, groaning in a deeper, darker tone.

Alejandro got your attention then by holding himself inside of your throat for a three-count, and then a five-count, and then for a period of time when you lost count. You were choking so much that your body was convulsing, and as he ripped his cock from your throat, rivulets of drool fell out of your mouth and onto the concrete.

“A la chingada! Dame tu boca, mi linda.” Fuck it! Give me your mouth, pretty one. Alejandro lamented, kneeling in front of you and kissing you through your mess of spit and drool. He smiled and stood again, rubbing his wet cock all over the outside of your face, making you sticky with his precome and with your own fluids.

He gave you just the head of his dick and you swirled your tongue around it, suckling from it like it would feed you, and he cried out in pleasure,

“Fuck! Are you gonna come or not, pendejo? ‘Cause I need to.”

Simon didn’t answer. He just fucked you even harder. It was as if he had been holding back this entire time. He grabbed your hair and forced your body to arch high into the air, pounding into you with wet, slapping noises and grunting over your screams. You couldn’t continue rubbing Price’s cock, nor were you able to suck Alejandro’s head. You were at Simon’s demonic mercy.

He came without halting. He fucked you right through his own pleasure, listening to you moan and feeling you bearing down around him, pushing his seed as deep into you as it would go. When he finally let go of your hair and removed himself from you, it felt like he was taking your insides with him. You felt so empty, it made you whine.

“Shh, shh. I know, love,” Price soothed you, moving to your face to kiss you and lick your neck, “You’re doing so good. You ready for me, hm?”

“I need you so bad, John,” you told him through pleasure-wrought tears.

“I know, baby. I know. Be a good girl for me.”

You nodded, feeling Alejandro push himself through Simon’s wet spend. It only took a few thrusts for him to coat your walls as well. There was so much come in you, your belly felt swollen.

Finally, it was the captain’s turn. You and he were alone at the pole, and you felt him cut your rope in one quick slice. He caught you before you fell, holding you to him, knowing you couldn’t stand on your trembling legs. He lifted you up and made you turn to face the group of men who had just finished pleasuring you. They were all in states of undress, panting and laying on the firetruck or on the ground. Simon was jacking off again, as was Alex, thoroughly enjoying the show.

Price fucked you like this, holding your body in front of him, letting you face his team as he struggled to fit himself into you. You had forgotten how big he was compared to normal men. Your eyes reflected your shock. Encouraged, the men began to stir, despite their exhaustion, nearly every one of them had his cock in his hand.

You felt yourself come again, no warning this time, and Price let out a long, threatening growl,

“You are so fuckin’ beautiful, love. Did so good for us. Takin’ my men so well. I knew you could do it. Good girl. Such a fuckin’ good girl. My fuckin’ girl. Whose cock do you like best, baby?”

“Yours, John,” you cried out.

“Whose?” He demanded, shouting at you through gritted teeth.

“Yours! Yours. Yours.” You chanted, feeling him begin to pulse inside of you.

“Tha’s fuckin’ right.”

Price came in you so much and for so long, you thought you had mistaken what was happening to you. But, it was dripping out of you and onto the floor in little white splatters.

Keeping his wits about him, Price whistled to Johnny and he came over with a big blanket, helping Price wrap you in it to keep you warm. You couldn’t stop shaking.

Price smiled, bending down to kiss you as you were wrapped in Johnny’s arms, surrounded by the whole team,

“Go get some rest, love. Your pole-cleaning duties are on hold… for now.”

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