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lvrclerc · 1 month ago

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✶ STRANGER, DANGER AND VANILLA SWIRL

summary: the night you met franco colapinto involved stealing, melted ben & jerry's, blunt honesty, and kissing a complete stranger, because you were pretty sure you were never going to see him again. except, by morning, you do see him again, and he looks way more familiar this time around.

F1 MASTERLIST | FC43 MASTERLIST

pairing: franco colapinto x journalist!f!reader wc: 6.5K cw: meet-cute, tooth-rotting fluff, stealing, reader doesn't know anything about f1, like one suggestive joke, slightly ooc franco note: requested here! i think you healed my writer's block with this request actually because it was so much fun to write, and it's been a whileeee since i had fun writing. hope u like it <3

BEING A JOURNALISM major wanting to step into the world of sports implicitly meant that one had to possess few unofficial prerequisites: unwavering neutrality for the times the players you so heavily supported got royally screwed over by the game, a rabid competitive edge for the mere opportunity to write half a column in an outdated magazine because you topped the class, mastering the ability of a poker face when thrown in a den of sexist, castrated cats—not to confuse with lions.

Nowhere on that imaginary list was lying with practiced ease. And yet, as the last student in your year without an internship for the final semester, you’d reached an inevitable conclusion: desperate times called for desperate measures. What harm could one tiny fabrication really do?

Staring at the empty white of your document screen-burning your already hyperventilating computer, the title blinked at you smugly as if it knew better: INNOVATIVE F1 QUESTIONS FOR DRIVERS AND STAFF. See? That one little white lie was already taking you places, as you’d somehow landed an internship at a motorsport-based social media company.

Your only problem was that you didn’t know a single thing about Formula One, or motorsports, or racing. At all.

The ad popped up as you were wasting away your time on social media, a pathetically common occurrence when procrastinating for your finals. It was a golden opportunity, you weren’t dumb enough to let it slide— they were looking for temporary staff to help cover the Imola race, whatever that was, and you were looking for anything that might convince the administration that your academic year hadn’t been a total joke. Unfortunately, you were dumb enough to believe it could actually work.

They were sending you, along with a small team, to interview drivers and staff alike. Being the intern, and supposedly in training, meaning expandable, you’d been put in charge of coming up with questions—original ones, at that: no ‘What’s your favorite track?’ nonsense, they precised.

You learned the difference between the Driver’s Championship and the Constructors Championship yesterday. You usually covered hockey, the NHL, a real punch-in-the-face sport. There was no way you could go beyond asking them what shade of tires they were using unless they decided to do a 180° and start racing on ice.

So here you were, in your rented Italian apartment with decaying paint, a squeaky couch, and the muffled chorus of your snoring colleagues. Your laptop screen buzzed diml,y and the void of your thoughts stared back at you as the clock crept dangerously close to one in the morning. Ten sentences, that was the goal: ten measly, coherent, original questions. The cursor blinked at you like it could see right through your sad attempt at powering through your lie. You rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, your body aching for sleep, but you couldn’t allow yourself the sweet deliverance of unconsciousness until you’d typed something. Tiredness, you told yourself with misplaced pride, was not an option.

However, ice cream was.

Five minutes later, you were half-dressed for crime in an old hoodie three times too big for you, sleep shorts honoring the adjective, and the great fashionability of flip-flops with sports socks, slipping out the front door with the grace of a goblin. The streets were mostly quiet, save for the occasional whir of a moped in the silence, and you could feel the cooling asphalt beneath the plastic sole of your shoes. The flickering fluorescent glow of the 24-hour convenience store, growing more intense the longer you walked, called to you.

You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, whether it be comfort, an escape from racing cars and your withering GPA, or a much-needed sugar rush, but you were pretty sure it came in pint form.

You entered the store under the obnoxious screech of a bell. It didn’t seem to faze the cashier, who was fully slumped behind the counter, head tipped back in a mouth-breathing slumber. If someone walked in to rob the place, you had a feeling they wouldn’t be met with much resistance apart from the occasional belted note from the ambient europop.

Tempting.

You shuffled further inside, wandering among the empty aisles in search of the frozen section, and physically recoiling when the temperature dropped a certain amount of degrees as you reached it. The freezers hissed and cracked, the strip lights illuminating the stacks of sad frozen meals and desserts. You dragged your feet along the tiles, arms wrapped around yourself, eyeing the glistening line of tubs in front of you. You needed something sweet, vaguely comforting.

Your heart finally settled on the Ben & Jerry’s Half-Baked pint, your favorite and, as fate would have it, the last one left. You smiled to yourself, already imagining the therapy-like comfort of vanilla, brownie chunks and cookie dough it would bring you. You reached out for it.

But so did someone else, and your fingers brushed.

You flinched, instinctively yanking your hand back a little too dramatically. You hadn’t even heard him walk up, he just appeared at your side in a strange warmth, his palm colliding with yours on its way to reenact the world's least romantic meet-cute.

Your eyes finally snapped to the intruder. He looked just as startled, if more amused, brows lifted in mild apology. He was tall, a good fifteen centimeters above you, and his tousled dark curls were half-hidden by the hood pulled over them, accentuating the drowsiness in the darkness of his eyes. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up on his forearms, and a slight redness flushed his cheeks, which might have been from the cold or eventually the awkwardness of this exact moment.

“Sorry,” he said, an accent you couldn’t quite place swirling around the words. “Didn’t see you there. Didn’t expect someone to also be craving ice cream this late, either.” He offered you a lazy grin, and your stomach did something deeply irrational. He was objectively good-looking, for a stranger.

“You’re alright, don’t worry,” you answered, voice light but guarded. You were tired, unarmed, which weren’t ideal conditions to spar with a man, even though you wouldn’t expect someone who looked like he belonged in a mildly expensive cologne ad to come to fists in the middle of a convenience store.

His eyes dropped to the pint of ice cream, still sitting in the open freezer. “Half-Baked, huh?” he asked. “Strong choice.”

“It’s the best one,” you shrugged.

He tilted his head, as if considering. “Eh… debatable.”

Nonchalance thrown aside, and any desire of survival with it, your jaw detached from your body along with your carefulness. Debatable? “I won’t even dignify this slander with an answer.”

“It’s not my favorite,” he answers, looking far too entertained. “But I respect it. Like… top five material.”

“Top five? You’re insane.”

The smile he already wore on his lips widened and—great—now, he was laughing. The disbelieving sound pleasantly echoed around the quiet store and empty aisles, leading you to cross your arms on your chest as if the gesture could protect you from the charming presence of the stranger.

Somehow, the pint was still sitting between you, dangerously unclaimed.

“Soooo,” you dragged off, cutting the brown-haired man short in his semi-mockery. “By that logic, you wouldn’t mind letting me have it.”

His head tipped back just slightly, studying the flickering lights as if wisdom might descend on him and save him from this moral dilemma. “No,” he ends up saying after agonizing seconds. “I want that one.”

“You don’t even like it.” You stared at him, incredulous.

“I do,” he countered. “It’s just… not my favorite.”

You groaned,dragging a hand down your face. Frustration rose through you like molten lava, enough to make the frozen rows next to you melt. “Listen,” you start, as calm as you could muster, “I had a shitty day. I’m having an even shittier evening. If you had even an ounce of decency in your body, you’d let me walk out of here with my favorite ice cream and my last shred of will to live.”

You reached for the tub. You weren’t even surprised that his hand followed, yet you had to fight the urge to scream. Now, your fingertips were dueling on the cardboard.

“Big talk about dignity from someone wearing flip-flops with socks,” the stranger retorts, that shit-eating grin growing wider by the minute.

This time, you were actually offended. It was one in the morning, you were getting a subjective necessity, not walking the Met Gala. The fact that he, out of all people, had the nerve to make fashion commentary in his wrinkled basketball shorts and downright ancient sneakers was next-level ridiculous. “Oh, please,” you snapped. “Big talk from someone trying to steal ice cream he doesn’t even believe in.”

“Oh, so we’re believing in ice cream, now?”

You stab your finger in his chest. “This is about morals.”

“Right,” he hums, nodding. “You’re the one trying to emotionally blackmail me with your tragic backstory.”

The daggers you were trying to stare at him with didn’t seem to reach his back nor his smugness. The two of you were still standing in the middle of the aisle, each with a hand on the poor tub of Half Baked. The bright, white lights above you were becoming more overwhelming the longer you spent underneath them.

“So we’re really doing this?” you asked. “Neither of us is backing off?”

The stranger leaned closer, and the slow movement had you pausing at the soft delicateness of his features. The maddening smirk tugging at the corner of his lips sobered you instantly. “You’re admitting defeat?”

You scoffed, inching your grip tighter on the ice cream. “In your dreams, maybe.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, amused and searching, before finally tilting his head with a tired sigh, giving the impression he was oh so generously offering the solution for world peace. “... We could share it.”

You frowned in confusion. He rolled his eyes, gesturing toward the pint with a nod. “There are plastic spoons near the register. We could do split custody— ten bites each, top.”

“There’s literally other ice cream. Like, so much,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the frozen aisles around you. You paused, then added with a pointed look, “Also, I don’t know you?”

“Well, I’m Franco Colapinto,” he replied with a lopsided grin.

He laughed. It was an easy sound, coming out low and deep from his chest that rumbled more than it echoed. It sent an involuntary flutter up your spine, which you firmly blamed on your lack of sleep and not the stupidly attractive curve of his lips.

The name tickled something in the back of your brain. It was somewhat familiar, even though you couldn’t quite pinpoint in what way. Frankly, you were too tired and too emotionally invested in your current argument to attempt to dig deeper in the drowsiness of your memories. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you said cautiously, unsure of the reason why you were even entertaining him.

His smile widened. “Great. Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Franco nodded, serious. “I know your name. You know mine. We’ve shared an argument, introductions… that’s practically a friendship. What’s an ice cream after that?”

Your eyebrows shot up to high heavens, though your mouth still tugged up at the corner in the semblance of a disbelieving smile. This entire interaction felt like a fever dream, and Franco Colapinto might have been the strangest man you'd ever met, which explained why the two of you now stood side-by-side at the front of the convenience store, facing the soundly snoring clerk, both patting down your respective pockets.

A curse escaped you when you hit the bottom seam of your hoodie pocket and found nothing: no wallter, no leftover coins, not even a crumpled receipt. Nothing. Franco glanced over, two pathetic white plastic spoons in hand, with his brows raised in a silent question.

“Uh…” you started, wincing. “I may, or may not, have… forgotten my wallet. In my apartment.”

One second passed. Another. Before you knew it, Franco was trying his very best, which was to say, not at all, to hide his snorting. He was doing so openly, no longer bothering to attempt to cover his amusement. His shoulders shook with the force of i,t and the only thing you could do was stare at him, dead-eyed.

“Oh my God, good thing we decided to share, huh?” the brown-haired man managed through a laugh. “Just imagine if you were alone in there, broke as hell.”

You threw your very empty hands in the air. “You act like you’re about to save the day!”

“I am,” Franco taunted, a mock heroicness in his voice as he patted his shorts’ pockets with an exaggerated flourish, only for the performance to crumble when his face fell. He patted again, and again. “Oh shit.”

Words couldn’t possibly be put on the satisfaction rising inside you. You crossed your arms, a smugness usually unknown to you dripping from every word. “Don’t say it.”

“I left my wallet in my hotel room,” he said anyway, sheepishly.

You both stood in front of the counter, spoons in hand, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s still clutched protectively between you. The soft buzz of a fluorescent light filled the awkward silence as you stared each other down, unsure how to proceed.

“Well…,” Franco started eventually, voice dropping low, almost conspiratorial. “He is asleep.”

As if in agreement, the clerk let out a snore, louder than the others.

You turned to him comically slow. The idea, which settled comfortably among your thoughts earlier, came back full force as you waited for him to explain his own thinking process.

Franco shrugged with one shoulder. “We could just— take it? I could always come pack and pay tomorrow.”

“That is literally stealing.”

“You were thinking it too,” he pointed out.

“I was not!”

“You definitely were.”

“I thought about it,” you corrected, “but I never said it out loud, which makes me the moral compass in this situation.”

“You and your morals,” he laughed, only to promptly try to hide with a small cough, throwing a quick look at the clerk.

You stared at him. Condensation was gathering between your fingers, seeping into your skin, and truth be told, your eyelids were growing too heavy for your own good, and a pitifully blank document was still waiting for you in your crumbling rental. You didn’t have enough faith in yourself, nor enough patience, to go back and get your wallet. Frankly, you doubted Franco was any more motivated. ”You’re really gonna come back and pay?” you asked, hesitant.

“Promise,” and the glint behind the depth of his eyes looked sincere enough for you to believe him.

He slipped the pint from your hands, balancing the two spoons in the other, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. The bell above it gave a lazy jingle at the movement, echoing in the stillness around you.

“C’mon,” he called with a wink, casual as anything. “Let’s go be criminals.”

Against all logic, reason and legality, you did. Your steps were slow and sure, forming an unspoken pact in their trajectory.

At least, they would have been if the clerk hadn’t stirred at that exact moment.

A low rustle could be heard from behind you, followed by a sleepy grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone shifting behind the counter. A groggy mutter in Italian filled the air, low and accusatory. Your Italian was rusty at best, but you were pretty sure it wasn’t anything kind or a wish for a good night. Judging by Franco’s face, he seemed to have caught enough of what the man said to make him pause. He turned to you slowly, lips parted. Your eyes widened in a silent question to which he didn’t answer.

In that moment, frozen in amber, you saw your entire career flash in front of your eyes. Your major, thrown away in flashes of red and blue.

You mouthed one word: Run.

“Wait, are you serious—?”

You were already gone.

You bolted out of the door, Franco hot on your heels, the bell above you clanging in metallic indignation. The hoarse complaints of the clerk faded to background noises, swallowed by the wild slap of your flip-flops against the cobblestones. The wind tore through the loose strands of your hair as street lights passed by in a delirious blur. Franco’s breathless laugh reverberated against stone walls, so reckless and uncontainable it made you laugh too, even as you sprinted around a corner, then another, burying yourself further into a maze of sleepy streets you had no idea how to escape from. Finally, the knotted gravel gave way, spitting you both into the hush of a small, empty park.

You collapsed onto the nearest bench, doubled over, panting and wiping the sweat beading on your forehead. Franco was quick to drop beside you, clutching the pint of Ben and Jerry’s to his chest. “Okay,” he gasped, grinning widely through labored breathing. “I think we’re in the clear.”

You chortled, a deeply unattractive sound of such magnitude it turned into a cough. You buried your face in your hand to try to stifle it, just like the growing grin thinning your lips. “Oh my god,” you managed to say, strangled with disbelief. “I’m going to get arrested. I’m going to get fired. I’m going to get banned from Italy for stealing.”

“It doesn’t sound like you believe in Half Baked anymore,” Franco teased, leaning back. You elbowed him with a groan.

In the comfortable silence, broken by giggles every now and then, the brown-haired man ended up prying the lid off the ice cream you so valiantly fought for with a triumphant flourish, which you fondly rolled your eyes at. You both stared down the pint, impatient to dive into your prized possession.

Soup.

The only word that could be used for what was once ice cream was soup. A sad, goopy mess of once-frozen chocolate and vanilla now swirled lazily in the container, brownie bits drifting. The heat of your argument, during which you left the freezer door open, along with the sprint across town, had completely melted it.

There was an awkward pause as you stared at the liquid. “Well,” Franco started, “can it be considered as a milkshake?”

You glanced his way and as soon as your eyes met, you couldn’t hope to hold the pretense of seriousness. Another snort escaped you and morphed into a loud, unstoppable laugh that you were sure the neighboring houses could complain about. Franco stared at you, a glimmer of wonder in the dark of his irises, before following suit until you were both wiping at the corners of your eyes, entirely done with the ridiculousness you managed to bury yourselves into.

“Criminal masterminds, truly,” you managed to wheeze out. “We really took that long to make up our minds?”

Franco offered you a spoon between two laughs. “After you, partner in crime.”

You took it, and for a split second your fingers brushed against the others’, making you pause just enough to see his smile twist into something reserved for the depth of the night. You felt a familiar warmth tighten your face, yet tried not to pay it too much mind as you plunged it into the puddle. You took a bite. The taste and consistency were objectively disappointing.

Still, cold sugar was cold sugar, and it was perfect.

You passed the pint back and forth, settling comfortably deeper into the bench, still warm from the remnants of the day, as the quiet of the very first hours of the morning wrapped around you like a blanket shared at a sleepover—something uniquely yours. The adrenaline faded slowly, making way for gentler words and inflections of voice, as well as the stunning realization the stars above you shone a little brighter than they did before.

Topics went and passed easily. You found out Franco Colapinto was an easy man to talk to: he was laid-back and attentive, slipping subtle jokes and flirtations in-between sentences you could almost miss if he wasn’t looking at you the way he did. You would huff at his attempts, but never quite push him away.

You conversed about every insignificant detail of your lives. The horrible state of your rental apartment and your colleague Maggie’s incurable snoring problem as well as the catastrophic, overpriced pizza you ordered on your first night here. Franco went on about his incredibly passionate vendetta against decaf coffee. Along the way, you learned he wasn’t Italian—well, only by his father—and that the interesting swirl of his tongue around words was Argentinian, that his favorite movie was Interstellar. You told him you never watched it. He berated you for half an hour.

In an interesting turn of event, the conversation drifted toward fashion. “Wait,” you interrupted with a mouthful of ice cream, pointing your spoon at him. “You’re not allowed to judge my flip-flops ever again.”

“The whole combo is a crime against fashion,” he answered, without missing a beat. “Even in the dead of the night.”

You rolled your eyes at him for what felt like the hundredth time tonight, yet none of them had contained any animosity. The spoon clinked against the nearly empty tub as you scooped again. “Well, can’t blame me. This night’s been… weird. The whole day, actually.”

Franco’s gaze turned toward you, not quite literally, as his eyes hadn’t left you ever since you sat down. “You said you were having a shitty day earlier.” A simple affirmation, to which you nodded without much thought. It was true. “Why?” he asked.

You hadn’t noticed how close you had physically gotten until your head dropped backward to face the sky, only to meet Franco’s arm replacing the wooden edge of the bench. He had an arm around your seat, you were tucked to his side, and the balm of his presence enveloped you whole. It eased you into confession with a compassionate simplicity.

“Because I’m a fraud,” you admitted, not without the addition of a largely over-dramatic sigh.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. The inevitable sign that you had to explain the pathetic situation your hubris had gotten you entangled in.

“I… sort of, maybe, eventually bluffed my way into an internship with a motorsports media company,” you explained. The second his lips parted in surprise, embarrassment pooled hot in your chest. It might have been the first time you were ashamed of your actions. “Do you know anything about F1?” you blurted, hoping to get ahead of it.

Franco stared at you for several seconds, facial traits comically deprived of any expression. “Not at all,” he deadpanned. “Apparently, they race cars?”

You debated whether to laugh or groan. He was teasing, and it was working— you chuckled against his shoulder as your head dropped to the side. “Me neither! I didn’t expect to do something useful during this internship, so I thought one little lie couldn’t hurt!” you exclaimed. “Now they have me interviewing drivers and staff with ‘innovative’ questions before the race. Innovative. The only team I knew of was Alpine because I liked the blue and pink combo. I thought they were winning the championship!”

Franco choked mid ice cream bite, halfway through a laugh.

“And apparently they’re swapping drivers left and right?” you pressed on, waving your hands around. “How does swapping drivers midseason make sense? It can’t be efficient. It sounds more like a swinger scandal than a strategy!”

The longer you spiraled, the more Franco’s features disappeared in the dark of his hoodie, the shoulder you were lying on shaking in what looked suspiciously like a laugh. When he finally emerged at the end of your rant, he threw his head back, no longer concealing his giggling. He finally calmed under the stern look you gave him.

“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and warm, “maybe don’t say all that to their faces.”

“I’m not going to!” you scoffed. “I’m already one imaginary question away from losing my job and my opportunity at graduation and humiliating myself on the paddock.”

The arm Franco had around the bench was now resting on your shoulders, pulling you further—if discreetly—closer to him. “What type of questions did you have in mind?”

You listed out the sad sentences you’d typed and deleted in your document, and the brown-haired man next to you could only answer with a few snickers here and there through every few words. You shot him a raised eyebrow, daring him to do better, and that was all he needed: your voices echoed across the empty park as the night stretched thin and silver around you. He navigated you through the strange language of Formula One with ease, translating jargon you’d only ever skimmed past into something that made sense. Focus on their personality, make it human, he insisted. You reminded him that you didn’t even know most of their names.

Still, it spiraled— like it often did with him, you’d grown to notice. From brainstorming about questions on the ethics of DRS to what races they put on to hype themselves up, you found yourselves answering the questions instead of directing them. The topic of who would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse came up, and your restricted knowledge of the sport only made the conversation more ridiculous by the minute. You threw out the name of George Russell. Franco had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“You know a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t know anything about F1,” you noted

He gave you a one-shouldered shrug, accompanied by a smile. “Just picked stuff up. My entourage is really into motorsports.” Then, as if confessing a secret, he leaned into your space, his voice dropping levels to lower down to a whisper. “And I enjoy helping pretty girls.”

Your laugh came out in a breath at the comment, yet something in the air had inevitably shifted—slightly, but there nonetheless. The quiet amusement between you faded into silence, which only left the distant hum of the waking city and the occasional buzz of a street lamp above the park as a soundtrack. The ice cream pint was empty. The sky was lazily painting itself pastel.

Franco was close, so much you could feel the heat of his breath sweeping over your lips, the intoxicating depth of his perfume engulfing you whole. Your knees were brushing hesitantly against each other, your body pressed to his side like gravity kept inexplicably pulling you in, deciding what you wanted before your mind could catch up with the situation. The shadows of the rising light painted his face a sharp golden. His eyes were on yours. They never left.

Were you really about to kiss a man you had known for no more than five hours? You weren’t sure, but Franco didn’t seem to be pulling away. Neither were you.

“¿Vas a besarme?” he murmured, barely above a whisper, his pupils dilated and trained on the curve of your mouth.

You didn’t know what it meant and truthfully, you couldn’t care less. You didn’t want to ruin whatever it was with overthinking, and logic had been left in aisle seven the second you accepted to share that damned ice cream. All you could really tell was that your heart beat loud in your chest, from nerves and anticipation alike, and he was just there. Waiting.

Screw it.

You pulled him in.

It was heated, reckless, and you abandoned yourself into it, leaving caution thrown to the wind. His lips met yours halfway between a laugh and sigh and you swore you’d felt him smirking against your lips before you opened your mouth, giving him the access you both hopelessly desired. Franco kissed the way he talked: smooth, disarming, anticipating your every move with a hand on the dip of your waist and guessing what you liked, gauging your reactions by swallowing every exhale he could tease out of you. He tasted like vanilla, like bad decisions, like everything you could have possibly wanted in the span of a night. Your hands curled in the fabric of his hoodie, his fingers brushed along your jaw, and for a brief, dizzying second, it felt like the spark of something unexpected.

But when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, the first ray of sunlight brushed your features at the same spot his fingers caressed.

“I… We should go,” you managed to breathe out.

He nodded, the shadow of a smile thinning the pink of his lips. The silken chill of dawn crept through your hoodie as you both stood up, exchanging awkward sentences you barely registered amidst the buzz of your brain. Franco kissed your cheek, uncharacteristically gentle. “See you soon.”

You grinned because it was the polite thing to do, not because you believed him. No one ever really meant that. See you soon was only the prettier version of a goodbye, which is where you were leaving him. Overwhelmingly bittersweet, contrasting with the empty ice cream tub in his hand.

You walked back to your crumbling Italian apartment, trying not to turn around—the scent of his perfume on the hood of your sweater and the lingering taste of him on your lips made the task remarkably more difficult than you thought it would be. The air seemed to smell like vanilla swirl. A smile stuck to your face like melted chocolate.

By the time your fingers hit the keyboard, the questions you both brainstormed spilled easily onto the page along with the few terms and techniques Franco had clarified for you. You didn’t even reread them, you just wrote until the sun was fully filtering through the blinds and your colleagues had gotten up to make coffee. Maggie asked you where you went—apparently, your little escapade had woken her up as you left. You didn’t tell her about Franco, nor did you tell any of them.

After all, you didn’t expect to see him again.

Which is why you wholeheartedly believed he was a hallucination when you bumped into him on the paddock later that afternoon.

The day had been a confusing series of events. Your all-nighter, no matter how pleasant, had taken a lot of energy out of you, and was the reason you spent your morning alternating between getting ready and ten-minute naps, much to the team’s dismay. Even in the burning afternoon sun hovering above the Imola track’s paddock, you weren’t quite awake enough, and carbureted solely on your third can of Redbull—the iron grip you had on it threatened to split the metal in half.

They had sent you and Maggie, your unofficial camera woman, in search of the Mercedes hospitality to find the infamous George Russell that wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse according to Franco. The memory took your attention off your surroundings for a single second, pulling a chuckle out of you.

The impact jolted through your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance.

You stumbled back a step, hands fumbling to protect the expensive media badge swinging from your lanyard. The paddock was alive with voices, soon-to-be rolling wheels—and you were about to become very acquainted with its asphalt.

The same hands that tripped you were the ones that caught you. You were about to curse out whoever had the audacity of being so inconsiderate, but stopped as the words were about to leave your mouth. “Careful there, partner in crime,” came an amused voice, with an overly familiar vocal timbre.

Your gaze shot up.

The brown curls, hair damp with heat, were the first thing to come out of the tired blur hindering your vision. Then was the infuriating smirk you had grown accustomed with, only to make way for the delicate traits of his eyes. The pink and blue racing suit was last, with white letters and sponsors across his chest. Alpine.

Your stomach dropped. “... Franco?” You were not sure if you were asking for him or accusing him.

He helped you up, detaching you from the grip of his arms only to face you with a proud smile. One you were itching to slap off his face. “Told you I’d see you soon,” he commented. Soon was an understatement—you had kissed him mere hours ago.

“You— You told me you didn’t know anything about F1.”

Franco hummed in agreement.

“You’re an F1 driver. For Alpine.”

“Maybe.”

Your jaw slackened. Franco Colapinto’s name had sounded familiar for very good reasons that were included in the hundreds of articles you went through, you realized, along with the mortifying understanding that you had openly called his team’s strategy a swinger scandal. Still, the words that left your mouth weren’t apologetic, and not even close to a stutter.

Instead, you stabbed a finger in his chest. “You lied to me!”

Franco arched an eyebrow, his gaze going from the nail you had buried in the softness of his suit to your offended expression. “Ah, I thought you wouldn’t be the one telling me off about one little omission.”

The callback to your late-night admission caused heat to flare up your cheeks, which seemed to greatly please him. He continued, his smug smile not faltering a tiny bit. “So… are you going to interview me here or…?”

“No,” you answered, words sharp and eyes narrowed. “We’re actually here for George Russell, so if you’ll exc—”

“Ohhh,” Franco cut in. “The zombie apocalypse non-survivor. That George Russell.”

You opened your mouth—ready to deny, deflect, eventually flee from the most delirious situation known to mankind—but Maggie appeared beside you, making her presence known with an obnoxious cough and eyes darting between you and Franco. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever that is,” she starts, “but do you guys know each other?”

“No,” you blurted.

“Yes,” Franco said at the same time.

Maggie narrowed her eyes, flicking from the F1 driver to you. “Ooookay, because if you did it would be amazing on camera, with this whole…,” she made a vague hand gesture, “chemistry and all.”

“There’s no chemistry,” you insisted, silently pleading with her.

“There isn’t? I thought we had at least some, after everything,” Franco countered, not even bothering to hide his glee.

And before you could try to snark back with something, anything, that could save this interaction from the clout-chasing endeavors of your colleagues, Maggie was already pulling her phone out from her back pocket. “That’s great! I’ll tell the team we’re bumping Russell up,” she chirped, already sliding away and ordering the second half of your group around.

You slowly turned back to Franco, mouth agape in disbelief. The silence between you was thick, filled with lingering memories and entirely too proud on his end. His arms were crossed on his chest, and his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

Feigning ignorance, Franco threw a grin your way. “Come on. If your first interview is with me, it’ll be easier. We already practiced, remember?”

He seemed to revel in your squirming. You remembered alright. You recalled the warmth of his arm around your shoulders, the roughness of his hands threading through your hair, and the icy aftertaste his lips left on yours that no coffee, as strong as you could possibly make it, could wipe out. It was all too vivid in your mind, despite the drowsiness. It lingered, stubborn, just like him.

Franco didn’t need to be made aware of that, he already looked too pleased with himself. “Yeah, when you lied about not knowing anything about motorsports.”

“And you lied about knowing F1 for your internship,” he fired back. “It feels like fate, doesn’t it?”

You let out a slow, dramatic sigh, pinching your nose bridge. “It feels like an addition to my headache.”

He studied you. There was a difference in the light of day, switching perspectives on what happened when the blanket of nighttime wrapped around people, but his eyes seemed to strip off all those artifices bare. The chatter around you narrowed down to white noise as he took a step forward, shrinking the comfortable gap you had installed.

“Interview me,” Franco breathed, eyes boring into yours, “and I’ll make it up to you for messing with your schedule, and for our questionable first meeting.”

You scoffed at him, but taking a step back was a thought too far removed from you. You basked in the heated air, whether it be from the sun or the man in front of you, much to your own incomprehension. “And how would you make it up to me, Franco?”

Franco’s lips curved slow and deliberate. “With a date.”

“A date?” Your heart paused, catching up with his words before your brain could.

“Yeah. A real one, this time. No heist.” Obviously, that was too normal a sentence for him, because he added almost immediately, “unless you’re into that. Then there will be a heist. Again.”

You punched his shoulder, albeit with not much conviction behind it, which made him chuckle, the sound pooling like liquid sunlight on your skin.

A date. Franco Colapinto was definitely the strangest, and boldest, man you had ever met in your entire life. You would be lying to yourself if you even attempted to deny the fluttering of your chest when the idea crossed your mind. “No stealing,” you affirmed, steadier than you expected yourself to be.

A visible weight seemed to have been taken off his shoulders as he answered. “Promise,” and the glint behind his eyes had a whole other shade, this time around.

Just as you were about to respond—with what, you didn’t know yet—Maggie’s voice cut through the bubble Franco and you had carefully stepped in. All of a sudden, the overwhelming presence of other journalists, staff members, commentators and fans were noticeable enough to break the moment you both became engulfed in.

“You two ready to set up the interview?”

Franco didn’t move. He glanced in your direction, waiting.

Taking a chance on a man you had met in the dead of the night over stolen ice cream and fake identities was a dubious decision, at best. Kissing that same stranger on a park bench like a hormonal teenager, even more so. Every instinct, every rational thought was screaming in bright, flashing red to turn around from this uncharted territory.

And yet—

“Yeah, we’re ready. Just… give us a second.”

Franco flashed you a smile, shameless, just as bright as the midday sun washing over you, and somehow, impossibly, it made your heart ache. Not from regret, but from the terrifying thrill of wanting more of it.

It was probably a terrible idea, but so were all the ones that led you here. Look how far they’d gotten you.

What was one more?

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto x you #fc43 #fc43 x reader #fc43 x you #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x you #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fic #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto fanfic

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cvpidzcvrse · 1 year ago

Text

𝔉𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔪𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

MDNI, like pls omg leave me alone

✦ A/N: omg this my is first time writing a small story or even smut in a whileeee. To introduce myself, i made a tiny little post, check it out!! anyways, enjoy this one loves!!

⋆.ೃ࿔*synopsis: Armin had pissed you off at Connie's birthday bash and you weren't gonna let him forget about it. But little did you know you weren't the only stern one in the relationship.

⋆.ೃ࿔*wc: 2,097

⋆.ೃ࿔*warnings: slight msub, switchy, arguments, begging, praise, make-up sex, degradation, missionary, mating press, pussy slaps, squirting, oral fem!receiving, slight kissing of the feet, p in v, and ofc creampie (practice safe sex)

(I'm an advocate for top armin.)

Armin Arlert pissed you off. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t get mad at a man or even throw a fit at one because you didn’t want to waste your time. But here you are, in the living room of your shared apartment. Y’all have been arguing for hours since you came home from Connie’s party, You’re sure the neighbors are posted up with a bag of popcorn and a free show they can hear through the walls. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if someone wrote a book about it.

You let out another sigh before crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at Armin once again. He rolls his eyes in response before sitting down on a chair next to your kitchen island.

That sassy mothafucka.

“You know I don’t fuck with that bitch Minnie and you still started chatting her up. What? You wanna fuck her next? Huh?” You huffed out while looking at him with some crazed look. He must’ve thought you were some dumb heffer who doesn’t know when a girl is flirting with her man. You practically have steam blowing out of your ears, anyone can see that you’re pissed. Contrary to your current attitude, Armin looks at you with that worried and loving look in his eyes.

“I didn’t know you didn’t fuck with her, love! I swear I never would’ve talked to her if I knew. Also, I wasn’t ‘chatting her up’ we had a 2-second conversation and that’s all.” He responds this time he gets up from his seat and starts walking towards you. Once he’s a breath away from you he grabs your hand and holds it for a few seconds before you snatch it away and walk past him, your heels clicking dramatically on the floor. You hear him let out a sigh as you take your dear time walking to your bedroom. You weren’t going to let his loverboy tactics get to you, you seemingly shook it off.

“Babe come on, you’re acting crazy.” Crazy. Crazy he says, you stop in your tracks before taking a breath and slowly turning to face him. You blink at him for a bit before walking towards him. The only thing that can be heard is your heels connecting with the floor and your heart pounding out of your chest. “Crazy? You think I’m fucking crazy?” You squint at him, the tone in your voice daring him to say it again. You stop about 2 feet in front of him, with your hands on your hips and an angry glint in your eyes. “No…no. I didn’t say you were crazy. I said you were acting crazy. Baby, you know I would never call you crazy.” He’s reaching to you with his eyes, pleading that you understand where he’s coming from, but the anger never leaves your eyes.

“No nigga, you just called me fucking crazy. Talk with caution, because I’m not having it.” You step close enough to slightly nudge his chest with your acrylic nails. You stare at him for a bit before turning and walking back to your bedroom.

“That is not what I fucking said and you know that! You’re twisting my words!” He continues to plead after you but you’re not having it. You just chuckle a bit at the statements. “Don’t walk away from me, (✧)!” Slam!

The door shuts with such force you can hear the neighbors banging on the shared bedroom wall. You walk towards your vanity and take a seat on the matching chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror before letting out a frustrated sigh. The front door slammed closed before you let out a loud groan and started your nightly routine.

1 hour later

You’re lying in bed in a graphic tee and shorts, alright by Victoria Monet playing softly in the background. You fix the purple silk bonnet on your head before finishing up the paragraph you sent to your group chat. You’ve told your best friends everything about the argument, of course since they’re your ride or dies they completely agree with you. Terms like ‘fuck that nigga’ and ‘fuck ass nigga’ are being said constantly which brings a small smile to your face. You continue to type before you hear a knock on the bedroom door. You know it’s Armin, and still holding a grudge you don’t get up or answer. You hear the knock again but this time it’s louder.

“Love, can I come in? I want to talk.”

You hear his soft voice through the door, sounding like a sad puppy. You let out a small sigh before mumbling a soft ‘Come in’. He slowly opens the door and notices your smooth brown skin shimmer in the glow of the fairy lights hanging above your bed. He melts at the sight of your body sitting there but completely ignores the irked look on your face.

“I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry for arguing with you, I knew you were right just, Please…”

He pleads softly, taking another step towards. You sit up on the bed still looking up at him with an ‘I’m not having it.’ look on your face.

“Armin-”

“No…Listen to me, please. I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. You were right, I was being stubborn, I wasn’t listening to you. This isn’t us, and you know that.…”

He rambles on softly, still looking at you with pleading eyes. He takes another step forward before grabbing your hand softly.

“I can do better…for you…I don’t deserve you. I’ll spend lifetimes to be the man you deserve.”

You blink in surprise at his sincerity. You sigh softly before taking your hand out of his. You look up at him shaking your head.

“Armin, come on…you don’t-”

“Baby, please? Forgive me. Do you want me to beg? I’ll do anything.” Armin starts getting down on his knees in front of your feet. Your mouth goes agape before trying to pull him back up.

“Armin, please you-”

“Baby please, please, please, forgive me. My love…” He starts begging on the ground. He grabs your leg and starts rubbing it softly. You sharply gasp at his soft touch and his cold hands. He trails small kisses up your leg, mumbling soft ‘sorry’ and ‘forgive me’. He makes it up to your thighs before looking up at you with those pitiful puppy dog eyes.

“Let me make you feel good. Fuck my face, please.”

He begs while giving your plump thighs loving kisses. You cave into his lover boy approach and slightly open your legs. He smiles lightly before grabbing your legs and putting them over his shoulders. You grab his hair roughly and bury his face into your pussy, he moans into it before harshly grabbing your hips. He gives your clit small kisses before you groan with his teasing. You grab his hair and pull it harshly so he’s looking up at you.

“Eat it right.” You tug at his hair again before he pushes his face into your cunt and sucks your clit hard. You let out a breathy moan before dipping your head back in satisfaction.

“I’ll do better for you, I promise.”

He groans again, sending vibrations straight to your clit. You let out another moan before he pushes his tongue further inside. He takes his free hand to rub the bulge in his pants. He can cum just from eating you and he wouldn’t complain. You can feel your orgasm approaching as he’s working wonders on your clit.

“Armin…I’m about to..”

He nods slowly before licking more aggressively on your clit. He chuckles a bit as your hips thrust into his face.

“Come on baby, you can do it. Do it for me.”

He mumbles into your lips before he does one more good attack on your clit before you cover his face in your juices. You let out a loud moan as you try to catch your breath, you look down at him as he pulls away with a string of saliva leaving his lips. He looks at you with his pussy drunk eyes before smiling softly.

“What else does this greedy pussy need? Huh?”

His voice makes a shiver go down your spine and your pussy grows even wetter. As he gets up you hear the unbuckling of his belt. He slowly undoes every buckle and unzips his pants. You whimper slightly at his teasing and give him a small frown.

“I know baby, I know. Lay back for me..” He whispers in your ear before putting his hand on your shoulder and softly pushing you back. He lifts your legs on his shoulders, letting out a sigh while admiring your glistening lips.

“You’re such a slutty mess..”

He mumbles before taking his cock out and slapping it against your clit. You whimper slightly before looking up at him with pleading eyes. He just gives you the same pussy drunk stare before chuckling.

“Please?”

He gets closer to your face, your nose practically touching. You nod quickly before his cock sinks into you, he lets out a moan before slowly moving in and out. Your eyes roll back from the pleasure heading straight to your head. Armin’s pace quickens as his moans get louder.

“You piss me off sometimes, you know that?”

His pace grows harsher and sloppier after every word he says. Your moans grow louder as tears start building. He takes pleasure in turning you into a dick-addicted slut, he looks down to take in the view. Your tits bounce every time his dick plunges into you, his cock twitches at the sight before his head falls back with pleasure.

“You love making me mad, just so I can treat you like a slut.”

You’re completely zoned out as his cock is hitting that spot you loved. He’s turned you into putty in his hands, you’re a moaning mess getting put in your place by your boyfriend.

“You take this dick so fucking good, Fuuuck.”

He lets out another drawn-out moan before slowing down his pace. You let out a loud whimper as your eyes shoot open at the sudden change of pace.

“Minnie…”

He laughs at your frayed voice and continues his torment with his very slow thrust.

“Look at it go in and out, look at what this dick does to you, baby.”

He smirks before pushing your knees to your shoulder and picking up the pace again. Your bedroom is flooded with the aroma of sex, your moans can be heard over the music that’s playing. The neighbors will definitely give y’all another noise complaint, but you could care less about that. Armin’s pace starts getting sloppy as he speeds up, pushing you into a mating press.

“You drive me…fucking crazy, shit.”

He moans loudly again before he leans down and gives you a messy kiss. A string of saliva leaves his lips before he harshly slams his cock into that favorite spot of yours. He’s fucking you deep into the mattress, you don’t know where your back starts and the mattress begins. Your eyes are practically stuck in your head, the bliss is so strong you can't barely moan anymore. You claw at the bedsheets as you feel pressure building in the pit of your stomach.

“Minnie, I’m about to cum.” You let out another soft moan before he speeds up his pace again.

“Say…say you forgive me. Say…it” He groans as he quickens the pace, the squeaking of your mattress gets louder as he loses control and completely fumbles.

“You can’t cum unless you say it, just say it…please.”

He’s plowing into your pussy so good you’re too stunned to speak. After a few seconds, you compose yourself enough to say the words he’s been wanting to hear.

“I for…forgive you. Please let me cum, please I need it minnie.”

“Good girl…”

He takes his hand and rubs circles around your clit, tears fall from the corner of your eyes before reaching your relief.

“Fuuuck..”

You let out the loudest moan you could muster, now you’re 100% sure the neighbors heard that. Armin lets out one last sharp stroke before he cums inside of you. He collapses on top of you before planting a kiss on your neck.

“Do you really forgive me..?’

He asks with a huff while trying to catch his breath, he smiles at you softly with that pussy drunk grin.

“I don’t know yet.”

You laugh out while stroking his hair.

“Fine, I’ll just fuck you until you do.”

#new writers on tumblr #aot x black reader #armin arlert #armin aot #armin x reader #armin smut #armin x black reader #armin x black y/n #armin x fem reader #aot x reader #aot x black y/n #aot fanfiction #x black reader #x black fem reader #x black y/n

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benispunk · 2 months ago

Text

Safety Net

logan howlett x reader

Logan experiences a rage episode.

A/N: hello everyone!!!! am I back??? well...I guess we can kinda say that? So, life hasn't been good, like, at all, and a whileeee ago I saw a post about mental health and Logan and I saw the "rage episodes" part and I cannot find this post anymore which is killing me ughhhh but ANYWAY, this is my rendition of a rage episode. this was very therapeutic to write because of the things I went through recently and over the past few years as I have witnessed someone in my family have a rage episode like the one depicted in this fic. I really hope I do not offend anyone with this??? cause this is based on personal memory and also I've done a lot of research on it and as I said, I felt lots of different emotions while writing this....anyway...I hope you have a good time?? reading this or like...you didn't choke on your tears or whatever. my exams are ALMOST over which means....more fics soon?? see you!!

Masterlist

Logan never thought he’d make it this far.

He wasn’t the type for relationships—not real ones, not the kind that lasted. The ones he’d had before were brief, messy, and built on things that never stuck. But Y/N was different. She didn’t just put up with him; she understood him in ways that no one ever had. And somehow, despite everything, she was still here.

He didn’t say it much—not in words, anyway—but he cared about her. More than he should. More than he knew how to handle. He’d show it in other ways instead. Walking her home when she worked late. Holding her a little tighter in his sleep when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Memorizing the way she took her coffee, the songs she hummed under her breath, the way her nose scrunched up when she was thinking.

She saw through all of it.

"You’re not as grumpy as you think you are," she’d teased him once, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his forearm.

He’d just snorted, shaking his head. "You sure about that?"

"Mhm. You just pretend to be."

And maybe she was right. Maybe, with her, he didn’t feel the need to pretend so much.

Which is why, one night, tangled up together in her apartment, she had said something that stuck with him.

"I was thinking… maybe one day, we could live together."

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just an idea, something she had tossed out so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Logan had frozen for just a second too long, and she must have noticed because she quickly added, "Not now, obviously. Just, you know… one day. If you’d want that."

He forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Yeah… someday."

That had been enough for her. She had smiled, kissed him, and let it go.

But he didn’t.

It stayed with him, gnawed at him from the inside out. Someday. What did that even mean? A month? A year? What if she asked again? What if she expected something from him?

What if he said yes and fucked everything up?

At first, he managed to push the thought aside.

Days passed, and nothing changed. They still met up when they could, still spent nights tangled in each other’s arms, still fell into that easy rhythm that had become so natural.

But then, the idea started sticking.

It crept up in quiet moments—when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. When Y/N texted him goodnight, and he imagined what it would be like if she was just… there.

And that’s when it started. The overthinking. The doubts. The realization of everything that could go wrong.

Logan had never had anything that lasted. Not a home. Not a real future. Not someone who stayed. And if he let himself believe—even for a second—that this could work, that he could have something good, then he’d just be setting himself up for the inevitable.

Because eventually, he would hurt her.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he knew himself. He knew what he was.

His nightmares alone were enough proof of that.

The thought of waking up next to her after one of those nights—claws unsheathed, sheets shredded, breath ragged—made his stomach twist. What if he lashed out? What if she got caught in it?

What if one of his rage episodes got out of hand?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when months later she asked about it again—actually asked—he hesitated.

They were sitting on her couch, her legs thrown over his lap, a movie playing in the background. It was the kind of easy, quiet moment that usually put him at ease. But this time, he could feel her looking at him, like she was weighing her words before speaking.

"You never really answered me before," she said finally. "Do you actually want us to live together?"

Logan’s jaw tightened. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, like she was scared of his answer.

He should have told her the truth. That it had been eating him alive for months. That he wanted to say yes, but his fear screamed louder than anything else.

Instead, he said, "I just need some time to think about it."

Y/N’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded slowly, studying him in that way that made his skin itch.

"Okay," she said, like she didn’t believe him.

And then she squeezed his hand. Just briefly. A small, warm reassurance.

But to Logan, it didn’t change anything.

He could only see what he thought was disappointment behind her understanding. He convinced himself she was just trying to be strong about it, pretending it didn’t hurt her when really, she was just waiting for him to figure himself out.

The guilt settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

That’s how it started.

The beginning is always subtle. He stayed out later, made excuses when she asked to meet up. His texts became shorter, more infrequent. He spent more time alone in his apartment, staring at the walls, trapped inside his own head.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Logan convinced himself it was nothing. He was just thinking. That’s all.

But the thoughts never stopped.

Every time Y/N messaged him, guilt curled in his stomach like a sickness. He’d stare at his phone for minutes at a time, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking the screen and tossing it onto the couch.

He didn’t want to ignore her. But if he answered, he’d have to talk, and if he talked, she’d hear it in his voice—how torn he was, how he could barely keep himself together. And he couldn’t let that happen.

So he let the distance grow.

He told himself it was for her own good. That he was doing her a favor.

That lie worked for about a week.

Then came the restlessness.

The apartment, always too small, started feeling like a cage. Logan found himself pacing the length of it, muscles coiled so tight they ached. He tried training to burn it off—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until he couldn't feel his legs—but it didn’t help.

The frustration built like pressure under his skin, like a ticking bomb he couldn’t disarm.

And worst of all, he felt it creeping up—an old, familiar feeling, something he’d kept at bay for months.

The anger.

It started small. A twitch in his fingers. A tightness in his jaw. A heat in his chest that never fully went away.

The second week, it got worse.

His hands trembled when he wasn’t paying attention. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, like something was crawling under his skin. He felt his temper snap quicker, his patience wear thinner.

And then, one morning, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.

Dark circles burned under his eyes. His face was drawn, sharp, his shoulders tense. He looked haunted.

It was getting bad. Too bad.

He needed to see Y/N.

The thought hit him like a slap. His first instinct was to shove it down, bury it under everything else, but it wouldn’t leave.

He missed her. But worse than that—he needed her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he showed up, and she looked at him the way he looked at himself?

What if she finally saw him for what he really was?

A monster. A wreck. A lost cause.

The fear made his blood run cold.

The first punch isn’t planned.

One second, he’s gripping the sink, breath ragged, jaw locked so tight it aches. The next, his fist slams into the mirror with a force that shatters it instantly.

Glass rains down like ice. Tiny shards bite into his knuckles, but he barely feels it.

His chest heaves. His heartbeat pounds against his ribs. He stares at his own fractured reflection—his face split into a dozen broken pieces, each one warped, wrong.

It’s not enough.

The rage claws higher, burning his veins, crushing his ribs. He steps back, breathing sharp and uneven. He moves away from the bathroom, into his small living room. And then he snaps.

The lamp goes flying first. It crashes against the far wall, exploding into pieces. The chair follows. He barely registers the sound it makes as it shatters.

His claws threaten to unsheathe, but he fights it—barely.

Instead, he tears through the apartment with nothing but his hands.

The table gets overturned. Books get ripped from shelves. His dresser—too heavy, too solid—takes three violent attempts before it topples over with a thunderous crack.

Still, it’s not enough.

He needs to break something. To hurt something. To feel it.

His breathing is ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands tangle in his own hair, yanking, as if he could pull himself out of his own skin.

The storm inside him is suffocating.

It doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left standing.

And then, silence.

His shoulders tremble. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still shaking.

He looks around, blinking through the haze, and finally sees it—

The wreckage.

His apartment is destroyed.

He stares, breath coming too fast, too shallow. His head is spinning. His chest aches.

What have I done?

The thought slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

He wants to scream. To punch something again. To disappear.

And then—

A soft knock.

His stomach drops.

He goes rigid, pulse hammering in his ears. He barely has time to process before her voice follows—gentle, uncertain.

"Logan?"

No. No, no, no.

She can’t be here. Not now. Not when the air still vibrates with rage. Not when his body still hums with it.

He staggers back, breath shaking, trying to make sense of anything.

She knocks again. "I know you’re here."

Panic surges through him.

He grips the edge of the still standing counter, heart hammering. Think. Think.

But his mind is blank.

She can’t see this. She can’t see him.

But she’s already here.

And it’s too late.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. If he stays completely still, maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll assume he’s out and walk away.

But then—

His phone rings.

The sound shatters the silence like a gunshot.

His stomach drops.

Shit.

His body jolts into motion, eyes darting wildly through the wreckage. Where the hell is it? He moves without thinking, shoving aside broken furniture, tossing clothes and debris out of the way. His hands are unsteady, frantic, as he digs through the mess.

The ringing continues.

Come on, come on—

His fingers finally close around the device, and he scrambles to turn it off, but—

The damage is done.

Outside, Y/N goes silent.

A few seconds pass, then—

"...Logan?" Her voice is softer now. Knowing.

His chest tightens.

He grips the phone so hard it creaks in his hand. His breathing is too loud, his pulse a hammer against his skull.

She knows.

"Logan, open the door."

No. No, no, she can’t.

"You can’t come in," he blurts out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, tries to steady himself, but it’s useless. His hands are still shaking. His entire body is.

"Please." Her voice is so gentle it cuts through him like a blade.

"Just—just go home, alright?" He forces the words out, presses his back against the door like he can physically hold her out. "I’m fine."

He knows how it sounds. Knows she doesn’t believe it.

"Logan…"

There’s something in her tone—something aching—that makes his stomach twist.

"You’re not fine," she says, quiet but firm. "Please. Just let me in."

He squeezes his eyes shut. His head is spinning.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t see this.

But she is.

And deep down, he knows. She’s the better option. She always has been. And with a sharp breath, his fingers fumble with the lock.

The second it clicks, the door opens.

And Y/N steps inside.

The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of splintered wood.

The apartment—once messy in a charming, lived-in way—was destroyed. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor.

In the middle of it all stood Logan. Frozen. Shaking. Like an animal cornered after ripping itself apart.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her heart ached so violently in her chest it almost knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t hesitate.

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, she made her way to him. Her hands reached out—gentle, slow—like approaching something fragile.

“Logan,” she breathed.

He flinched at her voice. His hands, bloody and trembling, curled into fists at his sides, as if trying to hold himself together. He wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

But Y/N wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

She checked his hands first, ghosting her fingers over his knuckles, over shallow cuts that were already starting to heal. It didn’t matter—they could have hurt. She still touched him with the same care she would have used on something broken beyond repair.

“Come here,” she whispered, finding a chair that hadn’t been completely wrecked. She kicked aside some debris, made enough space, then turned back to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

So she went to him and she led him by the hand—gently, so gently—until he sat down with a heavy, defeated thud.

Y/N disappeared into the kitchen for a second, somehow finding a clean cloth and wetting it with cold water. When she came back, Logan hadn't moved. His eyes were empty, far away, like he wasn’t really there.

Kneeling in front of him, she pressed the damp cloth to his face, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the sweat.

He flinched again at first—then, slowly, surrendered to her touch. His head bowed forward, his whole body trembling under her hands. Tears fell down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. He didn’t even seem to notice them.

Y/N caught every tear with the cloth, and when that wasn’t enough, with the soft brush of her thumb against his skin. She kissed the corner of his mouth so lightly he barely felt it, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, over and over again. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Logan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to release. His shoulders collapsed inward, and for a moment, he leaned into her, desperate and broken. But even then, even shattered, a part of him tried to pull away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

“You shouldn’t be,” he rasped, voice thick with guilt and misery.

Y/N’s heart twisted, but she didn’t loosen her hold. She shook her head and pressed her forehead gently to his. Her hands threaded through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.

"I’ll always be here," she whispered.

And that—That broke him all over again.

Logan choked on a sob, rough and ugly, and Y/N gathered him close. She guided him toward the bedroom, somehow navigating the wreckage without letting go of him, like if she let go, he might fall apart completely.

They reached the bed—half wrecked but still standing—and she urged him to sit.

He obeyed, dazed and exhausted.

She climbed behind him, pulling him against her chest, holding him the way you would hold someone drowning. Her hands never stopped moving—through his hair, over his face, down his chest—silent promises written into every touch.

Logan tried to speak—tried to tell her he was sorry, that he was dangerous, that he should be alone—but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he cried.

For everything he was.

For everything he wasn’t.

For everything he was terrified to lose.

And she listened. Patient. Endless.

Her tears fell into his hair as she presses soft kisses there and whispered, “I’ve got you, Logan. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he believed her.

He stayed there, trembling in her arms, every breath a struggle. He was exhausted—but he couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t let himself fall into sleep, not yet. Not when every part of him screamed that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

Y/N must have sensed it—the way he was still locked in the fight, even as his body sagged against her. Because after a long moment, she leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing through his hair again, slow and soothing.

"Logan," she said softly, "let’s go to my place, okay?"

Her voice was a balm, warm and certain, like she was offering him a lifeline he didn’t think he deserved.

"We’ll come back here when you're ready," she promised. "We'll clean up together. But right now, you need a place that feels safe."

Safe.

The word hit him like a punch.

Logan stiffened, guilt flaring so hard it made his stomach churn. He shook his head, tearing away from her touch even though it hurt to do it.

"I can’t," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I’ll... I'll just wreck that too."

Y/N’s chest squeezed painfully. Logan’s fists curled again, self-hatred bleeding out of every line of his body.

"I could—" he swallowed hard, his throat burning, "I could hurt you."

He didn’t say again. But it was there, unspoken.

He was a monster. A ticking bomb. Someone who could tear everything good apart without even meaning to.

But Y/N. She just reached for him again, steady and unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

"You won’t," she said, firm but gentle. "You won't because you're not alone. Because you don’t have to fight this alone anymore."

She squeezed his hand, grounding him back into her.

"And even if you still don’t believe it," she whispered, "even if you push me away, even if you try to shut me out... I’m not leaving you, Logan. Not now. Not ever."

Logan’s breathing hitched. He shook his head again, broken. "You don’t get it," he choked out. "I’m not... I'm not worth it. You should walk away. You should've walked away the second you saw—" He gestured weakly at the wreckage, at the wreck of himself.

But Y/N only moved closer. Closer until he couldn't look anywhere without seeing her. Feeling her.

"I saw you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Not the mess. You."

That shattered something deep in him. Not in a violent way. In a way that stripped him down to the raw truth beneath all the pain: He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her more than he even knew how to say.

And she loved him right back, with a kind of love so fierce it scared him more than anything else in the world. But it also saved him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Logan reached for her again. His hand fisted in the back of her shirt like he was terrified she might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And when she leaned into him, wrapping him up in her arms again, he buried his face in her neck, letting himself finally, finally fall into her.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe he never would.

But she was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

She kept her arms around him for a long moment, just breathing with him. When she finally pulled back, it was only to cup his face in both hands, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back."

Logan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded faintly, like a man barely clinging to the surface.

Y/N kissed his forehead so softly it made his chest ache, then she stood up, stepping carefully over the wreckage as she made her way back into the main room. He watched her go, guilt gnawing at him.

In the living room, Y/N moved quickly but carefully. She picked up the sharp shards of the broken mirror first, wrapping them in a towel before tossing them safely into the trash. She pushed splintered wood and broken glass out of the pathways, clearing a narrow, safe space from the bedroom to the front door. She closed the shattered shutters as best she could, dimming the room so that when Logan would come back here later, it wouldn't feel so raw. So exposed.

She worked with quiet determination, her heart breaking a little more every time she caught sight of the destruction. Not because she cared about the mess, but because she could feel how much pain Logan must've been in to cause it.

When she was satisfied that nothing dangerous remained, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Logan was still sitting exactly where she left him, on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and hands loosely clenched in his lap.

Y/N’s heart squeezed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she moved around the room, finding a worn duffel bag tucked under the bed. She gently packed what she could: clothes that weren’t destroyed, a couple of small things she knew mattered to him.

In the bathroom, it was harder—cracked tiles, broken shelves—but she found his toothbrush, some of his toiletries, a couple of personal items, and tucked them into the bag too.

The whole time, Logan stayed silent, waiting on the edge of the bed.

It felt unreal. Like he wasn’t sure any of this was happening. Like any second now, she’d realize who he really was and walk out that door forever.

But she didn’t. She zipped the bag closed, slinging it over her shoulder and when she turned to him, her expression was still soft. Still his.

"Alright," she said gently. "Let’s go."

Logan hesitated, his body locked between guilt and the pull of her voice. But then she held out her hand to him and after a long, trembling second, Logan reached out and took it.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, like a promise.

She led him out of the bedroom, guiding him carefully around the worst of the wreckage she’d cleared, never letting go of his hand. Out the door. Out of the prison his fear had made.

The walk to Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

She kept a steady hand on Logan the whole time, whether it was gripping his hand, brushing his arm, or gently guiding him through doors and up steps.

Logan didn’t speak. He felt hollowed out and brittle, like if she let go of him even for a second, he might just blow away with the night wind.

When they finally reached her door, she unlocked it quickly, ushering him inside with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

The apartment smelled like her. Warm. Safe.

Home.

She kicked off her shoes by the entrance but didn’t ask him to do the same. Instead, she led him straight to the couch, easing him down carefully like he might break if she moved him too fast.

"Stay right here," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second."

He nodded numbly, watching her flit around the small space. She pulled out a fresh blanket, fluffed a pillow behind him, checked the thermostat to make sure the place was warm enough. Every move was made with him in mind—with the kind of care he didn’t think he deserved.

And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling himself to think he could have this. Have her.

As she moved into her bedroom to grab some extra clothes he could borrow, Logan’s eyes wandered without meaning to.

Her apartment was small but filled with life—books, photos, cozy little touches everywhere. He caught sight of something pinned to the fridge and frowned. He pushed himself up a little and squinted.

It was a photo. Worn and creased from being touched so often.

It was him. Him and her.

A candid photo from some random night he barely remembered, probably taken when they'd gone out for drinks with some of her friends. In it, he was looking off to the side, a rare, unguarded smile on his face. And she was laughing, leaning into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Someone had drawn a little heart under the picture.

Logan's chest tightened so hard it hurt. He hadn't even known she had that picture.

Y/N came back just then, carrying some sweatpants and a soft hoodie, but paused when she saw him up, looking at the fridge.

"Logan?" she said gently, setting the clothes down.

He shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Trying to breathe past the crushing guilt and the unbearable love that wrapped around him like chains. He sat back down on the couch.

"I..." he started hoarsely. He dragged a hand down his face, then gritted out, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands again, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You’re not a monster. You’re not broken beyond saving. You are good, Logan. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping him—part sob, part plea.

"I could hurt you," he rasped. "I could—"

"You won't," she said fiercely. "I trust you. I know you."

Her thumbs brushed away the tears he didn't even realize were falling again.

For a long, trembling moment, Logan didn’t move. Didn't even breathe.

And then, like a man surrendering a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place, he leaned into her touch. Collapsed against her.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe he wasn't beyond saving.

Not as long as she was here. Not as long as she was holding him like this.

Logan’s body was heavy against hers, all tense lines and shuddering breaths. For a moment, he let himself rest there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, letting her hands ground him—gentle strokes along his back, soothing circles at the nape of his neck.

But then, as always, the guilt clawed its way back up his throat.

He shifted, starting to pull away.

"I—I should go," he muttered roughly, not even knowing where he thought he could go in this state. "I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the floor. Or— or the couch."

Y/N immediately tightened her hold.

"What are you talking about..." she said, firm but gentle, her hands sliding up to cradle his face again. "You're not going anywhere."

He shook his head, a pained sound escaping him, "You don’t—You shouldn't have to—" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Look at me, Y/N."

"I am," she whispered, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, brushing away a tear. "And all I see is the man I love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

She didn’t let him turn away. Didn’t let him fall back into that pit.

"You're staying right here," she said again, softer this time, like a promise. "With me."

For a second, he was frozen.

Then Y/N pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

"Come on," she murmured against his skin. "Let’s get you comfortable, alright?"

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to resist anymore.

She helped him out of his ruined jacket, guiding him with slow, careful movements like he was made of glass. He let her pull the sleeves down his arms, let her tug the hoodie over his head. Every touch was tender, every glance full of nothing but care and patience.

She handed him the fresh sweatpants and shirt she'd found earlier, giving him the dignity of changing in the bathroom if he wanted— but he just stood there, trembling, needing her near.

So she stayed. Helping him change, steadying his shaking hands when they fumbled with the fabric.

Once he was in clean clothes, Y/N led him to her bed.

The second he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight, he seemed to lose what little strength he had left. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with silent breaths.

Y/N knelt down again in front of him, brushing her fingers through his hair with infinite gentleness.

"You’re safe now," she whispered. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Logan swallowed hard, blinking back another wave of tears. He was so fucking tired. Of fighting. Of hurting.

Tired of believing he didn’t deserve this.

Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head.

And she was there. Still there. Still looking at him like he was worth staying for.

"I’ll stay," he rasped, voice breaking.

Her smile trembled, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Good," she breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. "That's all I want."

She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the blankets over them, never once letting go of his hand.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Logan let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

XXX

feel free to comment if you want a part 2 or any other request!!

#fanfiction #fandom #ao3 #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #marvel cinematic universe #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #xmen fanfiction #xmen x reader #deadpool 3 #logan x reader #x men movies #xmen fanart #x men

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lambse7en · 7 months ago

Text

just to fight?

(Ambessa Merdarda x Reader)

─━━━━━━⊱✿⊰━━━━━━─

summary: Ambessa, impressed by your skill, challenges you to train with her. She’s a teasing woman, but you sure didn’t expect the fight to become more than that.

─━━━━━━⊱✿⊰━━━━━━─

rating: explicit, minors dni

language: english

tags: #f/f #arcane #leagueoflegends #lol #Ambessa Medarda/Reader #Ambessa/Reader #Ambessa Medardaxreader #Ambessaxreader #AmbessaMedarda #LightDom/sub #OralSex #Sex #IWroteThisInsteadofSleeping #Training #TrainingCamp #TrainingFight #SoftAmbessaMedarda #ReaderInsert #y/n #wIw #UselessLesbians

link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61339111

notes: I haven't written anything in a while. Wrote this when i should just be sleeping but this woman doesn’t leave my mind! Correct me if you see any errors and comment your thoughts about it <3 I don’t play league so…arcane !!! I accept suggestions to write fanfics about arcane characters x reader…and other fandoms…but i might take a whileeee to do them.

I hope you like it byee

─━━━━━━⊱✿⊰━━━━━━─

"I would like you to accompany me"

"Where?" That's what you wanted to ask, but you just say it in your head. You wouldn't have the courage to question Ambessa Medarda's word, because despite everything she was your lord, the person you should follow and obey

「• • •」

You had found it really strange that, for the first time since you joined the Noxian army, the warlord had come to see one of the daily training sessions, this never happened. You didn’t understand her motive, yet, to the surprise of many, there she was, attentive to everything your colleagues and you did

You were physically tired of having trained all afternoon, but the training was the usual for you.

You had been a soldier long enough to get used to that heavy training routine, but your boss's attention made everything much heavier, you felt you couldn't fail

You rarely did it, to be honest. You weren't extremely strong, like many, but you were agile and intelligent, which made you survive until now

「• • •」

While walking through the corridors you couldn't stop questioning yourself about where Ambessa Medarda would take you, it was rare for her to call someone particularly for whatever it was and distinctions were only in special times. You hadn't done anything wrong either, at least not that you consider.

"You look scared. That is something that doesn't look good on you." - She says with a firm and almost defiant tone.

"I just... I just wanted to know what's going on…”

"Why so much curiosity? Are you afraid?" - When she says this, she stops walking slightly and looks you in the eyes.

"N-no." - You said as firmly as you could, the last thing you could do was embarrass yourself in front of the person who has the most authority before you.

"That's good."

After some time walking Ambessa stops in the hallway, you almost bump into her, distracted by the million thoughts crossing your mind. You two are strangely close to Ambessa's office, which you thought would be your stop today. Of course, it wouldn't be a good thing if it were.

Nonetheless she opens another door.

Was it a...private training chamber? It was much cozier than your regular one, but why would she have taken you there?

"Won't you ask any questions? I didn't think you were so coy" - It seems that whenever she opens her mouth it's to provoke

"I apologize."

"Don't."

"Why am I here?"

"Why should you be, little lamb?"

When you hear her call you that you look into her eyes with a certain intensity, it annoys you when people try to diminish you, but then you realize that you can't look at someone like her that way and your expression changes

"You can get upset, that's how people fight better.”

"Did I come to fight?"

"To train with me"

"Why?"

"Because I want to." - Her face is serious. It is not an option, it is what you have to do. - "Now stop chattering and let's start" - She says as she enters the room and goes to the fight area.

You do the same.

Really, you should have noticed before, she was dressed in a training uniform, just like you, so it was obvious that she had come or was going to train, but you had no idea that she invited soldiers to train with her.

"Do you usually train with...soldiers?"

"Only with the ones I like" - She says cunningly. She's someone who likes to take advantage of situations, and she might not even really like you, but when she passed through the corridor and I saw you fight so foxily she couldn’t stop thinking if she could break you.

It's a constant within her, that of power.

You don't seem very confident about your future performance fighting against her, but you accept the fact that she chose you and you feel happy about it. You don't know very well how to react to what she said, so you simply put yourself in a battle position, preparing to start fighting.

She seems happy with your initiative and gives you a slight smile.

"Let's see how much you can handle." - It looked like a threat coming from her. You didn't know how far this training could go but you were definitely going to be beaten up, even so, you didn't want to lose your pride.

"Let's go then.”

Ambessa is a warrior, always imposing and focused on her goal. She knows she is completely in control, but in a training battle, what is at stake is not only winning, but also observing the other, understanding movements and weaknesses and in this you usually always overcome.

When you start the fight by deferring a punch in her stomach, her face doesn't reveal any emotion, but her eyes are sharp.

She even smiles a bit and moves with the precision of a predator around you, which leaves you apprehensive about whether you should have done that or not.

Her strong and dominant posture and her muscles are prepared to move at the right time, even so the way she is surrounding you is provocative, it makes you anxious.

Ambessa gives then the first step she advances quickly, but you, attentive, manage to escape quickly.

She admires, in her conscience, the grace with which you did it.

Without wasting time, she tried again, advancing with an accurate punch. But you now even more focused, you used your agility to escape, turning quickly and moving away from Ambessa with a light jump. You were trying to process how the rhythm of the fight was going to be. Your breathing was faster, but you managed to stay calm, controlling your steps and positioning yourself strategically. Ambessa doesn't seem surprised by your speed because that's precisely why she chose you in the middle of all the soldiers she saw. Quickly the lord composed herself, ready to resume the attack.

With a slight smile, she advanced again, now more cautious, studying the movements you did. She knew she could break you anyway.

However, you used your distance to buy time, moving fluidly, trying to predict Ambessa's attacks. When she approached, you leaned back, avoiding a direct blow. With a quick impulse, you got up, trying to hit a counterattack punch. But Ambessa dodged with surprising agility, always in control of the situation.

Over time, Ambessa felt that she needed to intensify the battle. Her patience runs out quickly, and she no longer wanted to play with the opponent. Her eyes shone with a fierce determination. She advanced harder, moving more brutally, trying to catch you by surprise. Ambessa used her height and strength advantage to surround you, without giving you space to escape again. With a quick and decisive movement, Ambessa grabbed your wrists, forcing you to stay on the floor.

You tried to fight against it, but Ambessa's strength was overwhelming. With a precise blow, Ambessa immobilized you, holding you tight, until there was no way to escape.

With a instigative smile, she leaned a little closer, and the provocation came out naturally.

"I thought it would be more difficult... Where was all that strength you seem to have?" - Ambessa's tone was full of fun, playing with your visible frustration.

But you didn't give up. With impressive agility, you used the moment of distraction to unexpectedly escape from Ambessa's domain, turning around and trying to take advantage of the gap. You didn't have the strength to completely immobilize Ambessa, but your determination made you try at all costs. With considerable effort, you tried to spin and position yourself behind Ambessa, trying to apply an immobilization technique.

Ambessa, now with a wider smile, noticed your effort and the difficulty you were having to apply the blow. - "Oh, so here's your great hidden force, little lamb."

"That's not my name.” - You answer. She laughed softly, more impressed with your persistence than with your attempt.

"Good try, but you will need more than that to get me, child." - With this, Ambessa got rid of you and the fight continued.

At a certain point you were already exhausted, your movements slower, your breathing heavy. Ambessa knew it was the right time. In a quick movement, she used her strength to knock you to the ground again, immobilizing you with precision, leaving you with no space to escape. Despite trying to resist, you no longer had the necessary energy to continue.

Ambessa, with a satisfied smile, kept you on the ground for a moment. - "You tried, but it wasn't enough..." - she said in a soft voice, but you felt that she couldn't finish the sentence because she didn't know your name.

With a certain shortness of breath you say - "Y/n"

"There's still a lot to learn, Y/n, but I see great potential in you."

You, with your eyes still full of determination, looked at her, but the tiredness was evident. Ambessa finally released you, helping your body up.

"You tried very hard, I admire that" - She said with a kinder tone. - "But it can't always be about winning, right? - She provokes.

You looked at Ambessa, still hurt by the defeat, but with a sincere smile on your face.

"Thank you for choosing me to fight," - you replied, with a renewed determination.

Ambessa watched you with a respectful look, placing a hand on your shoulder. Then her expression changed, something sly there in the middle.

She approached you

"Do you think I would call you just to fight?"

She doesn't seem to be joking when she says that and you get confused for a moment. Like what the hell was she saying.

Her hand goes up from your shoulder to your chin and stays there.

Ambessa can't deny it, she feels attracted to women who are strong, who don't give up and the fact that you have the courage to continue training with her pleased her. Not to mention that she may have chosen you for being agile and looking determined, but she also chose you because you were beautiful.

Your head is at a million per hour.

Ambessa Medarda, one of the strongest warriors who has ever stepped on earth, is touching you as if instead of having just fought with each other, you had met at a bar and she was ready to take you home.

You've had sex with women, that's not even the problem, but in what world would a woman like this look at you in such a...seductive way.

"I-I don't think I understood…�� - It's the only thing you can say.

"I can make you understand.”

And with that she grabs your head and pulls you for a kiss so intense that you lose your balance and your head turns in confusion.

It takes time for you to realize what is happening, but the moment you orient yourself, you do not miss the opportunity that is given to you.

Maybe you're even dreaming, then you give everything you have in that kiss and hold yourself in her arms.

She seems to like it and one of her hands lowers to your waist and pulls you for your bodies to touch. The hot feeling inside you makes you feel like it's the first time you've ever been touched by someone.

Your lips separate, but she doesn't let you go and looks at you.

"Did you understand now?"

Maybe you're crazy. Maybe it's your soldier instincts. But you're ready to do anything this woman asks you.

So, puzzled, you just nod your head to say yes.

"Good." - She smiles at you and grabs you by the thighs making you jump to her lap.

From one moment to the next you are carried to her room and during all that time your lips did not come off. It was also impossible when everything in her was honey, the taste of the mouth, the color of the eyes...

She closes the door by leaning you into it, with you still on her lap.

"Before anything else. You have to realize that this won't be a habit."

Well, it could be, but you didn't want to know about it now, if it was supposed to be only once then let it be now.

"There's no harm in that." - You hug her neck and kiss the woman in the most seductive way you can.

Ambessa likes that, the submission and acceptance you have right now, without losing your determination. It's a turn-on. She smiles in the middle of the kiss, but doesn't stop it. Instead she puts you on the floor, with you still clinging to her neck, but she takes the edge of your uniform sweater and starts pulling to take it off and you without hesitation put your arms up and leave it there, helping her.

"No bra? To fight?" - She really wasn't expecting that.

"They stick too much." - For some reason you're not ashamed, you're more proud of what's happening than anything else, you feel incredibly good about yourself, it's not just anyone who goes to Ambessa’s room to fuck. With her. You think.

"I respect that decision" - She smiles at you and kneels in front of you. Your surprised and try to make her get up, but she rejects your attempt to help her.

It's impressive, she's still incredibly big on her knees. Her face is directly in front of your breasts. You flow a little, you don't believe what's happening.

There is no hesitation in Ambessa when she starts sucking one of your nipples, while grabbing your other breast.

Immediately you feel amazing, you breathe deeply. With goosebumps all over your skin, it was impossible to get more excited, but maybe you even got.

She bites the sensitive place. You feel weak and can't take it anymore, you let out a moan.

Ambessa of course, appreciates that and starts delivering kisses all over your chest, as if your body was a temple in which she prays.

You take your hand to her hair, and almost caress the strands. It's surprising that she's not being very rude so far.

Until now...

She stops kissing you and gets up, starting to take off her shoes, which at this point were already making her uncomfortable.

"Go to the bed.” - It was an order.

You did it like that, she turns to you.

"Take off your clothes.” - One more order. It was strange to receive orders of this kind, but coming from her, there was nothing else to do but obey.

You did what she told you while looking into her eyes, however you didn't show yourself much, because you didn't know if she was impatient or not, when her gaze seemed to devour you on the other side of the room.

"Good girl.” - She says when you're done. The comment makes you happy. - "Now lie down on the bed and spread your legs wide.”

That moment was like being on the edge of a cliff: curiosity and desire call you to move forward, but shyness holds you, making your body feel tense, but still, the desire to overcome shame and do what you really want, and give her what she wants, is stronger. So, even with your heart beating a thousand, you move on and do as she asked you. You feel the cold hit you on the uncovered skin when you position yourself, your body shivering once again as she begins to approach the bed.

She positions herself between your legs and takes off her own shirt, then the bra that held her breasts. After that she puts both hands on each side of your head and you realize that she is giving you an opportunity to touch her and explore what is in front of you. Immediately you affectionately touch the scars that pass through her chest. She seems to melt with that touch and caresses your hair.

After that you touch her breasts, your care makes her laugh a little.

"Do you think I'm made of porcelain, doll?"

You wanted to answer yes, that what you had in front of you was too precious not to be careful with, but you realized that she was just provoking you.

"You're very beautiful" - You simply said the most honest thing that went through your head.

She seems to be almost shy about it, the compliment moved her somehow.

"I know.”

Soon after she says that, she comes down on you and starts distributing kisses down your thighs. You can't do anything else but close your eyes and appreciate all the sensations it brought you.

She began to kiss the inside of your thighs and climb dangerously slowly, you already knew what was coming so you held her hand that was still hovering on the soft sheets of the bed, since the other helped in the caresses.

After a while, the kisses and the licking passed near your vulva, circled it. You couldn't stand that slow speed, it made the heat between your legs unbearable.

"My lady..." - You sighed so low that she didn't even hear it, you didn't know if you should call her that. - "Ambessa." - This time louder.

She stopped - "I know you're impatient, but you have to enjoy the moment, doll.”

"The moment is being very long, I want you in me. Now." - It sounded even quite sturdy for someone who is begging for her own boss to fuck her.

Ambessa smiled when she heard that and without taking her eyes off you licked your core from the bottom up, very slowly, dragging all your wetness with her tongue.

That alone gets a moan out of your mouth.

"Oh my..."

For Ambessa this is like asking for more.

She wet her mouth and then slowly began to insert her tongue and move it up and down. It made you go crazy. You didn't care at all, you just moaned as much as you needed. She loved it. You were careless in the right moments.

She increased the length of her tongue to go into you slowly and continue the circles inside you for a while.

She felt your juices and just swallowed them without stopping the motion, tasting you as if you were a candy.

Right when you thought you were going to cum that way, she just brought in a thumb and started to slowly touch your clit, circling around it gently while her tongue was working inside of you.

After a while like this, you thought you were going to reach your climax, you even used the hand that wasn't in her hair to stimulate your own nipple, but when she realized this she stopped, restarting your orgasm to move her tongue up, bringing one of her fingers into your entrance.

But suddenly she changes her mind and maturely decides to insert two fingers in tou.

You gasped, not expecting that much of a stretch on you, but the feeling of burning was so good you moaned in pleasure.

When she realized that you liked it, she continued and moved in and out while sucking your clit, going faster as you became closer to cum.

You were moaning loud and the sensation was so intense that while shaking you were squeezing your legs with her head in the middle.

You released yourself in her, she felt a hot sticky load on her fingers and didn't stop.

You were stimulated far beyond orgasm, which made you scream a little and try to pull her head up by the hair but she, with her brute force, kept herself in the middle of your legs and made you come again soon after, as if by magic.

It had never happened to you before. You're breathing heavily and you look at her completely defeated, with your eyelids heavy from all the effort you made today. She withdraws from your thighs and puts herself on top of you again, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead.

"You did amazingly well, doll"

"M-me?" - You try to speak between sighs - "I think...you're the one who di...did"

She shut you up with a kiss.

"I think you are now my favorite soldier, Y/n" - She told you but you were already seeing stars of so much tiredness, so you just smiled. She noticed that.

"Come here" - She picks you up and puts you in her bed, a very affectionate act, you weren't expecting that.

She covers you with her silk sheets and enters the other side of the bed grabbing you in a careful hug, in which your head rested on her chest.

"And you?" - You hug her waist. For some reason, in the middle of your sleeping and after sex haze, you feel that you are failing her by not making her feel pleasure back.

"I'm fine..." - She says and then brings her mouth closer to your ear and you can feel the warm air of her velvety voice. - "Hearing you like that was enough for me."

And that's how you went into a deep sleep, which you no longer remembered it was possible to have. Of course, it had to be this woman bringing it to you.

#ambessa medarda #ambessa x reader #arcane ambessa #ambessa league of legends #ambessa smut #ambessa x you #lol #league of legends #arcane

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crackerlover95 · 6 days ago

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PLEASE READ! Hello!! This is my first post ever on here and my first time doing headcanons. I loved the hanks to much to not do anything for them. So here you go! (I’ll learn how to format later) and totally give me requests if you like my writing I’m DOWNNN for some freaky stuff LMAO. Here’s my TikTok where I posted this on there as-well (crackerlover9666)

-Hank 3 convinced the other Hanks to do thirst traps because “they needed the exposure” when they were with Red Bowl, but since they left, only Hank 3 still does them because he enjoys the compliments.

-They have a voting box that they use to determine who will be the leader of the group for that day. (They submit the same votes in every day so it’s Hank 1 for Monday, Hank 5 for Tuesday, Hank 4 for Wednesday, Hank 3 for Thursday, and Hank 2 for Friday every week. They don’t have a leader on the weekends because they don’t want anyone to feel left out or favored)

- When you first met them they would push you too far with their extreme activities and wouldn’t stop until you genuinely got hurt (they of course felt bad) or would call you a lame-o if you didn’t go with them in fear of getting hurt. (Hank 2 understood your caution)

-Hank 1,2,4, and 5 talked to Hank 3 about his flirting and that he needed to tone it down with you because they couldn’t help but get secondhand embarrassment. They all liked you (romantically or platonically) and didn’t want his advances to push you away.

-Sleepovers. They don’t call it hanging out or staying the night they will and always will call it a sleepover. Pillow fights, movies, they somehow always have some delicious gossip, Hank 5 bakes cookies, board games/video games, and pranks. Do not fall asleep first or you will look like a middle schooler's notebook when they’re bored in class.

-They all tan amazingly except Hank 3 who genuinely gets cooked in the sun. He always uses the most sunscreen and will wear slightly longer T-shirts, shorts(basically jorts), and has a hat he wears if the sun is unusually bright out.

-You and Hank 2 would work on his novel together. Basically what you did with Lyric but a lot longer and way more off task. You would be the one who pushes him to work and pay attention. He appreciates it and when he publishes it he does that thing on the first page where it says stuff like “To y/n my reason for doing this” shit like that.

-Hank 1 goes to, and volunteers at a local shelter so he can work on and get the right information for his dog parachutes. Of course, he does more than just work on his dream and really helps out when he’s there, the other workers love it when he shows up. Has grown close with a golden retriever(obviously) and plans on adopting one day when his income is more stable.

-Hank 3 plays the board game “Operation” and thinks that helps him get smarter for when he actually does brain surgery. (Surprisingly when he does take classes to be a licensed professional he gets all high marks. He thinks the only reason that is, is because he played that stupid game, and not all the effort he does like studying, all-nighters, and paying attention in class.)

-You help Hank 4 find his dream because he doesn’t have an idea of what he wants to do in life. After some experimenting, he understands that his passion is extreme sports. He feels upset at first because it’s just what he’s been doing all along, and the other hanks have different dreams other than that. But you and the other hanks reassure him that it’s okay and he just knows what he likes! One day he comes up with the idea of starting a company like Red Bowl that sponsors other extremists like him. He obviously puts the safety and needs of the people he sponsors before anything else.

-You and Hank 5 just do typical dating things. His dream is to be a father which is not happening for a WHILEEEE. So in his free time, he bakes with you. Cute baking dates soon turn into something way more than that. He genuinely gets good at baking and starts making sweet treats for other objects around the house, like Volt and Eddie for their bar. You convince him to take commissions for small things like birthday parties, gender reveals, housewarming parties, etc. After a while, he starts making good money on it and would take bigger commissions like weddings. He will always bake for you since you’ve been with him since day one. (So male wife coded)

They are this image with you when they “aren’t in harmony” (angry at each other/ having different ideas on how they want to spend the day with you, etc..).

#date everything #fluff #date everything/reader #date everything the hanks #date everything headcanons #date everything hanks headcanons #date everything x reader #sfw #first post #tooth rotting fluff #hey #idk how to tag this #new

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bumblesimagines · 8 months ago

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Longing

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Old feelings are ignited when a childhood friend arrives at Kings Landing to help the war cause.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, references to vizzy t and Alicent's marriage, Alicent trying to justify what happened to her, free my girl from the clutches of the show writers who seem to think she has no trauma from being married to Viserys

This had been sitting in my drafts for a whileeee

~~~

With each quiet inhale and exhale, the strong scent of incense and smoke filled her senses, soothing and familiar. It filled her head with fading memories of all the times she prayed beside her mother back as a little girl when the Keep seemed so big and intimidating and she'd yet to find a friend in Princess Rhaenyra. Her mother always reminded her to trust in the Faith, in the Seven, for they were always listening. And perhaps they were, seeing as she'd prayed almost daily for the safe return of their soldiers and they'd only returned wounded.

Her eyes parted and she swallowed thickly, her hands clutching the skirts of her dark green dress as she rose onto unsteady feet, thoughts about the Gods and their opinions of her consuming her mind. It would hardly count as sin, she hoped, to pray for the return of a man whose face she's scarcely recognized.

Her husband was dead, thus leaving her a widow meaning she could think of others without the guilt of being tempted. But a part of her still couldn't help but be consumed by that sinful guilt; after all, there'd been many a time she'd silently wished ill upon her husband so the dashing knight she thought of so often may save her.

The knight of her dreams seemingly consumed her every waking moment, even then as she strolled out of Baelor's Sept and descended the stairs toward the awaiting carriage. She remembered him vividly from the times she accompanied her father on visits to Oldtown, eager to see her family and the place she would've called home if her father had been anyone else but Hand.

In those times, Gwayne's hair was longer and rested over his forehead in curls that resembled her own but what she remembered most of her brother was his closest companion: (Y/N) (L/N), one of her uncle's many wards who'd quickly become Gwayne's partner in crime.

She'd been fairly young then and with her mind alight with tales of knights and damsels, her imagination and hopes ran wild once her cheeks lit ablaze and her typical shyness heightened around him. He'd still been a boy, merely a lord's son with dreams of being a warrior, but he learned the way of the sword swiftly and Alicent oft' thought of the many ways he'd use the sword to save her.

Part of her had hoped he'd object at her wedding, that he'd rise and declare his love for her but instead, she watched him laugh with Gwayne and the other knights and dance with different ladies throughout the feast.

It'd surprised her when a wave of giddiness and anxious anticipation washed over her when she heard the news he'd be amongst the soldiers riding for the Keep to serve under Criston Cole's command. She'd been relieved to see her brother after so many years, of course, but to know he'd be there too and she'd finally see him in all his dashing glory compared to little else. Her presence in the courtyard that day had been brushed off as a sister waiting for her brother but her eyes had remained locked on him when he entered on his horse, his head held high and his expression calm.

It'd saddened her when they'd hardly had more than two days to speak before Criston led them off to their first small battle, and the sickening news he'd been injured in battle reached her through a letter from Gwayne. Despite herself, she'd managed to keep her distance and only politely ask about him as any good queen would but her worry and need to see him bested her.

Upon returning to the safe walls of the Keep, Alicent dismissed her handmaidens to return to other duties before she began the walk to the temporary bedchambers he'd been given whilst he fought for her son's claim. She knocked twice with her knuckles and twisted the handle to step inside, her eyes sweeping over the room before they focused on him and the young maester unwrapping the bandages around his waist. The maester dipped his head in greeting and resumed his task.

"Your Grace," (Y/N)'s voice rumbled and sent a chill down her spine. He regarded her with a polite yet warm smile that made her head feel fuzzy. "Are you in need of something?"

"I simply wished to check you were recovering swiftly," Alicent responded and gave the maester a small nod, her feet guiding her closer to him until the subtle smell of soap still clinging to him reached her nose. The maester stood and bent at the waist, offering her the fresh roll of bandages before taking his leave. "I hear it was an unexpected attack."

"Yes, it was," He nodded, watching her brush her palm over the back of her dress as she sat down beside him on the couch. His arm lifted and rested along the back of the couch, drawing her eyes to his shirtless upper body. "But we fought well, even if Cole is rather... inexperienced in commanding an army. I suppose I wouldn't be any different if I were in his position."

Alicent gave a quiet hum and peeled back the bandages, almost wincing at the fleshy pink scar across his skin. She set the old bandages aside to be disposed of later and carefully ran her fingers around the skin surrounding the injury. "I hear you gave Gwayne quite the fright," Alicent murmured, her attention drifting from the scar to study the rest of him. "He nearly struck Cole, or so rumors say."

(Y/N) laughed and then winced, his lips twisting into a brief frustrated pout before tugging into that familiar smile. "He apologized if it matters; It almost sounded sincere. I'm certain Cole learned why nobody enjoys being on the bad side of a Hightower." His amusement appeared to be infectious and a smile spread across Alicent's face.

"I'm glad you have each other." She told him and dipped her fingers into an ointment before gingerly spreading it over the injury. "I'm thankful Daeron has been raised by the both of you."

"He's a good lad, perhaps the best of the young lot we have." (Y/N) told her warmly. "He does not use what he knows against others, as is common with boys of his age who have such skills, and he's.. gentle.. kind. He is young but with time he would make an ideal Hand, and I'm certain once he is man-grown, you will receive many pleas from ladies desiring to be his wife. He makes a fine soldier but he'd make an even finer husband and father, I'm sure of it."

Alicent exhaled shakily and busied herself with unraveling the roll of fresh bandages to wrap around his waist. "That- That is good, I'm glad. He- I'm-... I'm truly thankful he's had the chance of having a fatherly figure in his life. I'm afraid his brothers lacked that warmth and love in their youth and now suffer the bitterness that comes with being deprived of it."

(Y/N) stared at her silently, his lips pursing slightly as he shifted to help her wrap the bandages. "Were you happy as Queen Consort, Alicent?" He asked quietly and her hands stilled, her breath catching in her chest and constricting inside her. He grimaced at her silence and carefully wrapped his hands around hers, giving her a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry you were unable to find happiness. Perhaps it would have been better if you'd remained in Oldtown with Gwayne."

"What was it like?" She asked quietly, studying their intertwined hands. "Growing up in our beautiful city?"

"We spent much of our youth training under Ser Frederick and Lord Hightower's watchful eyes to ensure we were the best knights Oldtown could offer. We had our fun, though. When the city grows damp, the coddled streets grow slippery. Gwayne and I and a few of the other boys would place bets on which unlucky Oldtowner would wind up falling after rainfall." (Y/N) recounted with a breathy chuckle. "There's a dog whom we named Melon. He's as free as the wind and as naughty as a jester. Ser Frederick gave up on trapping him, so he still roams the streets and training yard hoping to steal a wooden sword or meal right out of an unsuspecting lad's hands."

Alicent gave a quiet laugh, blissfully envisioning the older man rushing after a raggedy old dog who viewed it as a game. She envisioned herself there, as well, standing on the sidelines with the other ladies who watched the young knights train and giggled over which knight they desired for themselves. "It must've been something to grow up alongside Gwayne. He's as dutiful as is expected of a knight but he's always loved a bit of trouble."

"Ah, yes," (Y/N) grinned. "He's left a trail of broken hearts in Oldtown. The ladies swoon over him but he's fully committed to his vows and duties. He doesn't refrain from some flirting, though."

"And yourself? I'm certain the ladies swoon over you, as well." She'd already heard plenty of whispers from eligible courtiers in the Keep, certainly it was no different in Oldtown where the ladies had watched him grow and mature. Alicnet dragged the pad of her thumb over the skin of his hand, her insides twisting at the idea of hearing his interest in another. "There are.. many eligible ladies here in Court. A wedding would do wonders for the atmosphere of the Keep."

(Y/N) lips quirked and he tilted his head back along the top of the couch. "I've been approached by plenty of lords and knights wishing to bring forth a wedding but being chosen for Ser Frederick's position as master-at-arms and taking care of Daeron has allowed me to give plenty of excuses. I suppose it may be the time to begin eyeing the marriage mart."

Alicent hummed forcibly and freed her hands from his loose hold, rising from the couch and walking around it toward the pitcher with wine. "Lady Alysia Westerling has recently come of age, although you may find her too young for your tastes. Her sister, Lady Eleana, was widowed a few years ago and is searching for a new husband." Her ears picked up the quiet grunt that slipped from his lip when he stood up. "Lady Ellyn Baratheon has been betrothed to Aemond but the rest of the Four Storms remain eligible. The Lady-"

"The idea of arranging a marriage for me upsets you," He mused, sounding closer than she expected. "Your brother used to say you'd beg your parents to allow us to marry. He claimed by the age of seven, you knew precisely how you wished the wedding to go."

The horror of having an older brother, Alicent almost sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. Her skin flushed with the soft laugh that left him and she raised the chilled wine to her lips, flooding her mouth with the taste and hoping it'd flush away the swirling feelings in her chest. "Gwanye's always had the habit of overstepping when it comes to family." She murmured, running her thumb over the rim of the cup and tilting her head toward him.

His eyes flickered over her face and her breath hitched in her throat when his hand touched the back of her neck, his fingers calloused from years of working with them yet they felt far gentler than the touch of her late husband. Her lips parted to release a shaky exhale, her hold on the cup tightening and imprinting the designs into her palm. Her eyes fluttered shut when he neared her, their lips pressing upon each other, mixing the taste of wine and herbal tea when he pressed further against her mouth.

Goosebumps rose along her skin and she clumsily set the cup down, some of the liquid spilling over with her movements. He moved, his front pressing against her back and lips pulling away to press against the dewy skin of her cheek. His arms wrapped around her, caging her in a warm embrace that made her believe for a fleeting moment that everything would be fine, even with the prospect of a bigger battle at Rook's Nest. His fluttered kisses down to her jawline and then the side of her neck, his breath fanning against her shoulder.

"You are a widow, a woman no longer bound to a man and his house." He reminded her, his finger tracing the start of her off-shoulder sleeve. Her hands slipped toward her back and her fingers fiddled with the laces of her dress, pulling them free and loosening it enough for him to begin peeling the dress off her arms. "You've always spoken too lowly of yourself when you've always been the most eligible lady of the Crownlands."

She shakily exhaled when her dress slipped down and slumped around her ankles, her heart beginning to race and skip as it once had when she'd been a young girl. His fleeting and peppered kisses along her collarbone felt foreign, his warm tough new. Her late husband had always been rushed and clumsy, focusing on himself and muttering his late wife's name under his breath each time. It'd been her duty, something ladies did for the sake of their husbands and so few little enjoyed. But something old and forgotten ignited in her, a fire she'd long thought had been smothered.

Her eyes stung with salty, warm tears. Was this how it felt to be cared for by a lover? Was this the addictive feeling that had Rhaenyra returning to Ser Harwin Strong all those years? She longed for what could've been, for the years wasted away solemnly tied to a man whose heart remained with another and who offered her the minimum of care.

She'd told herself so often that she was one of the lucky few, one of those ladies whose husbands were kind but standing in the arms of someone she'd longed for so often, she wished she'd been left behind in Oldtown.

"Would you have married me?" She asked softly.

(Y/N) kisses the back of her head, his fingers kneading and massaging her hips. "I still could." He murmured into her hair, leaning back when she turned around to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Her doe eyes were widened, hopeful and pleading.

"I have prayed to the Gods since I was a girl for this." She told him, her hand resting against his cheek. "They have finally proven merciful, and have answered my prayers for the first time in years. Do not leave my side again, (Y/N). I do not wish to be betrothed to anyone but you."

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #x male!reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x male reader #house of the dragon x you #house of the dragon x y/n #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #alicent hightower #alicent hightower x reader #alicent hightower x male reader #alicent hightower x you #alicent Hightower x y/n

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