hangesophtalmologist - Tumblr blog

hangesophtalmologist · 4 months ago

Text

the weight of your world on my shoulders

lando norris

pairing: lando norris x driver!reader

tropes: rivals to lovers?, forbidden romance

genre: fluff, angst

synopsis: waking up in the same hotel room as your infuriating rival would have been so much less trouble if he didn’t make you feel that way… or if your team principal wasn’t on the hunt for you. And most importantly, if you weren’t both F1 drivers.

warnings: suggestive content, angst

The sharp rays of morning sunlight streamed through the gap in the hotel curtains, illuminating the chaos in the room. You groaned as you turned over, your face half-buried in a pillow, and blinked groggily at the unfamiliar surroundings. Beside you, messy curls were spilled over the pillow as a body stirred, bushy brows furrowing as the man took in the scattered remnants of last night’s celebration.

Your eyes widened as realization dawned. “Oh, no.”

Lando sat up abruptly, the sheet slipping off his torso to reveal his bare chest. “What the hell?” he mumbled, running a hand through his messy hair. His gaze fell on you, half-dressed in last night’s pants and a bra and his heart stuttered.

The look of horror on your face would have made him laugh if it wasn't for his own confusion. You yanked the sheet over your lap, shifting away from him as you tried your best to look everywhere but his naked torso.

“Yeah, what the actual hell," you repeated, sending him an accusing look. "Did we...?” you started with a frown, trailing off awkwardly.

“I…” Lando’s mouth opened and closed as his brain struggled to piece together the events of the previous night. “I don’t know. Did we?”

Your eyes narrowed, and a flash of memory hit you like a freight train. You had argued about whose room it was—fighting as always, stubbornly shouting at each other.

But the only thing you could remember after that was Lando’s clumsy attempt to unclasp your bra, his hands fumbling and his drunken frustration palpable. The blurry memory made your stomach flip, heat rushing to your cheeks in an embarrassing display of fluster. “You!” you gasped, crossing your arms defensively across your chest.

Lando’s eyebrows shot up, his gaze feeling all too heavy on your bare skin. “Me what?”

“I'm going to the bathroom,” you snapped, scrambling out of bed and heading straight for the bathroom, your steps hurried but unsteady.

Once inside, the door slammed shut and you pressed your back against it, heart pounding. This could not be happening. Everyone from your team principal to the fans would kill you both if they knew—but you'd have killed yourself first from shame. Lando? Seriously? Your insufferable rival and the cockiest, most arrogant man to ever live? You had spent way too many years throwing insults at his face to be found in his—or your—whose room was it in the end?—bed half-naked. Shame on you, you thought, I hope you haven't been this stupid.

"This is why you never drink," you pointed an accusing finger at your reflection in the mirror.

Intending to wash the hypocrisy off your skin with a cold shower, you reached behind to unhook the offending piece of lingerie, only to discover that it was still impossibly stuck. No amount of twisting or pulling seemed to work. So the failure of your attempts - having led the active participation of your coworker - wasn't due to the alcohol. It was indeed not budging.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, praying to any god in any religion to hear your plea and either unclasp this cursed bra or strike you down with lightning.

Outside, Lando softly knocked on the door. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”. Lies.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he commented, his voice laced with amusement.

You opened the door a crack, still clutching the clasp behind your back. “Just a logistical issue. None of your concern.”

You'd rather shower fully clothed than let this- this dangerous man approach you once more.

His smirk grew, green eyes sparkling with mischief. Damn he really was attractive.

“Need help?”

Your glare was enough to kill, but the growing heat in your cheeks betrayed you. “Oh, you've done enough, Norris.”

He chuckled, gripping the side of the door and gently pushing it open, ignoring your protests.

"Come on, I already tried last night. What's the harm?" he smirked as he stepped into the bathroom, invading your senses with his scent, his warmth, his voice, and the otherworldly vision of his sculpted naked chest.

"So you do remember, you dipshit," you muttered to conceal your fluster. Still, you gave in, timidly offering your back to him. "I'm warning you, no funny business."

Lando’s lips twitched as he stepped closer, the air thick with a mix of amusement and something far more dangerous. You could tell he was holding his breath—when he finally exhaled, the coldness brushed against your back and sent a jolt through you. You cursed inwardly at the effect he had on you.

“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual. Then his knuckles grazed your skin, and it was like your entire body was burning in flames.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken tension. You could feel his nervousness through the fidgeting around the clasp, through how silent he was—no jokes, no teasing, no comment on the shivers that kept running on your skin with each of his movements. Just the deafening batter of your hearts.

The proximity was unbearable; the air between you seemed to sizzle.

His fingers stole the breath that was caught in your throat as they grazed your back with more force. You didn't know if Lando was purposefully taking his time or if he was genuinely struggling, but all you could think about was his hands on your skin, his breath on your shoulder, and how careful he was, trying not to touch you too much and how close you were to losing your m-

“There,” he said softly, the clasp finally giving way.

You inhaled sharply, snapping out of your thoughts. Quickly, your arms jumped over your chest, clutching your bra, and you turned to face him. Shit. Your body was overheating and you feared you just made it worse. You couldn't escape his burning gaze. Lando was looking down at you with such intensity you felt like you were being set on fire. Again.

His eyes lingered on you for a long moment before he cleared his throat. “I don’t think we slept together,” he murmured, finally breaking the silence.

Relief eased the tension in your shoulders, and you finally found your voice. “Do you remember everything?”

“No, I don't remember much, but,” he clicked his tongue, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face, “there’s just no way I’d leave your neck without any mark.”

Jaw. Dropped.

Your lips moved to respond, to curse his arrogance but no sound came out. Shit. It was hard to think when flashes of forbidden scenes kept inundating your imagination, and your heart threatened to burst out of your chest.

Lando, cautiously and almost predatorily scrutinizing each inch of your face, must have read your thoughts—something in his eyes snapped. Almost shyly—as if bracing for a rejection—he leaned in, his lips brushing your neck and sending you both into oblivion. Slowly, he kissed the skin there, searching for a sensitive spot. When you let out a small sound of pleasure, his hands tensed on your waist.

For a second.

Then hell broke down and it was like you had unleashed its wildest flames as his hands, once well-behaved, were now insatiable and eager to burn every parcel of your skin and hold you closer than ever. You gasped, heat flooding your body, your resolve crumbling under his touch. Your fingers dived into his rebellious curls, pulling him away and closer at the same time, earning a soft groan that reverberated against your neck.

When you heard him curse, you realized you could feel him everywhere—his warmth engulfing you in your mutual insatiable desire.

Then came the knock at the door.

As if a spell was broken, you jumped in surprise and pushed Lando away, your heart racing. “Shit,” you hissed, still panting while exchanging a panicked look with him. "What do we do?"

"Go open the door," Lando whispered back, his eyes wide with insistence.

"Are you mad? I’m freaking half-naked!"

"Me too," he protested. "And I’m not exactly presentable," he added through gritted teeth.

"You’re a man, you won’t shock anyone with your tits," you whispered-yelled, missing the point he was trying to make and pushing him out of the bathroom. "It’s your fault anyway!" you muttered as you locked yourself in.

Lando sighed despite the smile that fought his way to his lips. He scrambled to answer the door, throwing on a discarded shirt and running a hand through his hair.

Toto Wolff stood there, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

Fuck. This was not his room.

“Norris,” Toto said in a measured tone, a lot less friendly than usual. “Why are you in Y/N’s room?”

Lando blinked, his brain scrambling for an answer. “Uh… it’s— I'm... we- we swapped rooms by mistake. You know how these things go. Lots of champagne last night.”

Toto’s gaze was skeptical, his eyes flicking to the room’s disheveled state. “What’s your room number?”

“I… don’t remember,” Lando lied, stalling.

From the bathroom, the sound of the water turning on made Toto’s eyebrow arch higher. Lando cursed internally—you just had to take a shower right now and make things worse.

"I suppose I would be wrong to assume Y/N is currently showering?" the German man asked sternly, and the question seemed more like a threat than an inquiry.

They’d definitely be both in tremendous trouble if any of their team found out about this night—even if technically, nothing had happened. Until three minutes ago.

"Ha, what? Her?" Lando faked a laugh, a tad bit too high-pitched to be authentic. "I told you, she slept in my room on another floor. This is uh- um? My- well, my girlfriend."

The dubious expression of Mercedes' team principal cracked into a perplexed one, a frown carving a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"Weren't you single?"

"Not anymore," Lando insisted, a fake smile tearing his face in two. "So, I'd appreciate it if you could..."

“Oh yes, of course,” Toto nodded slowly. “Well, I'll ask the reception for your room number. Don't do these... swaps again, it's inconvenient.” He turned and left, but not before casting one last suspicious glance over his shoulder.

The second he was out of sight, Lando shut the door and bolted for the bathroom, knocking urgently. “Y/n! Toto’s onto us.”

You emerged hastily, your hair damp, a toothbrush in your hand and a bathrobe clutched around you. Water dripped onto the carpet as you stared at him, wide-eyed. “What did he say?”

“He-" Lando's voice dropped as he took in your appearance, and he had to swallow thickly to continue. "He wants to talk to you."

“Great,” you muttered. “I can’t stay here.”

All sense of urgency seemed to have evaporated from Lando's mind as he tried his best not to follow the path of the raindrops running down your wet skin. “We need to get you to my room before Toto figures this out,” he finally got out, mumbling incoherently as he grabbed your arm. “Come on.”

You rushed out, still scarcely dressed, barely managing to slip on some sliders before you parted ways—you to the elevator, him to the stairs, staying behind to stall Toto in case he was already coming your way. As both of you reached his room simultaneously, you darted inside, locking the door behind him.

You plopped yourself on the bed, putting a hand over your pounding heart as you layed down. I can't believe I raced in a hotel in a bathrobe because of that idiot, you thought. But your mind wasn't focused on that. It couldn't stop replaying the moment his lips touched your neck - and you could feel your treacherous, treacherous body yearning for more.

This wasn't like you - you shouldn't feel comfortable being so exposed near your co-worker, shouldn't feel butterflies at the proximity with your rival, should feel regret about waking up by his side. But you didn't.

Your thoughts drifted again - maybe you're at ease because you want this intimacy. Slapping your hands across your forehead to slap those ideas away, you pouted, too confused with the external and internal chaos to think clearly.

“This is your fault,” you muttered, more meaning to your words than what he could understand. "I toldyou it was my room."

It was more meant to yourself than to him, but he chuckled nonetheless. “You’re the one who complained your bra wasn't comfortable to sleep in,” the driver teased, sitting beside you. "I just helped."

“Lando…” Your tone was a warning.

He laughed again, and your stomach tied itself into knots. You closed your eyes, trying vainly to distance yourself from him even if it was just for a second. But his arm brushed yours as he lay down next to you and it undid all your careful efforts to curb your racing heart.

Both of you knew Lando should go before Toto arrived - but you couldn't bring yourselves to voice it out loud. Maybe it was because you knew this was a forbidden situation that you couldn't bring it to an end, knowing it could never happen again. Your neck still burned from the touch of his lips.

It was so much easier to ignore the tension - masked by meaningless banter and insults - between you two when you could still deny how attracted you were to him. Clearly, you'd overestimated the power of your reason over your feelings. A romance between two drivers? Not. Possible. You knew it. But your heart wasn't racing for a pilot - it was racing for the boy you'd raced against for years. You'd known for years. And that you happened to race against still.

"Y/n," Lando said your name - but it was different from usual. It was like he was unsure of it - like he was tasting it for the first time.

Heart pounding, you opened your eyes, turning your head towards where his rested on the mattress. Your heart stuttered over the proximity and that flick of something that haunted his gaze when he looked at you. His eyes flickered to your lips, less than a second but you caught it and butterflies swarmed your stomach.

"I-"

The knock on the door cut his sentence short.

Toto again.

Your bubble exploded and you jumped on your feet, not noticing the curses leaving your rival's mouth.

"Just a minute!" you shouted across the door.

Lando reluctantly stood up, in stark contrast to your agitation - and even had the nerve to look confused when you made big, urgent signs at him.

"Clothes, you bonehead," you hissed quietly, watching as he jogged across the room. "No, not McLaren gear, are you crazy?"

"I don't have anything else!" Lando whispered back, rummaging through his luggage. "Ah, there."

He threw a jogging and a hoodie your way, holding a laugh when it slapped you across the face. Not resisting the urge to wipe his smile, you swiftly grabbed the slider of your right foot and yeeted it at his head, only missing because he darted into the bathroom to hide himself and stifle his laugh. You scoffed at his antics, quickly dressing and composing yourself to answer the door.

Toto’s imposing frame filled the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice clipped. “I had trouble finding you.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you leaned casually against the doorframe, displaying an annoyed expression. "This little- Norris insisted my room was his, so I had to swap if I wanted to get a few hours of sleep."

Toto’s sharp eyes scanned the room behind you. “Is that so?”

“Yep!” you said quickly, your voice a little too chipper.

The man stepped forward, and you had no choice but to let him in. You watched as his gaze fell on the bed, noticing that it was already made - not knowing it was because no one had slept in it.

“I came to talk to you about a team meeting," the team principal finally admitted, visibly relaxing. "But first, this situation with Lando reminded me of something I wanted to tell you. I know we don't often talk about your love life and whatsoever, because I respect that you're a private person."

Oh God, end me right now.

"Toto, we don't need to talk about this now," you chuckled nervously, all too aware of Lando's presence right next to them.

"Please, Y/n. My wife has been nagging me about that dating clause in your contract. I want to make sure that you know I have no intentions of disrespecting you or underestim-"

"Toto, Toto." You gently cut short the conversation, harshly bringing yourself back to reality. As if a fog surrounding your mind evaporated, the consequences of your actions dawned onto you.

"I signed the dating ban because it doesn't change anything for me, and it reassures you. I will never-" you paused. The words had been carved in your brain for years, reminding you exactly what you were fighting for and what were your priorities. Yet they had never tasted so sour on your tongue. "-ever date someone in the business. I'm not granted the indulgence that men have. I have the burden to be irreproachable because I refuse to give weapons or basis for speculation on my merit to the people who want to keep women out of F1."

There was anger in your eyes. You were angry at the world for being that way, at Toto for forcing you to voice out loud the weight he knew you had to carry, at Lando for making your determination waver. At yourself for wavering.

Your tone was accusatory when you spoke again. "You should know this better than anyone. I have to be perfect, Toto. On every aspect."

Though if this morning proved one thing, it was that it proved to be harder than you had anticipated.

Toto sighed, crossing his arms against his chest in a disapproving manner. "You know, it is Suzie that told me to talk about this with you. Yes, I know what they have said about her and I can imagine very well what they could say about you. But this is not a realistic way to live your life. I didn't ban you from dating the rest of humanity."

Ouch. Didn't need him to remind me I've been single for a painfully long time.

"I know. I won't lie to you and say I didn't feel insulted by the clause, but I understand. For all it's worth, I appreciate that you made Lewis sign it too."

"Of course," the team principal offered you a gentle smile. "Well, with all that being said, I did get worried when Lando opened your door this morning. I don't know where she gets that, but Suzie says there is something between you two. I almost thought she was right."

You froze, an all-too-tense smile forcing its way on your face. "No way, we've just known each other a long time. I can't stand that dumb face of his. I barely get through the weekends, let alone-"

The sound of your phone ringing from the pocket of the discarded bathrobe interrupted you, and Toto bent down to pick it up. His shoulders tensed immediately upon seeing the caller ID, lips pressing into a thin line, and you widened your eyes when he held it out to you. Lando. Why did that fool have to call you right now-

"Must be about returning his stuff," you stammered, your mind racing. "Excuse me for a sec'."

Slipping inside the bathroom where the curly haired driver hid, you whispered furiously, asking what he was doing - calling you right as you were assuring your team principal that you never interact with him. Not answering, Lando blinked several times, momentarily stunned by how his hoodie seemed to hang perfectly on you. He cleared his throat, swallowing thickly and muttering something you didn't quite catch - about you knowing how to kill a man or something.

"What?" you pretended to talk over the phone, shooting him a pointed look, growing acutely self-aware under his intense staring.

Tearing his eyes away from your figure and focusing back on the situation, he signed to your neck and when you pushed past him to look into the mirror, an horrified gasp fell from your lips. Your pulse quickened. If Toto saw the faint bruise - the hickey - there would be no saving this situation. Thank God, Lando had remembered before anything happened but still-

“You asshole," you tried to slap his arm, but the man dodged with an apologetic smirk. "What do I do now?"

“Relax,” Lando said quietly, barely above a whisper, the ghost of his hand hovering above your shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. Just… don’t let him see it.”

You groaned, quickly letting your hair down to cover the mark. But it wasn’t enough. You needed a solution. “Great advice, genius. Any idea how to proceed?” you kept pretending to speak over the phone.

Make-up? you mouthed, but Lando shook his head negatively. Instead, searching his bathroom drawers, he victoriously grabbed a box, turning back to you with a smug look.

It was box of bandaids.

You stared at him, incredulous. “That’s your solution?”

“You have a better idea?” he silently shot back, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips.

Without waiting for your response, he stepped closer to you and gently pushed your damp hair aside. His fingers lingered against your skin, and you froze, your breath hitching as his touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Lando…” you warned, your voice a whisper.

“I’ll be quick,” he murmured, his eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment. Frowning at the lack of light, he directed you toward the sink, his hand grazing the small of your back and sending your heart pounding against your chest.

You tried to give him more room by plopping yourself on the sink, but him placing himself between your legs and leaning toward your neck was doing nothing to help you both.

Yet, this time, there was something daunting about the rapid rhythm of your heart - like it was frantically chasing after something it could never have. The conversation you just had with Toto removed the blissful veil of denial that the night had tucked you in.

You had grabbed the doorknob of a door that was supposed to stay locked.

When Lando finally placed the band-aid over the mark, his thumb brushed softly your jawline, and you were glad you were sat because your knees nearly gave up. Finished with its task, his hand slowly fell to your thigh, burning the skin there. You inhaled sharply, closing your eyes to compose yourself.

Your resolve wouldn't crumble this time, you thought.

But when, determined, you finally reopened them, you weren't prepared for the arrow of guilt that pierced your heart. Lando's smile was stiff. Resigned. Accepting the wall you'd built between you two.

He'd heard you. Of course.

You didn't know how he felt or what he thought about what happened between the two of you. What you told Toto shouldn't really matter; yet somehow it felt exactly like when you say the wrong thing and don't realize it until it is too late.

You shouldn't feel remorse, but the aching pain in your chest looked a lot like it. There was no going back. You closed the door before you got to see what was behind, not admitting to him that you would have liked to take a peek.

"Thank you," your breath carried the meaningless words. There was nothing left to say. The silence had said enough. Lando simply nodded, his eyes full of the words sealed behind his lips.

You emerged from the bathroom, dragging behind a weight that felt a lot like your sullen heart, to find Toto sitting in the armchair, his sharp gaze flicking to you. You did your best to look casual, despite the rising tension in the room.

Toto’s piercing gaze immediately locked onto you, his expression unreadable. His brow lifted as an inquiry, one you deliberately ignored.

Taking one more second to collect your thoughts, you exhaled loudly. "Sorry. What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

Your team principal still looked skeptical but he let it slide. For now. “Be at the paddock in an hour. And maybe try not to get involved in any more... swaps with Norris.”

You nodded quickly, and Toto rose to leave. But just as he reached the door, he paused, turning back toward you.

“One more thing.”

Your stomach dropped. “Yes?”

“Do you simply happen to own hoodies from his merch or is it his?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

Toto’s eyes fell to where a logo was printed on the hoodie - a Quadrant logo. If you could facepalm right now, you would have crushed your skull with the force of despair. Since you couldn't, your mind raced instead, scrambling for an excuse. “I, uh… lost a dare. Had to wear his merch for an entire day. But I'll change for the team meeting.”

“Hmm,” Toto said, clearly unconvinced. He glanced at the bathroom door, then back at you. “Make sure you’re focused today.”

You nodded again, barely breathing until he finally left.

You sighed, leaning against the door and rubbing your temples. “This is a disaster.”

When Lando slid out of the bathroom, the same ache returned in your chest. You looked at each other across the room, feeling like you were across two poles of the planet.

"We're screwed?" he asked with a faint smile, his mischievous glint returning slowly in his eyes.

"Totally. But thanks anyway."

"Of course. Not like it was my fault or anything."

A genuine laugh escaped your lips, a familiar warmth flooded your stomach. Lando's face softened upon hearing the sound. For a moment, the air between you two settled into something lighter, the tension from earlier dissolving just a bit. You finally muttered the courage to let yourself focus on Lando and take in the sight of him - no matter the feelings that arose inside you.

He looked different here. Not just your rival. Not just your co-worker. Leaning against the doorframe, staring back at you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter, he felt like something more - something you weren’t sure you were ready to name. His eyes lingered, trailing over your face like he was memorizing it and the easy smile he wore didn’t quite reach the flicker of uncertainty beneath it.

There was no playfulness in the way he shifted, his knuckles grazing the edge of the bathroom door as if debating whether to step closer. You were all too aware of the distance separating you two - guiltiness gnawing at your heart. You felt like a hypocrite, for wanting him to crush the very distance you held onto so dearly.

When a knock surprised you both again, you were almost relieved, desperate to escape the web of contradictions you were tangled in. Lando, as if reading your mind, sighed heavily. His jaw tightened before he stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him a bit harsher than intended.

Ignoring the uneasy feeling in your heart, you opened the door with a forced smile plastered on your face.

"Yes, Toto, I—" You stopped mid-sentence, your words catching in your throat as you looked up at the unexpected face in front of you. "Oh. Um—Marc, hi."

Standing awkwardly in the doorway was Marc, the young McLaren engineer you'd befriended at the start of the season. His brown eyes widened upon seeing you, lips stretching into a genuine smile. "Hi, hey! Um- I- Toto told me I'd find you here," he greeted you, clearly nervous and shifting awkwardly on his feet.

"Yeah, there was a bit of a room mix-up last night," you explained, relaxing, your voice softening as you tried to make him feel at ease. No matter how terrible his timing was, you couldn't bring yourself to send him away. "How are you?"

"I'm good, good," he replied, but the unease in his tone was palpable. "Uh... sorry if this isn't the best time. I just—well, we talked a lot last night at the party, and, um, it was really fun. And I’ve been thinking about it. About you, actually... for a while."

Your heart dropped to your stomach, your smile faltering. Oh no. Not now, not here, please-

"I know it's not really... well, romantic. But I just wanted to say this before I lost the courage..." he continued as dread settled into your stomach. "Would you like to have dinner with me somed-"

His words died in his throat as the sudden sound of the water being turned on suddenly cracked through the room. Lando. You turned around with a gasp as you realized what was happening.

"Oh." Marc’s face fell, the realization settling over him like a cloud. He looked away, his cheeks reddening.

"No, it's not what you—" you started, but Marc was already stepping back, the hurt written all over his face.

"It’s fine," he said quickly, his voice trembling slightly. "I assumed- I mean, I should've known- I get it."

"Marc, I don't-"

"You don’t owe me any explanation, Y/n. Don’t worry- it's me."

"I'm so sorry, it's not-"

"Don't apologize, please. Let's- yeah I'll just go. Just forget about it, it's all good."

Before you could stop him, he was already retreating, throwing you a small, pained smile. Your throat tightened, and you opened your mouth to call his name, but the words wouldn't come.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you stood frozen, wishing you could melt into the floor. You’d never meant to put him in that position— to put such a kind and humble man through this embarrassment... God you wanted to disappear of the Earth's surface. It was all too much.

Frustrated, you stormed into the bathroom, your heart pounding in your chest as you pushed the door open with more force than necessary.

Lando stood by the sink, fully dressed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in that effortless way that made him look annoyingly attractive. The water ran freely, steam curling around his arms, though he paid it no attention, focusing instead on his phone.

You grabbed the faucet and twisted it off with a sharp snap. The abrupt silence in the room was deafening. Lando slowly lifted his gaze, his brows raising in mock surprise.

"Really, Lando?" you snapped, crossing your arms tightly across your chest.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his own arms in response, mirroring your posture. The sharpness in his eyes was new, laced with something unreadable—something that made your breath catch in your throat.

“What’s going on?” he asked with a nonchalance that only served to infuriate you more. But there was something in his voice—something dangerous lurking beneath the casual facade.

“Are you happy with your little stunt?” you shot back, stepping closer.

His smirk deepened, head tilting slightly as if amused by the accusation. “You did the same thing when I opened the door to Toto.” His eyes flickered with that teasing glint, but you weren’t in the mood to play his games.

You took a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. “It’s different. And I was actually showering. Do you have any idea how that looked for Marc?”

Lando scoffed, the sound soft but cutting. “I’m sorry Marc discovered you spent the night with another man,” he said, voice laced with mockery and something darker - almost possessive. “Which you did.”

Your frown deepened, confusion flickering across your face. “It wasn’t like that, and you know it.”

His eyes darkened, and he stepped closer. The space between you evaporated, leaving only the subtle crackle of tension hanging in the air. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second before meeting your eyes again.

“Do you actually like him?” His voice was lower now, softer but strained—as if the question was something he didn’t want to ask but couldn’t hold back. His tone sent a shiver down your spine, and your heart slammed against your ribs.

A scoff escape your lips - the answer was obvious, but it was none of his business. “No. We’re fr-”

“Then I spared you an awkward rejection. I don’t see what you’re complaining about,” he cut in, the smugness returning to his features.

You pressed your lips together, your frustration losing strength as he effortlessly turned the situation in his favor. “It wasn’t fair to him,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Lando’s jaw tightened. “How’s that fair to me?” His voice dropped, gravelly and low, the weight of his words hitting you like a freight train. “Slept with me... then flaunted all the other guys you have? I didn’t know you were such a heartbreaker, Y/n.”

You blinked, your pulse quickening despite the teasing glint in his eye. He was toying with you, but the undercurrent in his voice held something else. Something more.

“Oh, I slept with you now?” you said, trying to brush off the weight of the moment with humor. “You better not go around telling people that.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, the flicker of mischief in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a frown. “Right. Wouldn’t want you out of contract next season.”

Your heart stumbled, his words slicing through the facade you tried to keep up. It was the first time he acknowledged what you’d said to Toto.

“Hmm.” It was all you could manage, your throat suddenly tight.

Lando leaned back, watching your reaction carefully. “Is Marc aware that you legally can’t date him?”

There it was again. The jealousy - subtle but unmistakeable. Well, not really subtle. But definitely unexpected - and you did not know how to deal with it or with how it made you feel. Wanted.

“I can date him. He’s not Mercedes personnel. Or... a driver.” The word felt heavy on your tongue, your eyes flickering to the door as if searching for an escape. "You should read your contracts more carefully, Norris.”

He held your gaze, something unreadable flickering across his features.

“I don’t have the clause in my contract,” he said after a beat, the words casual but heavy with implication.

You froze, blinking up at him. “What?”

From what you heard, most of the drivers had to sign a dating ban similar to yours - a subtle way of assuring everyone that they wouldn't date you more than anyone else. Assuring the sponsors that they wouldn't have to deal with an unwanted scandal or controversy.

His gaze was unwavering, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he were daring you to understand the weight of what he was saying.

“I refused to sign it.”

The confession lingered in the air between you, heavy and intoxicating. Your heart thudded violently in your chest as his eyes bore into yours, stripping away any pretense you tried to cling to.

He didn't elaborate, didn't give you the satisfaction of an explanation. Instead, he pushed himself off the sink, brushing past you with that same infuriating calm he always wore when the conversation veered too close to something real.

He paused at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. His gaze was soft - understanding. But immensely conflicted.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood frozen, staring at the empty space where he'd just been, heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

It took a moment for it to hit you.

He refused to sign it.

The realization settled over you slowly, like the soft trickle of rain through cracks in a window. Lando had always been reckless, but not about things like this. Not about things that could jeopardize his career.

You felt it now—woven beneath his teasing words, beneath the irritation and jealousy. He hadn't needed to say it out loud.

You pressed your palm to the cool edge of the sink, exhaling shakily as your reflection stared back at you.

Lando Norris didn’t sign the clause because of you.

And for the first time since the season started, doubt tugged at your heart. You were proud of your sacrifices. But the what-ifs slipped through the cracks of your conviction, and suddenly, you wished you didn’t bear such a heavy weight on your shoulders.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #driver!reader #f1 x reader #angst #fluff #forbidden romance #mclaren #mercedes #f1

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hangesophtalmologist · 5 months ago

Text

playing with fire burns like hell

part 2

previous title: the salesman’s obsession

(part 1), part 2

pairing: squid game’s salesman x f! reader

synopsis: you played with fire. the salesman wants to make sure you get burned.

a/n: 1,6k on part 1 y’all are actually crazy, tysm for the support!! I do apologize for taking sm time to write the rest, I usually get really productive in writing when I have important tasks that I ignore, but those were unfortunately impossible to ignore this month.

Days passed, but the Salesman couldn’t shake you from his thoughts. The slap had left an indelible mark—not on his cheek, but somewhere deeper, in the dark, cobwebbed corners of his psyche where he kept his ugliest desires

Each game he won, each slap he gave, each life he condemned tasted bland since your encounter – since you, he had tasted the bitter humiliation he imposed on the lowlifes. He was thirsty for something more than the usual pathetic pleas.

Finding out about your money problems wasn’t hard. Your family had helped you out of a terrible addiction, but despite their financial support, you were still drowning in debt, one step away from taking out a bank loan to keep yourself afloat. Maybe he was too eager to have you back in his claws – he didn’t elaborate a plan. When he approached you again, an invitation card in his pocket and a professional smile on his face, you weren’t surprised to see him.

“You’re persistent,” you had glanced at him dismissively, focusing back on your phone.

“Thorough, I’d say. One must be when dealing with large sums of money.”

You didn’t take the bait. He doubted you would – you were slier, prouder, more deceiving.

“Right,” you smiled with a hint of mocking—a fake, perfect smile he also mastered. “Nothing to do with being a sore loser, Mister?”

He let out a chuckle, ignoring the exhilarating rush of adrenaline filling his veins. He sat next to you, intoxicated by the proximity and the appeal of the game.

“Mrs, what do you think about life?”

You ignored him, but he didn’t mind. He liked your defiance; it would make your submission much more pleasurable.

“I like to think life is game,” he started. “Right now, I am winning. I can do anything I want, buy everything I need, dispose of what I do not like. Tell me, Mrs. Y/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue like he was savoring it, tasting its foreign sound. “Do you think you are winning at life?”

You weren’t. He had spent the last few days watching every single thing you did—how you held back the queue in the supermarket because you didn’t have enough to buy that bag of rice. How you zoned out so that you didn’t have to listen to your boss lecturing you and insulting you. How you couldn’t enter the crowded bus at night and had to walk home for an hour. You were miserable. Poor. Mistreated. With no exit door. He knew you were desperate – he just had to make you admit it to yourself.

You remained silent. The Salesman didn’t realize he had leaned toward you, greedily scrutinizing each of your movements to see the moment where you’d betray your own shame. So, when you turned your head to the side, your lips were inches apart from his, your cold eyes boring fiercely into his, and he felt something dark, something hungry gnawing at him.

“Such a handsome face,” you murmured, gaze traveling over his features, “hiding such ugly thoughts. Shame.”

Your words sounded like purrs to his ear, your disdain fueling the lustful beast inside him.

“Truths are often ugly, I fear,” the man replied slowly, enjoying himself. “That is why people like you usually lie to themselves. Mrs. Y/n, I can help you win something more than a ddakji game.”

Your eyes caught the light reflected on a golden card between his fingers. Triangle, circle, square. No name, no business direction. You scoffed.

“Don’t you have a family to play games with, Mister?” you asked, mocking and cold. “Because I do. Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t go around begging people and waving dollars to their faces so that they’d spare me a minute. But remind me again, who’s winning at life?”

The Salesman cocked his head, licking his lips—enjoying the venom in your voice. The fierceness in your stance when you stood up to walk away. The fire in your eyes. What a pretty little thing you were. And you had just taken the first step in his trap.

“I won’t need to remind you,” he smiled, a smile that could have seemed genuine if not for the threatening undertone of his words. “Take care, Mrs. Y/n. Times are tough.”

You rolled your eyes, dismissing him completely. You made a mental note not to slap lunatics again—they didn’t get over it easily. Casting one last glance at the handsome man you left behind, you shook your head. Too bad he’s a psycho.

The next morning, your phone buzzed—an automated message from the bank. You groaned in your bed, rolling over, and nearly deleted it without reading. Yet your eyes caught the words through your half-closed lids, and your heart dropped. “Loan application denied.”

You stared at the words until they blurred.

It wasn’t possible. You hadn’t defaulted. You hadn’t missed payments.

Yet the numbers didn’t lie.

By noon, you were in front of the bank, jaw tight, as the teller fidgeted behind the glass. His eyes flicked nervously to the side, barely listening to your protest.

“There’s nothing I can do, miss,” he repeated, voice thin and tired.

You sighed, hand twitching as you rubbed your temples, shaking your head in disbelief. But just as you stood up to leave – you saw him. Across the street.

The Salesman.

Leaning casually against a vending machine, a satisfied smirk curled his lips. Watching you intensely. You stared at him, pulse thudding in your ears—it wasn’t possible, was it? He can’t possibly have…

He didn’t wave. Didn’t move. Just smiled. Then he turned on his heels and disappeared in the crowd.

Your heart pounded, ringing in your mind like a daunting alarm, and for the first time, you wondered who exactly was the man you had offended. And just like that, he started haunting every second of your life. Each day brought its share of new problems, piling up like they intended to crush you—and it was too big to be a mere coincidence. A new landlord raising the rent, your company suddenly merging with another one and having to downsize, your car breaking down in the middle of the day. Even without seeing him again, you couldn’t shake off the daunting feeling that the Salesman had something to do with your misfortune.

As days stretched into weeks, the shadows of frustration and despair crept into your movements, your half-smiles becoming taut and forced, and your answers to your family’s worry becoming more dismissive. One day after work, exhausted from the workload of your now-fired colleagues, you sat down on an empty alley, resting your head on your forehead.

Fuck, you thought. How am I going to make it? Life had never been so hard.

Life? Who were you kidding? Your life didn’t change—the laughter of your friends, the taste of food, the warmth of a morning sun—these things hadn’t changed. But suddenly, life wasn’t just yours to experience - you had to earn it, bargain for it, prove yourself worth it again, again and again until you finally lost the last ounce of strength in your body. And it was money - money, money, money, money—and every single thing was about money, and you knew it before, but you didn’t care enough until you had not a single penny in your pocket anymore.

Well. I can probably blame myself a bit for this.

Your eyes fluttered shut, lassitude winning over your body. And when you finally thought you could offer yourself some peace, a muted thump right next to your feet startled you.

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was paper bills. Scattered all over the dirty ground. You almost laughed at yourself—were you so miserable that people now believed you a beggar?

“I don’t need th-“ your words died in your throat when you looked up.

A voice you hadn’t heard in weeks sent a thrill down your spine. “I think you do.”

The Salesman had made his move.

He was towering over you, a pleasant smile on his lips, dark hair framing his beautiful face. There was a flicker of something behind that nonchalance, behind his careful appearance. It was taking him every ounce of self-restraint to tame the rush in his veins. After spending so much time dissecting each aspect of your life, stalking each of your movements, spying on each of your actions—from afar – he finally had you back in his claws, a little mouse pined down mercilessly by the metallic snap of his trap. It was thrilling, to be so close to crushing you. You had never looked as pretty as you did now, broken down, dark circles under your hopeless eyes, colors drained from your cheeks.

But he had to be patient—there was one last hypothesis to test.

“Care for a game?”

A scoffed escape your lips, chuckling until you couldn’t help but burst out laughing. You stood up, facing him with the same fierceness he couldn’t tame.

“I knew it was you.”

Standard protocol would have been to deny – but the Salesman wanted you to know it was him. Him all along. That made you miserable. That had all the power over your life since the day you met. He eagerly drank up each tick of your muscle, each flicker in your eyes. He licked his lips, unable to stop the victorious smirk tearing his face in two.

“Fuck your games,” you muttered, your tone icy, leaning until your faces were inches apart, his gaze falling on your lips. “My life isn’t a game. Stay the hell out of it.”

His expression softened—mocking, theatrical empathy. “If you didn’t hate the game when you thought you were winning, Mrs Y/n, knowing others were losing, are you really allowed to hate it when you finally lose?”

You scoffed—the audacity. Burying the voice in your head telling you he was right and the other screaming at you to scramble to the ground to pick up the bills, you pushed past him. Bumping into his shoulder purposefully, you spat, “Spare me the shabby moral.”

He followed you, hands in his pockets with a widening predatory smile, fingers twitching with excitement as he felt himself get under your skin. “Isn’t moral what led you to help that man in the subway?”

Your feet came to an abrupt stop. You spun, facing him with that same venom in your eyes and in your words—the one he loved to taste and ear. The one he knew was intoxicating your veins, numbing your mind with irrationality. “No. Slapping the living lights out of your mind was the main motivation, actually, Mister. See, I love to see your kind of people, who hate my kind of people, choke in their own egos. Wouldn’t have missed the opportunity.”

“Really?” he cocked his head to the side, a hungry smirk adorning his lips. “No interest in morals or money…? Then how would you explain why you keep glancing behind me, Mrs. Y/N?”

Caught red-handed, the anger that had slipped in your body rushed straight to your brain, drowning every single thought. You swore at him, storming off, pushing the dollar bills out of your mind. You knew he was right behind your heels, but you didn’t care—trying to calm yourself down, gather your thoughts, escape the trap you could feel tightening around you. Yet every time you quickened or slowed your pace, he was following you—a devil on your shoulder, luring you into his games. I understand, life is hard, he’d say. Repeating how much it’s hard to earn enough nowadays. For a moment, you foolishly thought you’d just have to ignore him until he gave up, but-

“And your father’s birthday coming up too. What a shame that you cannot buy him that watch he wanted so-“

The last thread finally snapped – you violently pushed him against a wall, your forearm pressed against his chest. The storm in your eyes sent arrows of thunder. If looks could kill, the Salesman would be burning in hell. Yet now, he was burning in another way—burning from the proximity, from the rage radiating off you, from the thrill of being your undoing.

“Quite a nice watch, really,” he kept going, a mask of professionalism covering his satisfaction as he easily got out of your handle, letting his fingers linger on your skin. “I would know.”

The Salesman smirked as he saw your gaze search at his wrists, finally landing on the gift you had been ogling at for the past week—the watch your father had been wanting for years. The one you couldn’t afford right now. Your heart tightened, your head spun, and a wave of sadness washed over you. Every single fiber of your being wanted to offer your family a better life, fix your mistakes and fulfil from their smallest to biggest dreams – yet you hadn’t been able to gather enough money to buy that one little thing.

His pulse quickened, chest heaving rapidly as he watched something unfold in your gaze—here. He had you; you were right here, in the middle of his claws. He just had to close his hand.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, his voice smooth, almost tender—a dangerous veneer for the predator beneath. “It can be yours. No catch.”

She tightened her jaw, conflicted, her emotions now exposed in an open book he could read with his eyes closed. “I don’t trust you.”

His smile widened, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes. He leaned in. “You don’t need to trust me, Mrs Y/n. Put your trust in yourself, and in your…” his fingers revealed a card. Not his business card—a Queen of Hearts. Using the edge of it, he pushed a strand of hair out of your face, the caress sending a chill down your spine. “Abilities.”

He knew. You grated your teeth. Of course he knew. You hated his tone, the smug certainty that he had you figured out—that he knew your darkest, most shameful secret. The watch disappeared from your mind, intoxicated by the challenge—his unbearable condescension. Still, you masked your growing anger. “I don’t gamble anymore,” you said flatly.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, feigning a look of realization. “Your little promise. Family bailed you out, didn’t they? Noble of them. But if you won this, imagine how proud they’d be—erasing the weight of their sacrifice. Especially your father... how old is he?”

Her jaw tightened. He was prying, and you’d let him get too close. Your father’s face popped up in your mind—his kind but tired eyes. The promise he made you swore—that you’d never, ever touch a deck of cards again. That’d you step far away from that dark hole you had once fallen, and he had one pulled you from, and never look back.

The choice should have been easy—your parents had told you countless times. If you have problems, we can figure it out together. But for once, you wanted to be the one to solve your own issues.

“One game.”

His eyes darkened with something lustful, hungry, obsessive—and your stomach tied itself into knots. Deep down, a part of you wondered—were you doing this for the watch, or for the pride of proving the man wrong? You could see it in his confidence, in his arrogance—he thought you a fool. A prey. There was a thrill to being the object of all his attention—but an even greater adrenaline at making him pay for it.

You didn’t feel fear when he led you to a shabby yet clean apartment—that so happened to be located in your neighbourhood. Snapping him a glare, he simply smirked, like he knew the effect he had on you. The room was suffocating. It wasn’t the space—shabby yet sterile—but the energy in it. A predator and his prey, locked in a game. Your heart stuttered when his hand grazed your lower back to guide you to the chair. He’s a psycho. He’s a pyscho. He’s a psycho. That was what you kept repeating yourself as he prepared the game, setting up the both of you, until he slid a deck of cards onto the table, a challenging brow raised at you.

When he removed his jacket, displaying the white shirt tightening around his muscular body, your mind raced with forbidden thoughts. Clearing your throat in an attempt to clear your mind, you sat straighter, resting your elbow in a daring position. “So. What do I get when win?”

“Isn’t the watch enough?” he cocked his head to the side, sly eyes traveling over your face. “I thought money didn’t motivate you.”

“How well you know me,” you replied sarcastically, leaning toward him more, the thrill of control intoxicating you. You weren’t blind—you knew how desperate he was to make you play. You’d use it to your advantage. “What can you offer me?”

“Anything,” his answer was immediate, cocky—like he genuinely thought his money made him all-mighty. “Your price is mine.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

The silence stretched between you—you had to repress a smirk upon seeing his jaw clenched. Surely he was expecting a material answer—you had his weakness figured out. The Salesman couldn’t see past his own conceptions of poor people—ungracious, desperate, shameless. He was blind to the humanity of individuals, to the emotions, the bonds, the feelings—and could only think through money.

His gaze was heavier on you than the weight of the world you seemed to carry lately—it was an uncanny sensation, but you ignored it. Finally, his predatory smile returned, shattering the last remains of his polite businessman mask.

“Aren’t you going to ask what will happen if you lose?” the words curled around your ears, sounding so husky yet threatening.

“Don’t worry,” you said slowly, letting the words roll off your tongue. “I won’t lose.”

The cards moved in his hands like water, fluid and hypnotic. Each shuffle was seamless, effortless, as though the deck existed to obey him. You watched his hands closely, trying to decipher whether the grace of his movements was meant to distract you—or unsettle you.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. His smirk widened, just slightly, and for a brief moment, his eyes flicked to yours before returning to the cards. That single glance made your chest tighten, though you refused to let it show. He was toying with you already, probing for cracks in your armor.

The air in the room was thick, and not just because it was small. There was something oppressive about the way he sat there, utterly confident, completely in control, as if you were merely an accessory to his performance. He dealt the cards, each one landing on the table with a soft slap.

“You know,” he said casually, his tone like silk over a blade, “this doesn’t have to be painful. Unless, of course, you like it that way.”

You stiffened, your grip on the cards tightening. You could feel the heat of his gaze on you, waiting for a reaction. When you gave him none, he chuckled softly and picked up his hand, finally deigning to look at the cards he'd dealt himself.

You did the same, careful to keep your expression neutral as you surveyed your cards. Not a terrible hand, but not an easy victory either. You were acutely aware of his eyes on you as you decided your next move, his presence a constant, gnawing pressure.

You refused to look at his face, though you felt his gaze like a physical weight. It was heavy, deliberate, crawling over you in a way that made your skin prickle. Your pulse thudded in your ears, but you kept your expression calm, masking the slight tremor in your fingers as you adjusted your cards.

“You’re nervous,” the Salesman said suddenly, his voice low and smooth, like the stroke of velvet over steel.

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t look up. “Wishful thinking,” you shot back, keeping your tone steady, clipped.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and you could practically feel his amusement, sharp and cutting. He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but predatory, like a wolf testing the strength of its prey.

“Are you always this bad at bluffing?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I thought you were a pro.”

You finally met his gaze, forcing yourself not to flinch at the intensity in his eyes. “Are you always this desperate to win?”

For a moment, his smirk faltered, just a flicker of something colder beneath the surface. But then it was back, sharper than ever. He leaned back in his chair, a picture of casual arrogance, and gestured lazily to the cards in your hand.

“Go on, then. Prove me wrong.”

The first hand played out in agonizing silence, every card placed on the table another move in a battle neither of you was willing to lose. When the cards were revealed, the sting of defeat was sharp and immediate. His smirk deepened as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Hmm,” he mused, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Guess I was right after all.”

Your throat tightened, heat rising to your cheeks. He was baiting you, daring you to snap.

His smirk widened as he leaned back, his posture triumphant. He leaned back in his chair, his arms resting lazily on the sides as though he had already won everything

Your face remained stoic, but inside, your pulse hammered. Yet you had a card he didn’t suspect in your game—an idea that spurred from the dirtiest corner of your mind. If the Salesman could set trap for you, so could you. Nodding as if you were accepting your defeat, you reached for the thin scarf around your neck, slipping it off casually, your movements as indifferent as you could muster.

He didn’t even glance at it—too eager to catch any expression of your frustration.

“Your turn,” he teased, but his eyes betrayed something darker, a simmering hunger. He wanted to see you crumble.

His confidence was maddening, his smirk infuriating, but you knew that arrogance could be a weakness.

This time, you studied him. The way he held his cards, the way his eyes flickered just slightly when the stakes were raised. You caught the faintest twitch in his jaw when he realized you weren’t folding, and it spurred you on. You could feel it sip back in your veins—the intoxicating feeling that made you fall down the rabbit hole before. Not only that, but you couldn’t even pretend to ignore it—you were chasing the high.

He noticed you watching, of course. He always noticed.

“You’re trying to read me,” he said after a moment, his voice soft and mocking. “Cute.”

“I don’t need to read you,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended. “You’re already predictable.”

His smirk froze for the briefest moment before it sharpened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Careful,” he said softly, the warning in his voice unmistakable.

The game continued, every move stretching the tension between you to its breaking point. When the cards were revealed, your stomach twisted in relief. You’d won.

The smirk slipped from his face, replaced by something tighter, more calculating.

“Well, well,” you said, leaning forward, your tone laced with mockery. “What are you going to remove?”

His eyes narrowed, the lasting silence betraying his confusion. There was a tension in his posture now, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before.

“Tsk tsk tsk, how disappointing,” you shook your head in a mocking pout. “Didn’t do your research very thoroughly, did you?”

Like a fish caught in a hook, he was hanging to your lips – hiding the delicious hard pounding of his heart against his chest at seeing you this way, so like him yet so foolishly pretentious.

“My specialty was,” you taunted, your smile sharp. “Strip poker.”

For the first time, his mask cracked. A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe even surprise—crossed his face. You saw your opening and took it. His gaze was burning on you now, like your words had unleashed a monster. His laugh was low, almost inaudible. “Is that so?”

How thrilling it was to have him look at you that way—impressed, somehow, but so much more lustful than ever. “Try to keep up,” you chirped, daring him with your gaze.

Yet he didn’t falter. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his tie, skillful, big fingers easily untying the knot. Folding it with precision before setting it aside.

“You must think highly of yourself to think you can distract me that way, Mrs. Y/n,” his voice was a rumble, his gaze unwavering, not blinking once. If you didn’t know how much of a psychopath he was, you’d say he was already plenty distracted by the prospect.

You scoffed. “I think lowly of you, Mister. Maybe being exposed by someone you look down on will be enough for you to choke on your own ego.”

He smirked. What an arrogant piece of shit, you thought as his eyes fell down the length of your body, telling you more than any word could.

“Likewise.”

When he threw the next cards, the air was heavier than ever. The game became something else—less about cards and more about dominance. The stakes climbed higher with every hand, the tension between you thickening like a storm cloud.

You could feel his frustration building, masked by that infuriating smile. He was losing ground, and he hated it. You even thought he’d snap when he finally won, but all you removed was a necklace—he was hungrier than he ever was. But he was clever, too clever, and every move he made was designed to throw you off balance.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, his voice soft, almost seductive.

“You’re not?”

His gaze burned into you, his pupils dark, predatory. “Oh, I am. But I wonder—are you playing to win, or just to spite me?”

You didn’t answer, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

The next round dragged on, every move stretching the silence between you like a taut wire. Your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears, but you kept your face calm, your movements steady. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his eyes dissecting every twitch, every breath.

“Looks like your luck’s run out,” you said, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

He didn’t respond immediately; his eyes locked on the cards in front of him. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in his chair, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. The motion was slow, deliberate, his forearms flexing as the fabric slid back.

Your eyes flickered downward for half a second before snapping back to his face, but he caught it. His smirk returned, sharper than ever.

“Staring is quite impolite, Mrs. Y/N.”

“Please,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Try to blink at least once before you say this.”

His eyes darkened, the heat in his gaze unmistakable now. For a moment, the game, the cards, everything else fell away, leaving only the tension between you—dangerous, electric, and impossible to ignore.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So are you,” you replied, your words as much a challenge as they were a warning.

Maybe you had underestimated him—you thought his superiority complex would prevent him from completing the game. Yet somehow it didn’t feel like the humiliation you had planned for him—instead, it felt like something quieter, hungrier, forbidden, but excruciatingly thrilling. When you removed your top, heart pounding in your chest, and locked eyes with him, you were suddenly grateful for the games you were playing. The rules seemed the only thing that kept the Salesman from ripping every last piece of clothing from you.

His gaze was fire, slow-burning, consuming. You had stripped the moment of control from him, yet somehow, the shift in power only seemed to excite him. His smirk remained, but there was something new behind it now—something sharper, darker.

The room felt smaller. The weight of the moment pressed against your skin, against the pulse hammering in your throat. He watched you with an intensity that made your breath catch, his head

The cards sat untouched between you, but the game had moved beyond them. This was about leverage now, about control that shifted like sand between your fingers.

You didn’t flinch as he reached forward, picking up his glass and taking a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours. He was stretching the silence, making you sit in it, daring you to break first.

You wouldn’t.

Leaning forward, you rested your elbows on the table, mirroring his stance. "Your move," you reminded him, your voice smooth, unshaken.

His smirk deepened, a predator recognizing another.

Instead of speaking, he picked up the deck, shuffled it with that same fluid grace, the sound of the cards brushing against each other whispering between you. His hands were precise, controlled, but you saw it now—the slight flex of his fingers, the subtle way his jaw tensed. He was enjoying this, the push and pull of it, but he wasn’t unaffected.

Good.

He dealt again. The cards landed neatly, but your attention remained on him. Every twitch, every breath, every flicker in his expression—it was all part of the game now.

As you picked up your hand, his voice broke the silence. "Tell me, Mrs. Y/N," he mused, rolling the words slowly, deliberately. "What happens when you finally meet someone who plays better than you?"

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "I'll let you know when it happens."

Something flickered in his eyes. Approval? Amusement? Whatever it was, it sent a thrill down your spine.

The game continued; the stakes unspoken yet palpable. Every card turned was another thread pulled tighter between you. He was pushing, pressing, waiting for the moment you would falter.

But you weren’t just playing to win anymore.

You were playing to break him.

And the best part?

You could see the exact moment he realized it.

You straightened, meeting his gaze one last time. “Game over.”

The storm brewing in his eyes made a chill ran down your spine. There, you had him. Of course, he hated losing. You knew he was seconds away from snapping—the mighty defeated by the lowly. The silence stretched. The only sign of his rage was the twitch of his hand on his naked thigh.

You expected him to explode—waited for him to lash out, to yell, to freak out. Instead, he got up slowly, exposing his glorious body to your eyes. Your throat dried. He slowly walked up to you, the same confidence he had as always, like despite his nakedness he was still superior to you. How you hated this disdainful, scornful man that made your life a living hell for the past weeks—and your treacherous body should remember it too, instead of shivering in anticipation. His warmth surrounded you, but it felt cold, dreadful, yet so enticing.

His fingers trailed up your collarbone, softly, before he roughly grabbed your jaw, swiping his tongue across your lips. Your mind was dizzy, clouded with desire—that you shouldn’t even allow to take over each parcel of your body. Your breath was shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. His fingers dug into your jaw, his breath warm against your lips, teasing, daring. His touch was rough and possessive, but there was restraint beneath it—like he was waiting for you to yield.

But he had already lost. There was something hungrier than desire in your core – ego. You had crushed the man who thought you insignificant. You couldn’t give in to the shallow lust.

You tilted your chin up, feigning surrender, letting him believe he had you right where he wanted. His smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering in his storm-dark eyes.

And then—

"Winner’s prize. Leave. Me. Alone."

Your voice was soft, almost tender, but the words struck like a whip. His grip faltered for just a fraction of a second, confusion flickering across his face. It was enough.

You slipped out of his grasp, smooth, effortless, and stood. The air between you crackled; his gaze bore into you, sharp, predatory, but you didn’t flinch. The sleek, expensive watch he had stripped from his wrist in his arrogance, certain he wouldn’t lose, was on the table—you snatched it.

In less than a second, you had disappeared from his claws - you didn’t run. You didn’t look back. You simply walked away, your pulse thrumming with exhilaration.

And in the days that followed, you heard nothing.

No calls. No texts. No messages sent through mutual acquaintances.

You had won his game. And he couldn’t go against his own rule. This sick, twisted, obsessive bastard was played. At first, you felt relief. This was it—the moment he realized you weren’t like the others – and he was wrong about all of you. That he couldn’t toy with you, that he couldn’t break you. You told yourself he was too humiliated to come back from this, that he would move on, find someone else to play his twisted games with.

And yet… something gnawed at you. A quiet unease, an instinct whispering that this wasn’t over.

But days passed. Then a week. Then two.

Maybe you really had won.

It was like the game had never happened—except you had gotten a taste of your old addiction, and you could feel the drug take its effect. The way the cards felt between your fingers, the sharp thrill of reading his every move, of pulling him in just to cut him down. You told yourself it was just the rush of winning. That you had beaten him, humiliated him, and that was why it lingered.

But then you started playing again.

At first, it was just one game. A harmless distraction. Then another. Then another. The old hunger stirred deep in your veins, that pulse of anticipation as the stakes climbed higher and higher.

Ironically, you had won enough to buy the watch on your own – which you did.

But you were foolish. Naïve. You didn’t realize until your father’s birthday.

The restaurant was warm with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the hum of conversation. You let yourself relax, let the normalcy of the evening wash over you. Being with your family soothed your worries and warmed your heart. Perhaps because you craved their love so much, you didn’t notice the veil of concern in their eyes.

But you knew something was wrong when your father’s smile faltered when he opened his gift, making your heart break in half. You thought you imagined it, but your mother’s frown and the awkward moment of silence before cheers erupted made you uneasy.

“Dad,” you lead your father to a quieter room in the family house, worry on your face. “What’s wrong?”

His lips tightened, a conflicted expression on his face. “Y/n, how could you afford this?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Um, I got a promotion.”

Your dad shook his head, pulling you into a tight hug, desperate hands crawling at your back, holding onto you.

“Stop before it is too late, Y/n. Your mother and I- we can’t lose you again.”

No. No, no, no- there was no way they could have known. The burn of shame tore your insides apart, and suddenly nothing made sense—why you’d let herself go down the rabbit hole again.

Tears were starting to cloud your vision, and as you were about to respond, your words died in your throat.

You saw it.

Sitting innocuously on the table beside your father’s gift boxes. A small black card.

A rectangle of shadow against golden linen.

You knew it before you even touched it.

Heart pounding, you slipped from your father’s hold, his voice far away in another world- and you reached out, fingers brushing over the familiar gold-embossed symbol.

The squid game card.

Your stomach dropped. Your mouth went dry.

He had disappeared, yes.

But not because he had given up.

No.

He had only been waiting. And you had fallen right into his trap

#the salesman x reader #the salesman #squid game imagine #squid game

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hangesophtalmologist · 5 months ago

Note

hey could make part two of your salesman fic? I like your writing ☻︎

hey!! thank you for the support, it really motivates me <3 i'm currently working on part 2, the salesman is quite difficult to write for some reason so i keep erasing and rewriting everything. it's a wip but yes the salesman's obsession part 2 is on its way!

#the salesman x reader

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hangesophtalmologist · 6 months ago

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found these on threads, but i can’t find the creator 😭 anyways, these are fucking cool and these are going on my wall soon

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hangesophtalmologist · 6 months ago

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playing with fire burns like hell

part 1

previous name: the salesman’s obsession

part 1, (part 2)

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.

#squid game #the salesman #x reader #the salesman x reader #squid game season 2 #angst #ennemies to lovers #gong yoo #squid game imagine

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hangesophtalmologist · 1 year ago

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will death hold my hand if you don’t?

pairing: finnick odair x original female character

tropes: rivals to lovers

synopsis: once the 75th Hunger Games are announced, Finnick only finds one solution to save his mentor and friend: barge into his long-life rival's house and find a way to convince this irritating, egoistic victor to volunteer. Only, he might be the one person she hates the most after the Capitol.

warnings: swear words, mentions of Alzheimer’s

Finnick was practically running in the streets of District Four – more precisely, in the privileged area of the district known as the Victor’s Village. This was not the time to maintain his unbothered, cool persona. Blood was pumping in his veins, chest heaving in the effort of calming the deafening panic that was creeping up in him. This could not be happening, not again. After everything they had been through. He thought, foolishly, that he was safe. Relatively safe. That it was over since he won the Hunger Games – but they never really win. Becoming the shiny toys of the Capitol promised them wealth and comfort. But all the disgusting, overplayed luxury was only meant to hide the sad truth about victors - they remained toys, and at any time could the people of Panem realize they wanted to play with them again.

The announcement of the 75th Hunger Games came crashing down on him like a bomb, crushing his frail illusion of stability. For him, it didn’t matter. He was strong enough to survive at least for most days. No, the suffocating feeling of fear that had paralyzed each of his muscles, only letting his brain run the infinite possibilities of death, sorrow and suffering, had come from his concern for Mags and Annie. None of them would make it past the first day left alone, and even with his help the Hunger Game was a downright death sentence.

But there was a tiny, silly bit of hope that made him jump on his feet, storm out of his house with one name in mind. The one person he spent a lifetime despising, annoying and arguing with, the very person that hated his guts and made him know every day, was actually his last hope. This was the worst idea he ever had, but he had not choice. He’d go to her, do anything she could ask him for – he’d even recognize she was better than him, he’d beg her on his knees if that was what it took. But even with all that, Finnick couldn’t tame down the desperation that clawed at his heart when he pictured her violently telling him off - like he could swear she’d do.

“Naia!” he called, basically shoving the door of a rusty house open and frantically searching the rooms with his eyes. “Naia!”

His feet moved on their own accord, stomping in the home that felt completely empty. His eyes scanned the squeaky-clean floor and the few furniture there was. For a moment, he feared no one was here until he heard a faint voice coming from a closed room. Calming his breath, he approached and went to slightly open the door before he thought better and faintly knocked on the wood.

Hearing no response, his fingers glazed over the handle, but before he even twisted it, his hand was violently ripped away from the door, and he was met with a furious charcoal gaze.

“Where the fuck do you think you are, Odair?”

There stood Naia Calder in all her glory, in the middle of her living room, as tall as him, muscular arms crossed over her chest who was quickly rising and falling, sweaty skin that glistened under the yellowish light and hands wrapped around a blood-stained tissue that left no doubts on which sport she was practicing before Finnick stormed into her house. Hopefully, she would not be tempted to switch to a livelier punching-ball when he states why he came down here.

“Calder”, the man started, his eyes firmly locked on the challenging eyes of his nemesis. “I need to talk to you.”

With a snap, she undid her bands and threw them at his feet, chuckling humourlessly. Finnick clenched his jaw, refrained from rolling his eyes at the action. Instead, his gaze stayed firm on her face. Thick brows that furrowed automatically in his presence, straight nose on which fell during summer a constellation of freckles contrasting with her tan skin, big almond eyes that could set the world on fire with one glare, plump, soft lips that would form the dirtiest insults to throw in the air. It was the same face he has known all his life, and never once was it not painted with absolute disdain when they were face to face.

“Want a cup of tea? A few biscuits while we talk about the weather and tide, perhaps?” Naia mocked as she removed the tie holding her bronze-like hair, her biceps slightly flexing from the movement.

Finnick followed with his eyes the movement of her wavy hair falling graciously on her bulky shoulders. He swallowed thickly, focusing to not let his gaze linger on her bruised, muscular, sweaty body. He did not answer to her sarcasm. There could only be one subject the victor wanted to discuss right after the announcement. They both knew it.

“Please enlighten me on what’s your strategy to politely ask me to go die in their Hunger Games all-stars,” she insisted with a fake pleasant tone. “Almost destroying my front door was a dramatic first step, I’ll give you that. I can’t wait to see what you have in stock next.”

Irritation quickly grew inside Finnick, but he swallowed all the snarky answers his lips were about to let slip out of his mouth. Why was she playing dumb? She knew just like him that this was the right thing to do.

“I shouldn’t even have to ask you to volunteer, Naia. You know they can’t go through this again,” he said through gritted teeth, following her as she walked through her house, picking up clothes and objects he couldn’t care less about.

“Keep going. My life is less valuable than theirs blah blah. Maybe add in a few tears.”

“Fuck Naia! This is not funny,” he shouted angrily, desperate to knock some sense into her. “You’re young, you’re obviously stronger and for fuck’s sake you’re the goddamn golden victor of the Capitol. You know you have a thousand more chance to win than they have to survive the first few hours, so can you stop being selfish for once in your life? How can you send them off to their deaths?”

“Mmh, flattery. Not bad. Don’t like the guilt-trip that much, though. Try again. Maybe I’ll consider it if you get on your knees.”

The lack of interest in her voice made him want to rip his hair out of his head. It was like talking to a wall. It used to be her on the receiving end of his sarcasm, but now was not the time for their rivalry and she should know it. He knew Naia, he knew her bad attitude and her personality, he knew the trauma her Games brought her. But he knew her, and it seemed unbelievable that she would be so set on not volunteering. Was she doing it out of spite, just to annoy him? How could she seem so careless? How could she just fold so neatly each one of her clothes, stack them up on a shelf like she had no other problems in her life? how could she just calmly tidy up her room while he was asking her to-

Suddenly as realization hit him, the world seemed to quiet down and to reduce to the small room he had followed her in. His anger and frustration slowly melt, his frown relaxing and his mouth closing in a thin line. The curse he had thrown floated in the air, then was carried away by the wind. A veil of silence fell all over the little space they shared.

The adrenaline and stress disappeared, leaving him with the excruciating wish he could swallow back every word he just spat as he watched Naia clean her room, slowly, carefully tucking away her belongings in dusty boxes already aligned next to her bed. The man had been too blinded by his despair and frustration to take a real look at her house. It did not just feel empty – it was. She was packing away. She must have started tidying up the second she heard the announcement. God, she even started training the moment she heard it. Naia always intended to volunteer. She didn’t even consider staying back as an option.

“You know Odair, Mags was my mentor too. Annie is also my friend. You’re not the only one who’d sacrifice things to protect them,” she finally spoke after a long moment of deafening silence, dropping the sarcasm but radiating animosity. “Only you can have the audacity to assume I wouldn’t volunteer for them, but I would if you oh-so-rightfully order me to.”

When she turned around to meet his face, the vivacity of the anger and repulsion in her eyes froze him on his spot. Her fingers were tightly wrapped around the wooden frame of a picture. A family picture. Four silhouettes. Now that he could see all her personal belongings, even the torn, washed-out picture seemed to scream at him, especially the small, masculine silhouette he could almost see scolding him for coming here to ask her to leave them behind like he had any right to make that decision for her.

“I don’t know why it seems so unconceivable for you that I would be capable of a selfless act, but I’d advise you to stop thinking of yourself as the fucking hero of this district,” Naia seethed, her voice raising with each word that slipped out of her lips so quickly that it seemed her anger was forming sentences instead of her brain. “Stop getting drunk on every single praise the Capitol gives you, and maybe you will see you’re not that special. Breaking news, Finnick Odair isn’t the only goddamn man on Earth with morals! Will his ego shatter to pieces or will he be able to recover from the devastating realization that he is not thecenter of the world?”

Each sentence felt like a punch to his guts, but Finnick stayed quiet, lips sealed by shame, facing the storm his long-time rival had become. He was only starting to realize now how much the announcement affected her, because even if she had probably called him a thousand time worse names in the past, she would always hide any emotion behind a mask of cold indifference. However, now he could see it. He could see everything. The resentment and frustration dripping from her voice. He could almost see the pieces of her broken heart who had fallen in each box she had filled up. And even as she turned on her heels and slammed the door of her chamber in his face, his gaze caught the way her hands uncontrollably, yet unperceivably shook against the handle.

Guilt squeezed his guts. Finnick realized that he spent so much time seeing Naia as his competition that sometimes, he almost forgot she was human. She was not only his strong, arrogant and deceitful rival, the victor he was always compared to when it came to determining the best golden victor of District Four. She was not just the girl that challenged him, that claimed she was better than him and that showered him with mockeries on his skills and his Capitol-persona. She was not just the girl he spared with every once in a while, to settle who is better. She was not just the girl who had a witty come-back for each of this teasing remarks. She was also just a girl. His old friend's sister. The girl from his district whom he grew up with. And behind the arrogance, the indifference, the rivalry, there was the ghost of the person who went through the same horrors he did, and whose soul died a little in that cursed arena.

And if he could forget that so easily, that told him more about the influence the Capitol had on himself than what he wanted to admit.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Finnick left the room, uncoherent thoughts trying to form words that would be a good enough apology without causing her to explode, but before any sound could come out of his open mouth, his voice died down in his throat as his eyes landed on Naia. The victor felt like a wave just hit him straight in the face – and maybe it did, only it was a wave of agony, radiating from the scene in front of him.

Sadness was painted all over the tiny room he tried to enter earlier, yet Naia smiled with the tenderness she reserved to only one person. Even his presence couldn’t disturb the peaceful expression on her face.

“Mom, do you recognize me? It’s Naia, remember? I’m your daughter.”

Finnick held his breath, waiting for the old lady sat on a rocking chair to answer. He knew her, of course. Naia’s mother’s house had been a safe haven for all the kids who once needed an escape from home, a hot meal or a wonderful story to let their mind wander in the amazing worlds the creative woman shared with them, all more peaceful than the world the Capitol ruled.

But the eloquent and lifeful discourses of the woman seemed long gone as Finnick watched her babble an unintelligible, uncoherent answer while her empty eyes stared in the void. He knew she had fallen sick, but he didn’t know about her condition. Any physical sickness seemed more merciful than forgetting everything and everyone until an entire lifetime is wiped out from a memory.

Naia caressed her cheek with delicacy. She was not expecting an answer. A moment passed. Finnick knew he should leave, that this was too intimate, but somehow, the memory of the warm and friendly woman who spared him tons of slices of cake when he was young kept his feet fixated on the ground.

When he finally moved, the movement caught the mother’s attention, and a flash of recognition illuminated her eyes. He froze, while Naia’s mouth dropped open in a hopeful gasp.

“Mom? He’s Finnick Odair, the fisherman’s son. Do you remember? He fought with Dan one day,” she said as she signed him to come crouching to her level. “You used to invite him over to eat even though I always asked you not to.”

Well, now he didn’t know if he should be more shocked to be recognized by someone who is losing their memory or to be introduced by Naia in such a gentle, harmless way. He’ll be damned if he ever hears Naia talk about him in such a sweet tone again.

“Hello Mrs Calder,” he hesitated a second, before confidently putting on his most charming smile, the one he knew could win him any mom over. “You fed me well when my dad was at sea. I hope I always thanked you for it because I remember your cooking as the best in the district.”

He held her emerald gaze as the old woman tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be moving too slowly, too harshly to actually mold the sound coming out of her mouth. The expectancy, the yearning himself felt made him realize how much more devastating that feeling must be for her daughter. Suddenly, Mrs Calder clapped her hands, startling him, before bursting into a quiet laugh.

“My daughter can’t stand the Odair kid!” she shouted in a joyful tone, punctuating it with another string of unintelligible sounds.

Even though the old lady quickly fell back into a state of incoherence, when the blond man looked at her daughter, her eyes glistened – he didn’t know if it was with tears or with joy. Naia had the biggest smile plastered on her face, holding her mother’s hands and planting a firm kiss on one of them.

“Damn right I do!” Naia exclaimed, laughing a true, relieved, liberating laugh.

Finnick stared at her, drinking in the sight and the sound. It was the first time in months, if not years, that he had seen her laugh so freely. Simply the improbability of the moment ripped a chuckle out of him too. For all she was annoying and irritating, his rival didn’t deserve the cruelty of this situation. So when she asked him to take care of her mother if he ever wins the games (which she still insisted would be highly improbable), the fisherman’s son did not hesitate. And somehow, he knew that behind all their rivalry and their mutual disliking, there was enough respect between them that they’d trust each other’s word.

But he also knew she probably will make him pay for coming to her house to guilt-trip her into sacrificing herself. Which she had already decided to do despite the unthinkable price she had to pay for it.

#finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick imagine #finnick #rivals to lovers #ennemies to lovers #the hunger games #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x oc #thg series

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hangesophtalmologist · 3 years ago

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please kiss the pain away, Doctor

pairing : trafalgar law x reader

genre : fluff ; crack

synopsis : when you get injured and your crew's doctor is nowhere to be seen, it's none other than annoying, sarcastic (and awfully attractive) Trafalgar Law that gets to be your savior.

warnings : mentions of blood/ pain ; suggestive

a/n : i wrote this when i was a teenager please have mercy... i am n the process of rewriting it though, just bear with me

"OI TRA-GUY!" Usopp yelled with an insane amount of hurriness and panick in his voice. "Y/N GOT INTO A FIGHT SHE'S SERVERLY INJURED"

He was painfully carrying the barely conscious girl in his arms while running in direction of their hiding spot in the land of Wano, assisted by Nami who had an extremely worried expression on her face.

"We can't find Chopper! We need you to heal her," she shouted making the Heart pirate shoot a glance at her.

"What do you mean she got into a fight? We weren't supposed to cause any trouble," he scolded angrily, preparing a table to lay you down. "She's so annoying, damn it."

Usopp almost threw you on the wooden surface, wheezing at the effort and making you jump in pain.

"HEY! Usopp I'd really like you to wait after I'm passed out before you throw me around," she hissed in pain, rolling on the table to avoid her wound to enter in contact with the surface.

"And here I thought you were unconscious, I really can't get any peace," Law muttered while already ripping your clothe on the side to access the injury.

"Shut the fuck up, ugly ass doctor," you growled between your teeth, making him stop any movement.

"I can choose to watch you slowly die in pain Y/n, a thing that is actually very tempting right now. I wouldn't upset me if I were you," he stated coldly.

Usopp choked at his words, yelling at him to save you alongside Nami who was begging you to let the man heal you.

"Uh you wish you were me. You wouldn't look that dumb everydAHHHHHH" you yelled as he emotionlessly started to harshly press on your injury, stopping the bleeding but sending a shot of pain through your body at the same time.

You clenched your jaw hard as you shot your head back. The pain was insane, but you couldn't let the guy you hated get the satisfaction of seeing you suffer. Law started to disinfect the injury and you refrained yourself from hissing in pain at the prickly sensation. Usopp and Nami were worriedly watching over his shoulder, leaving him almost no place to move. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, and when he felt the sniper's fast breath hitting repetitively his neck he finally snapped at them :

"OI YOU TWO LEAVE US ALONE! Go wait outside!"

They immediatly complied, running out of the place you two were in and sitting against the wooden wall outside.

"So unprofessional," you whispered while chuckling lightly before you violently coughed.

Some blood left your throat, and you whipped it off your lips with a shaky hand.

"Stay still," he ordered, erasing any trace of worry in his voice to make sure you wouldn't taunt him about it later.

You rolled you eyes, still obeying him. You watched him prepare some surgery tools until a sudden pain in the head made you close your eyes. You huffed lightly, catching Law's attention.

"I'm hot," you informed him with a hoarse voice, trying to turn on your side.

"It's not the time to joke around, Y/n," he replied in annoyance, coming back next to you.

Your eyes widened at what he implied, your mouth opening and closing in disbelief.

"Are you serious right now? I'm not joking, I'm stating the state I am in dumbass!" you shouted at him, before the pain shutted you out for a second. "Law, you sure you're a doctor?" you sarcastically asked while glaring at him.

He clicked his tongue, brushing it off.

"You're so vulgar."

"I'm so dying too, now can you please get this jacket off me," you asked while swallowing the uncomfortable feeling of a high heat body. "Do I have to tell you what's your job ?"

Trafalgar's cheeks had a light pink tint on the tip as he heard her request. He yelled back at you to hide it, but you seemed to catch up. Now feeling his discomfort, you rolled your eyes and precised you were indeed wearing something under. Stripping you from the additional clothes, you were now left nothing but shorts and a bandage that circled your chest. Blood was staining your skin all over your right side. Law could now see through his embarassment that the injury was indeed very deep. He cursed a little.

"Damn it Y/n, how did you manage to get this?" he angrily scolded you while preparing everything for the operation.

"Fucking samouraïs," you said between gritted teeth. "I officially hate swordsmen. Even Zoro-"

You stopped to let a painful hiss. You already were panting heavily, feeling your energy slowly leave your body.

"Especially Zoro," you kept going. "Gonna blame him for everything they did."

Law held back a smirk at your dramatic act. He acted as if nothing, continuing his surgery preparation.

"He is your nakama," he simply stated back.

"Oh yeah but his true nature is swordsman. And swordsmen are the worst. They always show off with their swords as-"

"Aren't you two friends ?"

"-owned the world like, no mister, it's not your knives large edition that are going to maAAAAAH FUCKING HELL!"

You suddenly sat up in total panick and pain and violently gripped Law's shoulder making him yelp.

"Let go of me dumbass!" he hissed as you were holding onto him, keeping your bodies closer than what he was used to.

While he was blushing from both fluster and anger, you were simply yelling and wriggling to try and see your injury.

"FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!" you were shouting in pain.

You finally stole a glance at the bloody part of your body, noticing that Law had inserted the needle that was meant to stitch you inside your skin.

"WHAT THE FUCK, IS IT INSIDE OF ME ?!" you yelled, holding onto the doctor for dear life before he got away and rudely pushed you back in a laying position.

"DON'T HOLD ME LIKE THIS!" he shouted in embarassment.

"LAW, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!" you ignored him, complaining like you were about to die.

The man was quick to get back to his work, as he tried to ignore your constant screams of pain.

"DON'T BE SO LOUD!" he yelled back at you.

"GO FASTER FOR GOD'S SAKE!" you retorted with vehemence.

You covered your upper face with your left arm and bit your lips harshly to contain the pain. You knew better than disturb a doctor while he was trying to avoid the life to drip out of you but you were in insane pain AND it was because of Law.

On this other side of the wall, Usopp and Nami were staring at each other's with big eyes. The redhead's hand was covering a open mouth in a shocked expression.

"FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!"

"WHAT THE FUCK, IS IT INSIDE OF ME ?!"

"DON'T HOLD ME LIKE THIS!"

"LAW, IT HURTS LIKE HELL!"

"DON'T BE SO LOUD!"

"GO FASTER FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

Usopp was shaking his head 'no' as if he didn't want to face the truth.

"Are they- ?" he asked in pure disbelief, gulping hard.

Nami got out of her stupefaction and relaxed.

"I mean, I always knew they had a thing for each other," she said proudly, shrugging.

"What?! I thought they hated each other!" The man whispered-yelled.

The redhead brushed off the statement with her hand, as she shook her head in an expert manner.

"No, that's just a cover. They don't want to admit it to themselves, even less at each other. Also, I'm pretty sure both their love language is violence, threaths and sarcasm."

Usopp stared at her in a dumbfounded expression.

"But isn't Y/n gravely injured ?" he still asked in worry.

Nami crossed her arms arms on her chest, frowning a little bit. You were their best friend, and even though she supported you in whatever your relationship was with Trafalgar, you were already at the edge of death when they left you to him and she didn't want to find a dead body once she enters back into the room.

"Even if we loose our sight, we should stop them," she finally said in a grave tone. "Love can make you loose every sense of what is right or not."

Usopp nodded and gulped. They walked on all fours until the door of the abandonned house and, taking a deep breath, silently opened it.

"Hey you two you-"

Nami's voice died in her throat before she could even finish her sentence. Fortunately, they were not doing what they thought they were doing, but the scene was still improbable.

You were still laying on the table, blood dripping for your body. Your right hand was repetitively pulling on Law's coat as an anti-stress move, and the man himself was softly putting a wet towel on your forehead to ease the burning sensation. Staring at each others, you were so into your moment that you hadn't even notice the two strawhats presence.

The two of them were standing right there, exchanging glances and mouthing silent questions.

"They get along now ?" Usopp silently asked with round eyes.

"I don't know. They seem close," Nami mouthed back.

They reported their attention on the little interaction going on right now, not believing the two of you weren't throwing threats at each other's faces. Nodding to each other, they decided to let you settle things before going in again and check on you. They left the room while snickering to themselves.

Back at you two, you were eyeing Law's face who was still focused on cleaning your stitches.

"Pffff, I bet you're enjoying seeing me suffer," you scoffed, earning a blank stare from the man.

"I'm a doctor, Y/n. I don't take any pleasure in watching my patient dying."

Immediately you sat bolt upright with a jolt, making the wet towel of your forehead fall on your knees, and you grabbed Law by the collar in total panick.

"I'M DYING ? OH MY GOD I'M REALLY DYING ?"

You were shaking him as he forcefully got out of your grip. You two bickered while you were yelling at him to answer you.

"YOU'RE NOT DYING Y/N, STOP BEING DRAMATIC"

"I'M NOT BEING DRAMATIC, YOU'RE CALLED THE SURGEON OF DEATH FOR A REASON!"

"NOT FOR THAT REASON IDIOT" he shouted angrily at you, suddenly catching both of your wrists and pinning you down to the table, your arms to each of your sides. "Now if you don't want to truly die, you better rest and not move," he quietly ordered.

His eyes were scanning yours to see if you understood his command. You were gritting your teeth, and he squeezed your wrists harder to get an answer from you.

"You're not my mom," you complained in a whisper, looking away from his radiating eyes.

"I'm your doctor. You do as I tell you or next time you better know how to stitch yourself."

You raised an eyebrow at him, sly smile stretching your lips. The pirate's face was still above yours, and you made sure to stare at him to not miss his reaction.

"My doctor uh ? Say, Law, do you want me to join your crew ?"

An impereceptible shade of pink started to colour the man's cheeks as he slightly opened the mouth to protest, but you cut him off :

"Because according to the lattest news, my doctor is still Chopper."

Law immediatly let go of your hands as he distanced a little bit your bodies to try and get his composure back.

"I just said that I was taking care of this injury," he replied coldly, but gulping a little bit too harshly for it to be natural. "And that you should follow my instructions if you want it to heal greatly. If you want to die in pain, that's not my problem."

You eyed him a little, then chuckled.

"You're right," you whispered quietly.

You tried to get up and sat but Law immediately put his hand on your stomach to push you back in a laying position. You took that as a chance and gently grabbed his neck, taking him with you as you layed down as your faces were only centimeters appart. You stared at his golden eyes, until your caught his gaze flickering to your mouth. Slowly, to give him time to pull away if he wanted to, you closed the gape between your faces and gently met his lips with yours.

Even if you were the one introducing the kiss, you heart was beating like crazy. This wasn't an eager or heated kiss, it was gentle and passionated, almost as a thank you for the doctor. As you slowly parted away, you hid your embarassment behind a cocky smirk.

"You take so much care of me, doctor," you teased him a little. "But you didn't really answer my question."

You expected him to stay quiet, but instead he stared at you with a smirk.

"That's because it's pointless. We both know you wouldn't leave Luffy even if you're dying to kiss me like that everyday."

You choked on your saliva upon hearing those words and glared at him.

"You little-" your eyes travelled behind him were he had put his katana, leaning against the wall. "What the- I forgot you were a swordsman too! That's where the audacity comes from! Get away from me! Get away from m-"

Two warm lips shut you out and, a little surprised you finally melt in the kiss. But almost a few seconds after, Law pulled out completely and stood up, leaving you longing for more.

"You're so loud, Y/n."

"FUCKING SWORDSM-"

#trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar d law #trafalgar law #one piece #one shot #imagine #y/n

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hangesophtalmologist · 3 years ago

Text

heaven tastes like your lips on mine

(rewritten version)

pairing : roronoa zoro x reader

genre : fluff ; crack

synopsis : zoro refuses to take a taste of sanji's pastries... unless it's on your lips and savoured rhum.

warning : sanji being a simp (as usual) ; suggestive content

"Y/n-chwaaannnn!" Sanji’s voice rang out from the other side of the Merry, melodious as ever. "Do you want some biscuits I made for you?"

You quickly scanned the area, spotting a blur of blonde hair racing toward you with a tray of freshly baked treats. Chuckling, you let the dumbbell you’d been lifting fall to the floor, massaging your hands with a satisfied grin.

"I wouldn’t miss that for the world, chef," you flashed him a bright smile, one that sent him spiraling. "Thanks, Sanji."

"Anything for you, Y/n-darling!" He sang, eyes sparkling, body swaying and twirling in anticipation.

Amused by his antics, you took a bite of one of the pastries, and an explosion of flavors hit your taste buds. Bless the sky for sending me a Sanji to this crew.

"Holy shit," you groaned in bliss. "Sanji, this is one of the best cakes I’ve ever had. You’re a genius!"

The lovesick cook dramatically fainted, clutching his chest and going off on a passionate rant about your grace and beauty. Only when you nonchalantly suggested that Nami and Robin might enjoy a taste did he release your hands and dash back into the kitchen.

You glanced over at Zoro, who was still snoozing next to you. A mischievous smirk curled on your lips as an idea hatched. Reaching for the elastic on your wrist, you stretched it between your fingers and aimed for his forehead, letting it snap.

"Marimo, wake up," you called just as Zoro’s eyes fluttered open, irritation already creeping across his face.

"What do you want, woman?"

You chuckled, noticing the vein popping out of his forehead as you handed him the tray. His right eye landed on it with a disdainful look.

"This is why you woke me up?" he muttered, his voice laced with annoyance.

"Yep. You're welcome," you grinned. "Now eat."

You knew the swordsman didn’t usually bother with snacks unless it was mealtime—he was either training or sleeping—but instead of grabbing a cake, he closed his eye and went back to sleep. You stared at him, unamused.

"Did you just ignore me?"

A sly smirk played on his lips, and you realized he was toying with you. Well, if he wanted to play that game…

"Fine," you sighed dramatically, raising the stakes. "I guess I’ll just have to eat all of these delicious cakes by myself…"

Despite his lack of reactions, you continued, munching loudly and savouring each bite. "Mmhh, this one’s strawberry. Oh, and this one’s caramel. Damn. Sanji’s a god."

You kept listing off each flavour you tasted, trying to stir him, make him give in and fall to Sanji’s cooking skills. Yet Zoro didn’t budge, and you began to think he actually fell asleep. Great, you thought with a roll of your eyes. This is going nowhere.

But just then, the distinct taste of saké exploded in your mouth. You glanced at the half that was left, a devilish grin tearing your face in two. Your revenge was about to unfold.

"Oh my God," you exclaimed, excitement in your voice. "Saké and praline! Delicious."

Just as you expected, Zoro opened his eye with a rumble, his torso rising as he scanned the area.

"Saké. Where?"

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Oh, now he was paying attention.

"In this cake," you clicked your tongue, annoyed, "that you, unfortunately, refused to eat."

"Tsk, don’t play with me. Hand it over."

A scoff escaped your lips – he spent the last minutes ignoring you and now he was ordering you around? Right. He’d have to do better than that. You held his demanding stare, brushing off the warmth spreading in your body from the intensity of his gaze.

"You think you’re scary, swordsman?” you couldn’t help but smirk, and you saw a glint of something in his eyes too. “Want to slice me for half a pastry? Go ahead, you’ll have blood on it," you crossed your arms, maintaining a poker face.

"Y/n," Zoro’s voice dropped dangerously low – to that tone that made your stomach tie itself into knots. Gods, riling him up was your favourite sport.

"What?" you quirked an eyebrow, playing coy. “You refused my offer. Don’t go back on your word now.”

Zoro leaned in, invading your sense, his imposing figure towering over you and his arm resting casually next to your knee as he closed the space between you.

"Give it to me, woman." His tongue swept over his lips, like he was already tasting the sweet alcohol he so wanted you to surrender. It drew your eyes to his rugged and chiseled mouth, and your heart skipped a beat. Damn it.

Forcing an eye roll, your palm hit his broad chest as you vainly tried to push him away. "Yeah, right, use brute force and assault me, go ahead. I’m not letting you have it. That’s what you get for being ungrateful, Zoro."

He tsked, his eyes travelling all over your face, way too fervidly for a simple pastry. “So needy,” he mumbled, but there was a smirk in his tone.

Before he could react, you quickly popped the rest of the saké praline in your mouth, letting the taste take over your buds as you challenged the man with your eyes.

Zoro blinked, his face momentarily deadpan, before a devilish sneer stretched across his lips.

"Yummy, very tasty," you exaggerated a moan, teasing. "You should thank Sanji for th-"

Rough lips on yours shut you up. Your eyes widened in shock. It took you a full second to realize Roronoa Zoro was kissing you, and another one for your heart to practically jump out of your ribs. Any ounce of hesitation drowned in the intoxicating feeling in your veins – your irritation melted into a burning desire, your lips soon moving on their own to match his feverish pace. Finally, Zoro’s hand travelled to your chin, grabbing it to deepen the kiss, and you gave in, your hands tugging at the short strands of his hair as he ate you alive.

After what felt like a lifetime, when your lungs were starting to protest, you pulled away, dizzy. When you looked back at the man in front of you, he was licking his lips with a cocky grin.

"You're right," he said, eyes glinting with amusement at your flustered state. "Very tasty. But I’m not going to congratulate that shitty cook anytime soon."

You shot him a glare, trying to conceal how much he affected you. "Do that again, and I swear I’ll slash your balls off."

"Do what?" He asked, his smirk growing. "Kiss you?"

"Without asking for my permission," you clarified sternly.

"Yeah, you really looked like you hated it," he countered with a smug smile, leaning back.

You rolled your eyes, but despite your best efforts, the corner of your lips threatened to stretch and reveal how much you were enjoying your banter.

"Shut up," you muttered, trying to regain composure.

His grin widened, leaning in just slightly, his mask of nonchalance long forgotten as he stared at you like a starved man ready to devour a meal. "And why don’t you make me?"

Your heart pounded, excitement coursing through you. Raising an eyebrow at the challenge, you slowly leaned toward him, bringing your faces just a few centimeters apart. Zoro was waiting, tense with anticipation, but you moved deliberately slow, making him suffer for the earlier disrespect.

Your knees were positioned next to his waist now, straddling him, and you could feel the heat of his hands on your thighs, his fingertips brushing against your skin, eager to claim each inch of your body but staying in place. Good, he understood his lesson.

Dragging your arms on his shoulders, you let your fingers trail through his hair teasingly, scrutinizing his face, delighting in the raw hunger oozing off of him. The way his hands gripped your skin told you all you needed to know about how much he was craving your touch. But of course, this prideful man wasn’t going to admit defeat, not without playing along.

It wasn’t often that one had the chance to be so close to the green-haired pirate without having a sword held to their throat. His eyes held a dozen shades of green, but right now, they were dark with desire. Your hand cupped his cheek softly, savouring the feeling of his skin under yours, exploring the angles of his sharp face. A warm, fuzzy feeling settled in your stomach, affection tugging at your heart. Gods. You cared so much about him. You tilted your head, and you swore you heard him suck in a breath before your lips brushed his in a gentle kiss, your movements slow and teasing, matching the rhythm of your caresses.

Sat onto him, his abs were maintaining you both upright effortlessly. Yet, you had other plans in mind - soon, you pushed him gently, and before he could react, you had him lying flat on the floor, hovering above him. You teased him for a few seconds, your tongue sweeping over his, and right as you felt his control about to snap, you abruptly pulled away, standing up and smirking down at him.

"See? You know how to shut up," you grinned, walking away before he could grab you and pull you back into another kiss – one, you were sure, you wouldn’t be dominating, if his agitation and the dark storm in his glare was any clue.

Zoro stayed silent for a moment, then grabbed his swords and began walking away, passing by you. He stopped just beside you and leaned down, his voice low.

"We’ll see later if you know how to shut up."

#zoro #roronoa zoro #zoro roronoa x reader #y/n #one piece #one shot #imagine #fluff

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