Latest Posts by dreameyess11 - Page 2

blah, blah, blah....shut up

Dante Sparda x Reader

You step into the dimly lit cathedral, boots clicking against the cracked stone floor. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the decrepit walls, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass windows. You know he's here. You always do. The air carries that familiar charge—like lightning waiting to strike.

And then, he speaks.

"Well, if it isn’t my favorite thorn in the side. Couldn’t stay away, could you?"

The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, comes from the darkness above. Dante Sparda. That smirk of his practically audible even before you see his face.

You tilt your head slightly, fingers tightening around your weapon. "You’re the one who makes this whole 'hero of humanity' thing a lot more interesting. Couldn't resist the urge to see me again?"

A slow clap echoes through the cathedral as he steps out of the shadows. That cocky strut of his, the way his crimson coat flares behind him—it’s maddening how he makes the line between charm and arrogance blur. His silver hair glints in the pale light, and his mismatched eyes, one blue and one crimson, are locked on you.

"You’ve got a way with words," he drawls, stopping a few feet from you, Rebellion slung lazily over his shoulder. "Too bad I’ll have to cut this poetry slam short."

You roll your eyes, though your lips twitch in a smirk of their own. "Big talk from someone who’s never managed to land a killing blow."

He chuckles at that, low and rich, the sound curling around you like smoke. "You’d miss me too much if I did." He leans forward just slightly, tilting his head. "Tell me, sweetheart, what keeps bringing you back? The thrill? The chase? Or…" He flashes you a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Is it me?"

Your stomach twists, and not in the way you’d like to admit. His arrogance is insufferable, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t light a fire under your skin. Still, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

"You’re delusional," you retort, stepping closer, daring him to close the gap. "But if you must know, I like keeping my enemies alive. Makes the victories more satisfying."

He hums thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over you, unabashed and brazen. "Oh, I bet you do."

You scoff, but there’s heat rising to your cheeks, and you hate how he notices. He always does. His grin only widens, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s teasing you just to throw you off your game—or if he really means it. Either way, it works.

"You done yet?" you snap, raising your weapon, the blade gleaming as it catches the faint light. "Or are you just stalling because you know you’re going to lose?"

Dante’s eyes light up with that familiar spark of reckless excitement, and he lifts Rebellion, pointing it lazily at you. "Oh, I’m just getting started, babe."

And then he’s on you, a whirlwind of steel and smirks, the clash of your blades ringing out through the cathedral. He fights like he talks—bold, unpredictable, and maddeningly confident. Every strike you throw is met with a counter, every feint answered with a cocky remark that makes you want to punch that smirk off his face.

But there’s something about the way he moves, the way he watches you, that keeps you from hating him entirely. His eyes burn with more than just battle lust; they hold something else, something you can’t quite put into words. And damn it, you’re starting to think he knows it too.

He locks your blade with his, faces inches apart, his breath warm against your skin. "Admit it," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "You’re having fun."

You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart skips a beat. "Shut up."

He laughs, leaning in just a fraction closer. "You’ll miss me when I’m gone."

You don’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, you shove him back with a growl, your blade flashing as you press the attack. His grin only widens, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see a flicker of something genuine behind his cocky facade.

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒘 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The room is bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. You and Leon lie side by side on the bed, the chaos of the world outside feeling a million miles away. His presence is warm, grounding, and undeniably comforting, his familiar scent mingling with the crisp cotton sheets. Married life with him, though filled with moments of danger and unpredictability, has also been punctuated by a quiet intimacy that feels wholly yours.

You shift slightly, turning onto your side to face him. Leon mirrors you, propping his head up with his hand, his ice-blue eyes crinkling in the corners as he gazes at you with a softness that makes your heart flutter, even after all these years.

“What are you looking at?” you tease, though there’s no edge to your voice.

He chuckles lowly, a sound that resonates deep in his chest. “You. Just you.”

His free hand reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, trailing lightly down your cheek, the curve of your jaw, before coming to rest at the base of your neck. The touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his for a moment before turning it over to inspect his palm. It’s calloused and strong, a testament to everything he’s been through. You trace the faint scar along the side of his thumb, your fingertips light against his skin.

“Where’d this one come from?” you ask softly.

Leon glances down at the mark, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Raccoon City,” he answers simply, though his tone carries a world of unspoken memories. “It’s nothing compared to some of the others.”

“Let me see,” you say, gently pulling his arm closer. You start inspecting his forearm, finding a small, faint mole near the crook of his elbow. “I didn’t know you had this.”

Leon chuckles again, his eyes following your fingers as they glide over his skin. “I’m full of surprises, huh?”

“Apparently.” You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss just above the spot. “My turn?”

He hums in agreement, rolling onto his back and pulling you closer. “Where should I start?” His hands find their way to your arms, his touch feather-light as he begins his own exploration.

The moment is filled with quiet laughter as he spots a small birthmark on your shoulder. “How long have you been hiding this from me?” he teases, his thumb brushing over it.

“Not hiding,” you reply with a grin. “You just never asked.”

Leon shakes his head, his smile widening. “I’m going to find every single one.”

His fingers move with a sense of wonder, like he’s unraveling a mystery, trailing along your arm, your collarbone, and down to your wrist. You mirror his actions, your fingertips tracing his shoulders, the dip of his clavicle, and the faint lines of old wounds.

It’s not just the physical closeness but the unspoken trust between you. Each scar, each mark, tells a story, and sharing them in this way feels like the most profound form of vulnerability.

The two of you fall into a peaceful silence, your fingers continuing their gentle exploration. Time seems to blur, and the world outside ceases to matter. All that exists is the warmth of his touch, the sound of his steady breathing, and the unshakable bond between you.

...and oh, she's so pretty!

Carlos Sainz x Reader

It’s a quiet evening, and you’re sitting in a cozy café, the sound of soft chatter surrounding you. The rain taps gently against the windows, and the dim lights create a warm, intimate atmosphere. Across from you, Carlos Sainz sits, his usual calm demeanor tinged with concern as he watches you. He notices the slight frown on your face, the way your arms are crossed in a subtle gesture of frustration. You’ve been in a bad mood for the past few minutes—something small, insignificant, really. But to you, in this moment, it feels bigger.

Carlos doesn’t understand exactly why you’re upset. He’s tried to ask, but you’ve brushed it off with a soft sigh, claiming it’s nothing. He can’t help but notice how beautiful you look, though. Even now, with a cloud hanging over your mood, he’s captivated by the way your hair falls over your shoulders, the sparkle in your eyes, and the way your lips pout when you’re deep in thought.

You catch him looking at you, and despite your irritation, you feel your heart flutter just a little. It’s as if, no matter what’s bothering you, Carlos has a way of making everything seem just a bit brighter. He leans forward, his voice gentle but full of warmth.

“You know,” he says softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you’re still pretty, even when you’re mad.”

You blink, surprised by his words, but something about them makes the frustration melt away just a little. You meet his gaze, his eyes full of affection and understanding, and you realize—maybe it’s not the small thing that’s bothering you at all, but the way you’ve let it build up in your mind. His calmness, his presence, it has a way of grounding you.

“Carlos…” you start, unsure how to explain why you were upset. But he reaches across the table, his hand brushing against yours, as if reassuring you that whatever it is, it doesn’t matter to him. What matters is that you’re there, together, in this moment.

The corners of your lips turn upward, and you shake your head. “I don’t even know why I’m in such a bad mood. It’s nothing important.”

Carlos chuckles softly, squeezing your hand lightly. “I know. But you don’t have to be perfect, you know? You don’t have to have it all together. I think you’re pretty just the way you are.”

And there it is again—the way he makes everything feel lighter, as if your bad mood doesn’t stand a chance against the warmth of his words. You smile, a little embarrassed now, but grateful too.

With Carlos, there’s no need for explanations, no pressure to fix anything. He simply accepts you, bad moods and all. You realize that maybe it’s the small things—the way he sees you, the way he makes you feel—that matter the most.

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞

James Potter x Reader

The music fills the room, a soft melody swirling through the air, its notes light and playful. You’re lost in the comfort of the quiet evening, the warmth of the fire flickering on the hearth casting a golden glow over the room. James, casually leaning against the armrest of the couch, lifts his head, eyes meeting yours across the room. There's a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, something you know all too well.

Without saying a word, he stands up, his movements graceful as he closes the space between you. His hand reaches out, fingers warm, and your heart skips as he gently takes yours. You can feel his touch—the familiar softness, the strength beneath.

“Dance with me,” he says, his voice a quiet invitation, pulling you from your thoughts. There's no hesitation in his tone, only a quiet certainty, as if he knows you can’t resist.

You glance up at him, eyes softening. The music continues, the beat slow and steady, and you let him lead you into his arms. His hands find their place at your waist, while you place yours against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside the room seems to disappear. It’s just the two of you, moving together, swaying in time with the song.

James pulls you in closer, his touch tender as you rest your head against his shoulder. The air is thick with unspoken words, with all the affection he has for you, and you can feel it in every movement, in every gentle step.

For a moment, the whole world stops spinning. The only thing that matters is the way your bodies fit together perfectly, the way the music seems to slow, allowing you to savor this moment forever.

He pulls away just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze filled with something deeper. “You’ve always been my favorite dance partner,” he says, his voice full of affection and a hint of playful arrogance.

You smile softly, a feeling of contentment washing over you as you press closer, letting the warmth of his presence fill you. Just the two of you, dancing, lost in each other’s company, under the quiet spell of the music.

i'm in love with an idiot

Peter Parker x Reader

You’ve been through a lot as Spider-woman—villains, heartbreak, and the constant balancing act of being a hero. But this? This is a new one. One minute you were swinging through your city, hot on the trail of a rogue scientist tinkering with dimensional technology, and the next, a kaleidoscope of colors swirled around you. When the dizzying vortex spat you out, the New York skyline looked just familiar enough to make you think you were still home—until you saw him.

Peter Parker. Spider-Man.

You’ve heard of him in passing through multiverse murmurs, but standing face-to-face with him? You hadn’t expected that. Not today.

“You’re… me?” he asks, his voice laced with incredulity but carrying a lightness that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this strange twist of fate won’t be so bad.

“No,” you correct him with a wry smile. “I’m better.”

The two of you bond quicker than you expected, drawn together by shared experiences that no one else could fully understand. Swinging side-by-side through the city, you find yourself surprised by how easily he makes you laugh—his dry humor, his dorky jokes, the way he apologizes to pigeons when he narrowly avoids colliding with them mid-swing.

But it’s not just the humor that gets to you. It’s his heart.

One evening, as the sun dips below the skyline, the two of you perch on the edge of a skyscraper, sharing takeout Chinese food straight out of the cartons. Peter listens intently as you talk about your universe—the sacrifices you’ve made, the people you’ve lost.

“You carry so much,” he says softly, his brown eyes locking onto yours. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. Not here, not with me.”

His words linger in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken. You want to say something back, something meaningful, but the way he’s looking at you makes your breath catch in your throat.

Before you can think better of it, you lean closer. So does he.

The kiss is tentative at first, his lips brushing yours as if asking permission. But when you deepen it, his hand comes up to cradle your face, and it feels like the world itself pauses for just a moment. You’re no longer Spider-woman from another universe, no longer a stranger in his world. You’re just… you. And he’s Peter.

When you finally pull back, the city stretches out below you, its lights twinkling like a thousand tiny stars. Peter grins, his usual confidence returning.

“Well,” he says, his tone teasing, “I guess interdimensional travel isn’t all bad.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not bad at all.”

As the night stretches on, you know this can’t last forever. Eventually, you’ll have to find a way back to your universe. But for now, with Peter by your side, the weight of your world feels just a little lighter.

𝓘’𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The first contraction hits, and you know. It’s time.

You sit on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling your belly, breathing through the pressure. The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over the room, peaceful and warm. But across the hall, chaos unfolds.

Leon is frantic.

You hear him rifling through drawers, muttering under his breath as he darts from room to room. “Where’s the bag? The one we packed? Damn it—where did I put the—" A thump follows as something falls over, probably a chair.

You exhale, amused. “Leon, it’s in the closet.”

He appears in the doorway, eyes wild, hair even messier than usual. “Which closet?”

“The only closet in our room, babe.”

He spins around and yanks the door open, fumbling for the hospital bag. You can hear the zipper struggling against his urgency, the sound of baby clothes rustling as he checks for everything twice—maybe three times.

Another contraction builds, but you stay calm, hands resting on your belly. “Leon.”

“Yeah?” He looks up, halfway through stuffing an extra set of onesies into the bag.

You smile at him. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders drop slightly, but his jaw remains tight. You know he’s not just worried about the logistics—he’s scared. Scared for you, for the baby, for everything that could go wrong. You reach for him, and he’s at your side instantly, kneeling in front of you, hands gripping yours.

“I’m not ready,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

“You can handle this, Leon.”

He lets out a shaky chuckle, but his blue eyes are searching yours, full of emotion. “This is different. This is you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

You brush a hand through his hair, smoothing away his worry for just a moment. “We’re going to be okay.”

He nods, squeezing your hands. The panic eases, if only slightly, as he helps you to your feet. The bag is ready, the car is waiting, and the night ahead is unpredictable. But one thing is certain—Leon is here, holding your hand, ready to face it all with you.

Because for all the horrors he’s fought, nothing matters more than this moment. Than you. Than the life you’re about to bring into the world together.

𝓝𝓸𝔀 𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓴𝓲𝓷' '𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓶𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽

Charles Leclerc x Reader

It was your first time interviewing him—Charles Leclerc, the Formula 1 driver with the boyish charm and those eyes that seemed to pierce through you. He stood in front of you, casually dressed, but you could tell the weight of the spotlight never fully left him. The buzzing atmosphere of the paddock felt distant as you focused on him, trying to keep your cool.

His voice was calm, confident, but there was something different in the way he spoke to you, almost as if you weren’t just another reporter. You felt it, too—the spark, an unspoken connection that was undeniable. He smiled when you asked the question about his future goals in the sport. He leaned forward slightly, as if eager to share something deeper, something real.

As the interview came to a close, you handed him the mic with a polite smile, your heart racing just a little faster. But then, he surprised you.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice dropping just a bit, his eyes locking with yours, “I don’t usually do this, but… can I ask for your number?”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. Was he serious? It felt like a movie scene unfolding before your eyes, and your breath caught in your throat. You’d never expected this moment to be the one where someone like him—someone so used to being in the spotlight—would want to step into your world.

“I mean, I know it’s forward, but I’d love to grab a coffee sometime, if you’re up for it,” he added, his smile shy, almost vulnerable. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his eyes.

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips, and slowly, you gave him the number he asked for. He looked at it for a moment as if savoring the moment before slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Thanks,” he said softly, a trace of excitement in his voice.

As he walked away, you couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth spreading through you, a mix of surprise and excitement. You had always admired his skill on the track, but now, you were beginning to see a different side of him—the side that wanted to reach out, to connect, to see what lay beyond the fame.

Days passed, and you tried to keep things professional, but every message from him—every little exchange—left your heart fluttering. It was clear there was something there, something beyond the interviews and the cameras.

And soon, you’d find yourselves sitting at a small café, sharing stories, laughing, and realizing that what started with a simple question, a spontaneous gesture, had grown into something much more. You were no longer just the interviewer and the driver. You were two people, finding something real in a world full of fleeting moments.

The romance had started in the most unexpected of places, but now, it was something you both couldn't imagine letting go of.

𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓷𝓸 𝓬𝓪𝓻

Jensen Ackles x Reader

It’s late in the evening, the kind where the golden glow of the streetlights softens the edges of the world. You’ve just stepped out of the quaint café where you and Jensen had been tucked away for hours, sharing laughter, stolen kisses, and the kind of quiet moments that make your heart swell. The sky is painted in shades of indigo, and the air carries a slight chill.

As you dig through your bag, you remember.

“I have no car,” you mutter, your voice tinged with mild annoyance at yourself for forgetting. You glance at Jensen, expecting a teasing remark or a playful grin. But instead, he just looks at you, his green eyes warm under the streetlight.

“I’ll walk,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink, surprised. “Jensen, it’s at least a couple of miles. And it’s cold—”

He interrupts with a shrug, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “Then I’ll walk a couple of miles with you. No big deal.”

The sincerity in his tone silences any protests you might have had. He steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne enveloping you, and he tilts his head, a small, boyish smirk playing on his lips. “Besides, I like walking with you. It gives me more time to look at you.”

Your cheeks heat up at his words, and he chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. Without another word, he gently takes your hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and starts leading you down the sidewalk. The city feels quieter than usual, the occasional car passing by, its headlights streaking across your path.

As you walk, Jensen keeps the conversation light, asking about your day and making silly jokes that have you laughing so hard you almost forget the chill in the air. Every now and then, he gives your hand a small squeeze, as if to remind you that he’s there, and that he’d gladly walk a hundred miles just to be with you.

When you finally reach your apartment, your cheeks are flushed from both the cold and his constant teasing. You pause by the door, turning to look at him. “You didn’t have to walk all this way, you know.”

Jensen leans against the doorframe, his hands still in his pockets, and grins. “I know. But I wanted to.” He steps closer, his voice softening as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Besides, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your heart does that familiar flutter, the one that only he can cause. Before you can overthink it, he closes the gap between you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s warm and lingering, like the promise of something more.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he whispers, “Next time, though, let’s take my car. My feet are killing me.”

You laugh, swatting his chest, and he grins like the mischievous troublemaker you’ve fallen for.

Something about you

Miles Morales x Reader

The city hums beneath you, a melody of honking cars and bustling crowds blending into the kind of rhythm you’ve always loved. From this high up, perched on the edge of a rooftop, you can see everything—the glowing skyline, the pulsing heart of Brooklyn, and him. Miles Morales. Spider-Man.

You’re not supposed to be here, but then again, neither is he.

“You come up here often?” he asks, pulling his mask off just enough to reveal his face. His brown eyes gleam with something warm, something curious, and it makes your chest tighten. You don’t know how he does that—how he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, even in a city as loud as this one.

You’ve known him for a while now. At first, just the regular run-ins, where you didn’t even know he was Spider-Man. Then, it was late-night conversations over coffee at your favorite bodega, stolen moments in crowded streets, the way he started to show up more often, his hoodie pulled low, trying to act like he wasn’t waiting for you.

Now, here you are—on a rooftop under a bruised-purple sky, where the air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

“You tell me,” you shoot back, your voice lighter than you feel. “Spider-Man probably has all the best views, right?”

He grins, and it’s like the city lights get caught in his smile, making it brighter. “Yeah, but this one’s different.”

You tilt your head, your brows furrowing. “Different how?”

Miles leans back, his arms propping him up as he looks out over the city. The golden glow of the setting sun brushes across his face, painting him in warm light. And when he looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing something more than just your face. Something deeper.

“Because you’re here,” he says, his voice softer now. “You look... I don’t know. Like a dream or something. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen...”

“Wow,” you interrupt, laughing despite yourself. “That’s cheesy, even for you, Morales.”

His laugh joins yours, a sound so easy and real that it makes your heart stumble. But then his gaze softens again, and the weight of it pins you in place.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You don’t see it, but you’re... everything. Like, when I’m out there—swinging around, doing the whole hero thing—it’s your face I think of when things get tough.”

The words catch you off guard. You’ve never had anyone talk to you like this, like you’re more than just another person in the crowd. Like you’re something worth remembering. Worth fighting for.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Miles…”

Before you can say anything else, he’s standing, holding a hand out to you. “Come on,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate for only a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip is warm, steady, and when he pulls you closer, you don’t even think about the drop below. With a quick flick of his wrist, his web shoots out, catching onto a building across the way.

“You trust me?” he asks, grinning.

“Do I have a choice?” you tease, but your heart races for a completely different reason now.

“Nope,” he says, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into his arms and leaps.

The city blurs into streaks of light and color, the wind rushing past your face as you hold onto him. His laughter rings in your ears, and for the first time in a long time, you feel free.

When he finally lands on another rooftop, you’re breathless. Not from the swinging, but from the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the most important thing in his world.

“See?” he says, still holding onto you. “Best view in the city.”

And as the last rays of sunlight fade into the horizon, you realize he’s not talking about the skyline.

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The soft glow of sunset filters through the tall windows of the exclusive villa in Tuscany. You’re leaning against the balustrade of the terrace, overlooking the endless expanse of vineyards, the golden hour lighting your skin in a way that photographers always chase. Even here, you can’t escape being a model—your elegance radiates effortlessly.

Carlos Sainz appears, as he always does, with a charm that’s almost impossible to resist. You hear his footsteps before he speaks, the crunch of gravel and the faint rustle of his linen shirt in the breeze.

“You know,” he begins, standing just a little too close, his Spanish accent wrapping around the words like silk, “this view is beautiful. But you make it breathtaking.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Do you rehearse these lines, Carlos? Or do they just come naturally?”

He grins, leaning casually against the railing beside you, his dark eyes glittering with playful determination. “Natural talent. Like driving. Or making you smile.”

You suppress a laugh, turning your attention back to the horizon. “I’m not that easy to impress.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning slightly closer, “you haven’t walked away.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the faintest flicker of vulnerability behind his confident façade. There’s a sincerity in his gaze that makes your heart skip a beat, though you would never admit it.

“Carlos,” you sigh, “we’ve been through this. You’re charming, yes. Handsome, undeniably. But I don’t mix work with… whatever this is.”

“This?” He raises an eyebrow, gesturing between the two of you. “This is me trying to show you that I care. That I want to be more than just some guy you see at events or on TV.”

“And yet,” you counter, folding your arms, “you know my answer hasn’t changed.”

Carlos doesn’t falter. Instead, he steps closer, his tone softening. “You keep saying no, but I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I see the way you laugh at my jokes, even when you try to hide it. Tell me, why not give us a chance? Just one date. No cameras, no pressure.”

You hate that his words make your heart flutter. You hate that his persistence feels less like arrogance and more like genuine affection. But you also know how complicated your lives are—his constant travels, your demanding career.

“Carlos…” you start, but he interrupts, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t say no just because you’re scared it won’t work. Say no if you truly don’t feel anything for me. But if there’s even the smallest chance you do, let me prove to you that I’m worth the risk.”

For a moment, the world falls silent, save for the gentle rustle of the vines below and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. His eyes search yours, open and unguarded, waiting.

You exhale slowly, your resolve wavering. “One date,” you say finally, watching as his face lights up with a boyish grin. “Just one.”

“That’s all I need,” he replies, his confidence returning in full force. “I’ll make you fall in love with me, cariño. Just wait.”

𝓘 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

He is impossibly handsome, with that devil-may-care glint in his eye and an arrogance born of privilege. You can feel his presence in the room even when you're not looking at him, a magnetic pull you stubbornly resist.

He speaks to you with an intimacy that feels intrusive, as though you’ve already surrendered something precious to him.

"Once I told you I’ve kissed a thousand women," he says one day, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, as though confessing something vital.

"I remember," you reply, half-turning away from him, pretending the sunlight glinting off the crystal glass in your hand is more interesting than the man beside you.

"It was a lie," he admits, his lips curling in that maddening smile you loathe to love.

"I know," you say, not giving him the satisfaction of your surprise.

He leans closer, his presence looming, warm, and insistent. "I’ve only kissed two or three hundred.”

“Now, how many men have you kissed?" he asks, the question hanging in the air between you, charged and sharp.

"Very few," you answer, meeting his gaze, daring him to question your honesty.

He laughs softly, a sound that seems to vibrate through your entire being. "But you offered me a kiss. Why?"

You lower your eyes, suddenly feeling foolish, like a girl caught scribbling love notes in the margins of her books. "Such a foolish reason, I’m afraid," you murmur. "I just wanted to kiss you."

"And would you kiss me now?" His voice drops to a whisper, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between you.

You lift your chin, gathering every ounce of pride and defiance. "No."

He laughs again, a rich, delighted sound, as though your rejection only fuels his determination. "Ah, but you will," he says, with that maddening certainty of his.

You shake your head, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

Nightmares

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You wake to the sound of soft, hurried footsteps padding across the polished floor, barely audible over the hum of Coruscant’s distant nightlife. The warm body beside you shifts—Anakin, his breathing even and steady, blissfully unaware of the disturbance. You smile faintly, brushing away a stray strand of his tousled hair before turning toward the door.

Two small figures appear in the doorway, outlined by the dim light from the hall. Luke and Leia, clutching their blankets, their wide eyes filled with fear. You’re on your feet in an instant, already kneeling to their level before they can say a word.

“Another nightmare?” you ask softly, stroking Leia’s dark curls as she nods, her lower lip trembling. Luke burrows into your side, his tiny hands gripping your nightclothes tightly. You exchange a glance with Anakin, who’s now awake and sitting up, concern etched across his face.

“Come here,” he says, his voice warm and soothing as he pats the space beside him on the large bed. “There’s plenty of room.”

Leia hesitates, her little brows furrowed, but Luke is already climbing up with your help, wriggling under the blankets. You scoop Leia into your arms, kissing her temple as you carry her to the bed. She sighs, her small frame relaxing against you.

The four of you settle in—a tangle of limbs and blankets, the children nestled between you and Anakin. Luke curls against his father, his small hands gripping Anakin’s tunic as though it’s the only anchor in his stormy dreams. Leia clings to you, her fingers twining with yours as you stroke her hair, whispering reassurances.

“They’re safe,” Anakin murmurs, his voice barely audible as he watches them with that soft, vulnerable look he reserves only for his family. “We won’t let anything harm them.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the galaxy shrinks to just this—your children’s quiet breathing, Anakin’s steady presence, and the love that binds you all together.

Leia stirs, her voice a sleepy murmur. “Daddy, can you tell us a story?”

You glance at Anakin, who raises a brow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “I think your mother tells better stories than I do,” he says, his tone playful.

Rolling your eyes, you lean closer, your voice soft and soothing as you weave a tale. Anakin chimes in now and then, embellishing with dramatic flourishes that make the children giggle despite their exhaustion.

By the time your story ends, Luke and Leia are fast asleep, their nightmares forgotten. Anakin reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he whispers, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You smile, your heart full as you glance at your sleeping children. “It’s not just me,” you whisper back, your gaze meeting his. “It’s us.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his warmth chasing away any lingering shadows. For tonight, the galaxy can wait. Here, in this moment, you have everything you need.

Boyfriend

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

You’re leaning against the bar, nursing a glass of something far too sweet, trying to blend into the crowd that pulses around you. The bass of the music vibrates through your chest, but it’s not the rhythm making your pulse race. It’s him. Pietro Maximoff.

He’s across the room, laughing, tossing his silver hair back as if the spotlight should follow him. It always does, in a way. There’s something magnetic about him, something that pulls you in even when you tell yourself you’ve had enough of his games.

You’ve told yourself a thousand times that this isn’t anything. Just two people who can’t seem to stay away from each other. He’s not your boyfriend. You’re not his girlfriend. And yet, the way his eyes keep darting to you, sharp and possessive, says otherwise.

You don’t want to admit that it bothers you, but it does. The girl he’s talking to is tall, leaning in too close, her hand brushing his arm. You watch as his grin falters for a fraction of a second, his gaze finding yours.

And just like that, he’s gone. A blur of silver and blue as he darts through the crowd, leaving the girl startled and blinking at the empty space he’s left behind.

“Jealous?” he says, suddenly at your side, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip.

“Of what?” you ask, turning your head away from him, pretending not to care.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your ear. “You tell me.”

You hate that he’s right. That you do care. That the idea of him with anyone else makes something twist in your chest. But you’re not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Maximoff,” you say, setting your glass down with a little more force than necessary.

He laughs, low and rich, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Right. Because you were just standing there, staring at me for no reason.”

Your jaw tightens. “Maybe I was staring at her.”

He blinks, caught off guard for a split second, before the smirk returns. “Sure, detka. Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s too close now, his hand brushing against yours, and suddenly the room feels too small, the music too loud.

“You don’t want me to see anyone else,” he says, softer this time, the teasing gone from his voice. “And I don’t want you to see anyone either. So why are we pretending?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you hate how easily he does this to you—how easily he gets under your skin, how easily he makes you want things you swore you didn’t need.

“Because it’s complicated,” you say, your voice barely audible over the music.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he says, and then his hand is on your cheek, tilting your face toward him.

You could pull away. You should pull away. But instead, you let him close the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a way that’s both familiar and electric.

And for the first time, you wonder if maybe he’s right. Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated at all.

Love

Tangerine x Reader

You’re in the middle of the kitchen, fumbling with dinner, when Tangerine’s voice filters in from the hallway. That familiar lilt, soft and sure, with a teasing edge to it, instantly makes your heart flutter.

“You’ve been at this for hours, love,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in mock sternness. The way his words roll off his tongue—"love" stretching like honey—sends a smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m trying to perfect your favorite dish,” you reply, stirring the pot with exaggerated concentration. You don’t even look at him, but you can hear the smirk in his voice when he steps closer.

“And burning it, are we?” he teases, placing his hands on your shoulders. His touch is warm, steady, and when he dips his head to whisper near your ear, you can feel the smile in his words. “Let me take over before you set the house on fire.”

You glance at him then, unable to resist, and there’s that face. Mischievous brown eyes and that lopsided grin you fell for years ago. It’s so unfair how he can disarm you without trying.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, but the affection is clear in your tone.

“And you adore me,” he counters smoothly, his accent making the words sound like a melody.

He nudges you aside with mock impatience, tying an apron around his waist. Watching him cook is its own kind of magic—the precise movements of his hands, the soft hum of a tune under his breath, and the occasional glance he throws your way to make sure you’re watching.

“You know,” he says after a while, his voice lower, “I only pretended to like this dish at first.”

You blink at him, feigning offense. “You what?”

“Oh, don’t get cross, darling,” he says quickly, his accent thickening as he turns to face you with an innocent shrug. “It grew on me. Like you.”

He’s grinning again, his dimples on full display, and you can’t help but laugh. He’s always had a way of weaving humor and tenderness together, leaving you wrapped up in both.

By the time dinner is ready, the kitchen smells heavenly, and he insists on setting the table, pulling out your chair like the gentleman he is.

As you sit across from him, the two of you laughing over nothing and everything, his hand reaches across to clasp yours.

“You know I love you, right?” he says, his tone soft, sincere. His accent gives the words a weight that feels ancient and timeless all at once.

“I do,” you reply, squeezing his hand. “But I love your accent more.”

He laughs, full and warm, and when he leans forward to kiss you, you think that no dish in the world, no matter how perfect, could compare to this.

To him.

Well, my boyfriend's in a band

Kyle Scheible x Reader

You sit on the edge of Kyle's bed, watching him tune his guitar. The soft, melodic hums fill the air, a rhythm that’s almost like a heartbeat. His room is cozy, dimly lit with a string of fairy lights that hang lazily around the walls, casting a warm glow. You can’t help but smile, knowing this moment is one you’ll want to keep with you forever.

He looks up, catching your gaze with a grin that makes your heart skip. “Ready to sing?” he asks, his voice warm and playful.

You nod, but your hands feel a little shaky. It's been like this every time, the anticipation and excitement mixing together. It’s not just about the music—it's about the connection you share, the way the world fades when you’re together, creating something only the two of you understand.

“Okay, here we go,” Kyle says, strumming a few chords. The melody is familiar, and you can already feel the words tugging at your chest.

He starts to sing, his voice smooth and confident, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You wait for your cue, the moment to join him. And then, when it comes, you begin to sing too. Your voices blend effortlessly, harmonizing as if you've been doing this for years, even though it’s only been a few months since you first picked up a microphone together.

His eyes never leave you as you sing. It's like he’s looking into your soul, finding every note, every word, and making it his own. The connection between you both is undeniable, stronger than any music, stronger than any stage. It's just the two of you, lost in the melody, lost in each other.

As the song reaches its climax, Kyle steps closer, his guitar resting against him as he takes your hand. The music fades into the background, and it's just his presence that fills the space, the way his fingers brush against yours, the way his eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes you forget everything else.

When the song ends, the room is filled with silence, but it’s comfortable, easy. Kyle’s thumb gently traces the back of your hand, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“That was perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if it’s just for you.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath. "You're perfect."

And in that moment, with him in his room, his guitar by his side, and the world outside forgotten, you know you wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.

Like The Movies

James Potter x Reader

You never thought it would happen to you—that kind of love, the one you read about in old books or saw in movies. It’s a love you dream about, but never expect to find. Your friends have always thought you a bit of a hopeless romantic, someone who believes in fairytales despite how many times you've been let down. You'd been burned once, twice, too many times to count, and now, you just couldn't see how anything could live up to the dreamy ideas in your head.

But then James Potter came into your life.

It started small. A glance, a casual brush of his hand against yours in the crowded corridors of Hogwarts. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest. No one had ever been good enough for you—no one had ever been what you imagined, no one had made your heart race the way you’d always hoped. But there was something about him. He was different.

James Potter had always been the joker, the one who was loud and reckless, always at the center of attention. But behind that mischievous grin and the jokes he cracked with Sirius and Remus, you began to notice another side. A gentler side. It wasn’t immediately obvious—he wasn't one to show vulnerability—but every now and then, you caught glimpses of a quieter James. It was those moments that caught your attention and made you question everything you thought you knew about love.

You had always imagined your romance like a scene straight out of a movie, a perfect fairytale. And yet, here you were, falling for someone who was far from perfect. He didn’t make grand declarations or sweep you off your feet in dramatic gestures. No, he was more subtle than that, more genuine. The first time it truly hit you was one rainy evening, your feet splashing through the puddles on the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

James was walking with you, of course, because that’s just what he did—never let anyone walk alone. The rain fell heavily around you both, soaking through your robes, but neither of you seemed to care. You both laughed at the ridiculousness of it, trying to dodge puddles, failing miserably.

And then, just like that, he took your hand. No words, just a simple act, one that sent a shock of warmth through you even as the rain soaked you both to the bone. The sound of the rain, the laughter you shared—it felt like the start of something real, something more than you had ever dared hope for.

Over the weeks that followed, the two of you shared more moments like that. The two of you would sneak into bars in Hogsmeade, escaping the confines of the castle, your laughter spilling into the air as the two of you hid in the corners. You'd stare up at the stars together, your heart beating wildly, your fingers brushing in a way that made you feel like you were dancing, even without music. He never once told you he loved you, but the way he looked at you, the way he’d quietly hold you when you were sad—those were the things that made you realize what you’d never allowed yourself to believe.

One evening, after a particularly heated game of Quidditch, you found yourself under a stormy sky with him. It was one of those nights where the clouds hung low and dark, threatening to spill over. But neither of you cared. As the rain began to fall, you both stood there, drenched, and, without a word, began to sway, holding onto each other like nothing else mattered. It was just the two of you—no audience, no expectations—just a quiet moment beneath the storm, as the world seemed to disappear around you.

Maybe you were just old-fashioned, you thought, believing in love like that. But in that moment, standing under the stormy sky with James, you felt like you were living out the kind of fairytale you'd always dreamed of.

You never thought you’d fall in love again, at least not in the way you had imagined. But here you were, holding James Potter, heart and soul entwined with his. Maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of love you’d always wanted.

And just when you thought you’d given up on love—just when you believed that no one could ever be good enough—you realized you were wrong. James Potter was exactly what you needed, the one who had always been there, in ways you hadn’t even noticed until now.

And in the end, maybe it was just that simple.

Maybe you'd finally found the love you'd been waiting for, after all.

𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warning: Mentions of Narcolepsy

The warm water wraps around you like a cocoon, the steam curling into the air as you lean back against the edge of the tub. It’s been a long day, and the soft scent of lavender is supposed to help you relax. Your eyes flutter shut for just a moment—just a moment, you think—but you know better.

Before you can react, the familiar weight of exhaustion tugs at you, pulling you under like an unseen tide.

But before you sink too far, strong arms are already there. Charles.

"Hey, chérie," his voice is soft, laced with concern as he pulls you upright. His arms are warm, steady, the kind of safety you don’t even have to think about. "I’ve got you."

You blink up at him, dazed. He’s crouched beside the tub, sleeves of his hoodie damp, his curls a little disheveled like he ran the moment he realized you’d been in here too long.

"I—" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Did I...?"

"You were falling asleep," he confirms, brushing wet strands of hair away from your face. "I was in the other room, but I had a feeling."

Of course he did. He always does.

You swallow, guilt settling in. "I didn’t mean to..."

"Shhh." He shakes his head, offering you that small, understanding smile that always makes your heart ache in the best way. "You don’t have to apologize."

With careful hands, he reaches for a towel, wrapping it around you before lifting you effortlessly from the water. The air is cooler against your skin, but he holds you close, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

"You scared me a little," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "But you’re okay. That’s all that matters."

You curl into his chest, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the softness of his hoodie. "Thank you for always catching me."

His grip tightens, his lips brushing against your temple. "Always, mon amour."

And in his arms, you know—you will always be safe.

Religion's in your lips

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

Under the dim light of the bedroom, you lie next to Leon, your fingers tracing the outline of his hand. The weight of the world seems miles away, the only thing that matters is the warmth between you two, the quiet rhythm of your breathing syncing together in perfect harmony. It feels like you’re the only two left in this universe, like nothing else can touch you in this moment.

His presence has a kind of serenity to it. There’s something in the way he holds you, as if he's been waiting for this quiet, intimate escape his entire life. You turn your head to find him already watching you with those soft, steady eyes, as though every unspoken word between you both is enough.

You lift a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. It’s there, and it’s real. This moment, these little exchanges that mean more than anything else. His lips, warm and gentle against your skin, send a spark down your spine. They carry the weight of something deep, something sacred.

The way he touches you, as if every part of you is a prayer, is a silent reverence. Your bodies speak a language that needs no words, the connection between you both unspoken, but understood in every caress, every glance, every shared breath.

The night stretches on, enveloping you both in its quiet embrace. There’s no rush, no need for anything but the closeness that fills the space between you, wrapped in the softness of his touch and the tenderness in his gaze. The world outside doesn’t exist. Only this sacred moment does.

And when he presses his lips against yours again, you understand that this is what it means to be loved—no words needed, just the devotion and quiet worship in the press of his lips, the way he holds you. His love feels like something sacred, like the calm that follows a storm. Like a prayer.

You find solace in him, in the simple touch of his hands and the silent promises they carry. The night is yours, and for once, the world can wait.

𝐎𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐝! 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

Dave Lizewski x Reader

You’ve known Dave Lizewski since you were kids, your childhood filled with random conversations, shared secrets, and playground adventures. He was always the awkward, goofy guy with a heart of gold, never really standing out but always managing to make you laugh. The two of you went your separate ways as you got older, but somehow, you always ended up in the same classes, walking the same halls. It was almost like fate had a funny way of pulling you back together.

Now, here you are, teenagers, both of you in the same high school, sitting next to each other in History class. And yet, nothing feels the same. Dave has changed. You’ve noticed it before—the way he’s grown into his body, how he’s stopped wearing those ridiculous superhero T-shirts that used to make you laugh, but still, you’ve always seen him the same way. You’ve always known him as Dave, the boy who couldn’t seem to look at you without turning red.

But lately, something’s different. You’ve started catching him looking at you—really looking at you. Not just glancing over your shoulder or sneaking a glance when he thinks you're not paying attention, but staring at you, his expression softer, almost like he’s seeing you for the first time. It makes your heart skip a beat every time, and you’re sure he’s noticed.

Today, during lunch, you’re sitting in the cafeteria, your tray in front of you, half-eaten. You’re talking to your friends, but your eyes keep straying to the table where Dave is sitting with his usual group. You can feel his eyes on you again, a familiar warmth creeping up your neck, making you look over to find him already glancing in your direction. His face is flushed, as if he’s embarrassed to have been caught, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. You almost don’t want to look away because you feel it, too—the pull.

You decide to take the plunge and stand up, walking over to his table, your heart racing in your chest. His friends all wave and greet you, but you can’t focus on them. Dave is sitting there, his hand resting awkwardly on his tray, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. You meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“Hey, Dave,” you say, breaking the silence with a smile. His gaze softens immediately, and he sits up straighter, like he’s been waiting for you to come over for ages.

“Hey, you...” he replies, his voice just a little shaky. There’s a small pause before he adds, “You look… really nice today.”

You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his words, the way he blushes immediately afterward. It’s the same old Dave, the one who’s always been awkward, but now there’s something new between you. Something unspoken. You shift on your feet, unsure of what to say next, and then you hear him mutter, almost to himself, “I… I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Really?” You can’t help but let the words slip out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his eyes meeting yours again. “Yeah, since we were little. But I was always too afraid to say anything.”

A soft laugh escapes you, not mocking, but warm and knowing. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you were always so out of my league,” he admits, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I figured you’d never look at me the same way.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “You’re an idiot,” you tell him gently, feeling a rush of affection toward him. “You’ve always been my friend, Dave. I think… I think I’ve always liked you, too.”

His eyes widen, the surprise written clearly on his face. It’s like the world has just tilted on its axis for him. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out to you but doesn’t know how to.

“Well, I guess I’m just an idiot who got lucky then,” he says with a grin, that familiar warmth returning to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your heart racing. “I guess so.”

You sit down next to him, the world seeming to melt away as you both fall into easy conversation, like no time has passed. But now, there’s something new between you, something you can’t ignore. The spark that was always there is finally being acknowledged, and you both know it’s only the beginning of something much bigger.

And as the lunch bell rings, signaling the end of another school day, you find yourself feeling lighter, your heart warmer than it’s ever been. This, whatever this is between you and Dave, feels like it’s meant to be.

Strangers

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You slide into the passenger seat of the car, the engine purring softly beneath you. It's Charles Leclerc driving, the familiar hum of the road filling the air as you both pull out of the parking lot, heading nowhere in particular. He’s smiling at you, that kind of grin that tells you he's thinking about something but isn't quite ready to say it yet.

The night is warm, the kind of night that feels like it could stretch on forever. You’re both in no rush, enjoying the space between words. Every now and then, your eyes meet and there’s a flicker, a spark that you can’t really explain, but it feels like something is about to happen.

You talk for hours. The conversation starts off light, about racing, about silly things. Then it shifts to deeper stuff, things you hadn’t expected to share with him, but it feels easy. Safe. The kind of vulnerability you rarely show anyone else, but with Charles, it’s like you’ve known him forever.

At some point, you’re leaning over the center console, his face so close to yours, and you can feel the tension in the air. It’s as if the world has slowed down, leaving just the two of you in this perfect moment. And then, without even thinking, your lips meet, gentle at first, then a little deeper, as though neither of you wants to break away. The kiss lingers, but it’s not rushed. It’s exactly how it should be—slow, and full of all the unspoken things you both feel but haven’t quite said out loud.

But then, just like that, everything changes. The next morning, the text you sent goes unanswered. Charles is distant, and you start to feel that strange emptiness that comes when someone you thought was close begins to slip away. You wait for a reply that never comes, wondering if that night, that kiss, was just a momentary lapse or if it meant something more.

Days pass, and there’s no word. The silence grows, stretching between you like an ocean you can't cross. It feels like you're drifting farther apart with each passing second. Soon, the connection that once felt so natural has vanished, and all that's left are the echoes of a time when you both could've been more. The words you shared, the laughter, the kiss—they seem like distant memories. You no longer know where he is, or if he even remembers the way your heart beat faster that night.

And then, one random day, it hits you. He’s gone. And just like that, you're strangers again, with nothing left but the ghost of something that could’ve been.

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

Dean Winchester x Reader

You hear the telltale growl of the Impala before you see it, a sound as familiar as the smell of herbs in your little apothecary. Dean Winchester steps out first, as he always does, with Sam trailing behind him like the level-headed shadow he is.

"You called," Dean says, leaning against the doorframe of your shop, his green eyes scanning your face as if you’re already plotting something dangerous.

Which, of course, you are.

"Dean," you purr, letting his name roll off your tongue like silk. "I knew you'd come running. Did you miss me?"

He doesn’t rise to the bait—at least not immediately. Instead, he crosses his arms, feigning indifference, but the twitch of his lips betrays him.

Sam clears his throat. "There’s a case. People turning up dead with their hearts ripped out. Thought it might be… your kind of thing."

"My kind of thing?" You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. "Sam, you wound me. I’m a harmless witch."

"Yeah, harmless," Dean mutters under his breath, but there’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You step closer, the floorboards creaking under your boots. Dean doesn’t back away—he never does—but his shoulders stiffen slightly as you invade his space. You make sure to trail your fingers along his jacket sleeve, a casual, fleeting touch that you know will make him clench his jaw.

"Relax, Dean," you whisper, tilting your head up to look him in the eye. "I don’t bite… unless you ask nicely."

Sam groans. "Can we not? Please?"

You laugh, a low, melodic sound that fills the small shop. Dean glares at Sam, muttering something about "ruining the fun," before turning his attention back to you.

"So, what do you know about this heart-stealing monster?" he asks, his tone all business now.

You sigh, stepping away from him to rifle through a shelf of dusty books. "A creature that rips out hearts? Sounds like a revenant or a very angry ex-girlfriend."

Dean snorts. "Any way to narrow it down?"

You flip open a heavy tome, running your finger along the yellowed pages. "Maybe. But it’ll cost you."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Cost me? What, you want cash? A favor? My firstborn?"

You close the book and give him a sly smile. "No, Dean. I want you to smile for me. A real one."

Sam makes an exasperated noise, but Dean just stares at you, his lips twitching. "That’s what you want?" he asks, his voice low.

"Mm-hmm," you hum, leaning against the counter. "That, and maybe dinner. You know, for research purposes."

Dean shakes his head, but there’s a softness in his eyes now, a hint of amusement mixed with something else—something he probably doesn’t want to admit.

"You’re impossible," he mutters.

"And yet, here you are," you counter, smirking.

He doesn’t argue because you’re right. Dean Winchester might be stubborn, but he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame. And you? You’re more than happy to let him burn.

Are they… together?

Timothee Chalamet x Reader

You’re on set, the lights dimmed, and the sound of the director’s voice fades into the background as you and Timothée exchange glances. It’s been like this for a while now: secret smiles between takes, shared quiet moments while everyone else is distracted. No one knows about the two of you. It’s been a little slice of happiness you’ve kept to yourselves, hidden behind the scenes.

The crew is setting up for the next shot, and Timothée steps closer to you. He brushes his hand against yours as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, though it’s not. You feel the warmth of his touch, the softness of his fingers against yours, and your heart skips a beat. You look up to meet his eyes, and for a moment, everything else disappears. His gaze is soft, full of affection, but it’s the playful twinkle that gives away the secret he’s been keeping.

With a mischievous grin, Timothée leans in and, in one swift motion, plants a quick kiss on your cheek, just as someone in the crew calls for a break. You both freeze, caught in the moment, and for a split second, you wonder if anyone saw. But before you can think too much about it, Timothée smirks, clearly enjoying the little game he’s playing.

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn away, but your heart is racing. He’s not done yet. You feel his breath close to your ear as he whispers, "I can’t help myself," before sneaking a kiss to the corner of your lips.

Then, without warning, someone — maybe a crew member, maybe a fellow actor — snaps a photo. You don’t realize it at first, but that’s the moment everything changes.

The next day, you’re scrolling through social media during a lunch break, and there it is: a candid photo of the two of you, Timothée’s lips grazing your cheek, your smile barely caught in the moment. It’s simple, sweet, and it’s been shared thousands of times. The caption? Just a question: "Are they… together?"

The comments flood in, fans piecing the puzzle together, speculating, debating. A wave of excitement and curiosity sweeps across the internet. Your heart sinks and rises in equal measure.

Timothée finds you a few minutes later, eyes full of mischief, a grin playing on his lips. "So… I guess we’re not secret anymore?"

You roll your eyes but can’t help the blush that creeps up your neck. "I guess not."

Masterlist

Request

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓪 𝓛𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓸𝔂

Tangerine x Reader

You hear Tangerine’s voice from the next room, that smooth British accent you fell in love with long before you fell in love with him.

"Darling," he calls, the sound of it like music to your ears. "Where are you hiding now?"

You can't help but smile as you sit curled up on the sofa, a book in hand but hardly paying attention to the words on the page. You loved this little game, the way he made even mundane moments feel like a grand adventure.

“I’m not hiding,” you reply, raising your voice just enough for him to hear but still with a playful edge. “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

You hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps on the hardwood floor, deliberate and slow. “Ah, is that a challenge?”

Before you can respond, he appears in the doorway, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. The way he leans against the frame, the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—it sends a thrill through you.

"Found you," he says softly, his accent turning the simple phrase into something far more enchanting.

Your cheeks heat as you laugh, closing your book and setting it aside. “That didn’t take long. I was hoping you’d try harder.”

Tangerine crosses the room in a few strides and sits beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours before he takes it, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your palm. “I don’t need to try hard when I know exactly where my favorite person always is.”

You look at him, trying not to let his words completely undo you, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He leans closer, his voice dropping just slightly, low enough that it feels like a secret meant only for you.

“You like it when I talk, don’t you?” he teases, and his accent wraps around every syllable like a gift he knows you’ll never tire of unwrapping.

“Maybe,” you reply, pretending to play coy even as your heart races.

He grins, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushes yours. “You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, his voice warm and soft, the kind of sound that lingers in your chest long after it’s gone.

And then he kisses you—slow, tender, and filled with all the love he doesn’t even need to say because you already know it’s there. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and he smiles, that signature smile you can’t help but adore.

“Did I tell you I love you today?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, though you know he has, in a hundred different ways.

“Well then,” he says, that accent melting into the words like honey, “I love you more than words could ever say. But I’ll happily keep trying to prove it.”

And with him, you know he always will.

Request

Note:

• I don't write Smut stories. (⁠;⁠ŏ⁠﹏⁠ŏ⁠)

• Only fem!readers

𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Peter Parker x Reader

You lean against the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below like a thousand stars caught in the web of concrete. The wind ruffles your hair, but you're not bothered by it. Not when you're so focused on the one person who’s been messing with your mind lately—Spider-Man.

He's perched on the edge of the building, eyes scanning the streets below, looking for trouble. But the moment you step into his line of sight, everything shifts. He straightens up, his posture alert, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a challenge, maybe even a glint of something else. He knows who you are, and you know him. You've crossed paths more times than you'd care to admit—fighting, teasing, bickering.

And yet, there's always that tension. You can feel it in the air, like the charged buzz before a thunderstorm.

“So, what are we doing tonight, Webhead?” you call out, deliberately leaning closer as you speak, making sure he notices the sway of your voice. You see the way his jaw tightens, how his body stiffens, and it's almost enough to make you smirk. Almost.

“You know,” he says, voice low and steady, but you can catch the edge of something more, “I’m getting kind of tired of you showing up just to cause chaos.” He flips himself into a crouch, ready for anything.

“Cause chaos?” You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a playful smile. “I’m just here to have a little fun. You should try it sometime.” Your eyes meet his, and there's an almost teasing energy in your stare, the same electric current that always seems to pass between you two.

His eyes narrow. “Are you flirting with me or starting a fight?”

You let out a soft laugh, a laugh that dances between confidence and something far more dangerous. “Why not both?” You take a step closer, watching the way his breath catches. You know he’s trying to keep his cool, but the way his gaze flickers down to your lips gives him away. You’ve seen that look before. He’s not entirely immune.

There’s a beat of silence between you, the kind that teases at something deeper. Something almost… dangerous. You both know you're enemies. You've fought on opposite sides countless times. But there’s something about this game you play. It's like a constant tug-of-war between attraction and animosity.

Spider-Man lunges toward you with a speed you barely manage to sidestep. The playful tension slips into something more intense, more urgent. He spins around, keeping his distance, but you can feel his presence pressing in on you.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t want that,” you tease, taking a slow step forward, daring him to make the next move.

His lips twitch, like he’s about to say something—maybe even flirt back—but then he stops himself. It’s almost as if he’s wrestling with his own reaction, weighing the consequences of letting this thing between you two slip into something more. Something… personal.

But then, in a flash of motion, he’s gone. No fight. No words. Just the whisper of his webbing as it disappears into the night.

You stand there for a moment, watching the empty space where he used to be. A soft laugh escapes your lips.

This isn’t over. You both know it.

And deep down, you both know it never will be.

𝓢𝓸 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓘𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

Regulus Black x Reader

part one

The next few weeks blur together in a haze of unexpected encounters and stolen glances. You try to avoid him, you really do. You bury yourself in your studies, keep your distance in the hallways, and tell yourself that your feelings are just a passing phase. After all, what could ever come of a connection with someone like Regulus Black?

But despite your best efforts, he seems to be everywhere. In the library, glancing at you over the top of his book, as if the act is so casual yet deliberate. In the corridors, catching your eye when you least expect it. At dinner, sitting two tables away, his gaze always finding yours in the sea of students, as if there's an unspoken thread between you that neither of you can sever.

It’s after one particularly grueling day when you find yourself alone in the common room, nursing a headache. Your fingers fumble with your textbook as you struggle to focus. You barely notice when the door creaks open, until his voice breaks through the silence.

“You look like you could use some help.”

You don’t need to look up to know who it is. The cool, confident tone, the faint edge of something deeper beneath it, belongs to no one else but him.

You keep your eyes fixed on your notes, hoping the annoyance will return—anything to push away the strange fluttering in your chest. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not here to help with your homework,” he says, his voice softer now. “I’m here to get you to stop looking like you want to pull your hair out.”

You finally glance up, meeting his eyes. His face is less guarded, his expression unreadable, but there’s something there—something almost vulnerable. He steps closer, his footsteps quiet on the stone floor, until he’s sitting beside you, his presence an undeniable weight.

“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. Why does he care? Why is he still here, when every instinct tells you he should be long gone?

Regulus leans back against the arm of the couch, studying you for a long moment. His gaze softens, the usual cool mask slipping just slightly.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But maybe that’s what’s so bloody frustrating.”

The words cut through the tension, leaving you breathless. He doesn’t look like he’s joking—he’s serious. And you wonder, just for a moment, if he’s as caught up in this strange, unspoken pull between you as you are.

You want to say something—anything—to break the tension, but your mind goes blank. All the words you’ve prepared fall away, leaving nothing but the beat of your heart echoing between you.

“I should go,” he says suddenly, standing up before you have a chance to respond. His back is to you, but you can feel the distance between you growing.

Before he disappears out the door, you manage to find your voice. “Regulus, wait.”

He freezes, his back stiffening, but he doesn’t turn around. You don’t know why you’re doing this, but the words spill out anyway.

“Are you always this complicated, or is this just… us?”

For a long moment, you think he won’t answer, but then his shoulders drop slightly, and when he speaks again, there’s a softness to his voice that surprises you.

“I think we’re both a little complicated, don’t you?”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you with more questions than answers.

You’re not sure how much longer you can keep pretending that this isn’t more than just a passing curiosity, but you know one thing for certain: things between you and Regulus Black are no longer simple. And despite everything inside you telling you to back off, part of you can’t help but want to see where this tangled mess of emotions leads.

Handsome

Leon Kennedy x Reader

You watch as Leon steps out of the bathroom, towel in hand, wiping off the last traces of shaving cream from his face. He leans against the door frame casually, as if he hasn't noticed the way your eyes linger on him. But you know he has. There’s a quiet confidence about him, and right now, it’s impossible to look away.

His tousled hair still damp from the shower, a few droplets clinging to his strong jawline, and that faint stubble he always forgets to shave off completely—it all makes your heart skip a beat. Even the way he’s standing there, one arm across his body with the towel still in his hand, seems effortless, like a moment captured in time.

He looks at you, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "What?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. You can feel your cheeks flush, but you can’t help it. You know you’re staring, but you can't bring yourself to look away.

“Nothing,” you reply, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays you. It’s softer than usual, a little breathless. "You just… you look really good."

Leon chuckles, setting the towel aside as he steps toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice a hushed whisper now.

You nod, still too entranced by him to say much else. His touch is gentle, yet there's a warmth in it that sends a rush of emotions through you. His hand slides down to your neck, cupping it softly as he pulls you a little closer. His gaze lowers to your lips, the moment thick with unspoken promise.

"You’re making it hard to concentrate," he whispers, his lips hovering just above yours.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "You always make it hard," you say, your hands finding their way to the sides of his shirt, tugging him closer.

Leon’s smirk deepens, and he finally closes the distance, his lips brushing yours in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s soft at first, just a gentle exploration, but you can feel the heat building between you both. His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you fully into him, as if there's no space between you that shouldn’t be filled with the warmth of his touch.

As the kiss deepens, time seems to slow, the world outside the room fading away until it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure how long you stay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, but it feels like nothing else matters in the world.

When you finally pull away, breathless, Leon’s forehead rests against yours, his thumb caressing your skin. "You’re everything to me," he whispers.

Monaco

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You can feel the weight of the past as you stand in the shadows of Mónaco. The salty air brushes your skin, mixing with the distant hum of the city’s nightlife, but none of that matters. Your eyes are only on one thing: the memory of him.

It’s been months maybe even years and yet the streets of this city hold him like an echo. You know that your plan was never meant to be forever. You were never meant to stay. It was always supposed to be fleeting, the way the summer nights come and go. You, Charles, and the promise of something more... something that could have been, but was never destined to last.

You remember how he used to take your hand as the sun set over the harbor, his face a mask of calm beneath the weight of the world. There were moments when you thought he could escape the fame, the pressure, and just be yours. But reality was always waiting, hovering like the darkness over the circuit at night, just as unpredictable as the next race. The promise of forever slipped through your fingers like sand, and suddenly, there was nothing but the silence between you.

You know it’s too late to go back. To reimagine what could have been. But part of you still holds on to the idea of him of the way his smile could light up even the darkest corners of your mind. The way he kissed you under the lights of the casino, telling you that everything would be okay, even if you both knew better.

You never spoke of a second chance. You didn’t need to. It was clear that the world around you his world was too big, too overwhelming for the two of you. The distance between you grew, just like the races that he kept winning, while you stayed on the sidelines. But there’s a part of you, the part that still lingers in the back of your mind, wondering what if.

What if there was another chance? What if this city, with its grand, timeless streets, could bring you both back together? You laugh softly at the thought. The answer is clear, even if it hurts. You were never meant to stay in each other's lives. But the memories of what happened here under the shadow of the circuit, in the quiet moments when you were alone together will never leave you.

Valentine

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You’ve always been the type to sidestep romance. Flowers made you sneeze, chocolate was too sweet, and the idea of grand declarations sent shivers up your spine—not the good kind. For years, you prided yourself on being untouchable, untethered. Love was for people in books or movies, not for you.

Then Timothée happened.

You’re not sure when he started slipping past your walls. Maybe it was the way he laughed, quick and bright, like he couldn’t help it. Or maybe it was the way he tilted his head when you spoke, like he was peeling back the layers of your every word. Whatever it was, it was infuriatingly effective.

And now it’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re sitting across from him in a tiny Parisian café that feels plucked from a dream. He picked it, of course, because he’s Timothée and he knows how to set a scene. There’s a faint drizzle outside, blurring the lights into a soft halo around the windows, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like it’s a fact he just remembered.

Your brain stutters. Pretty? You don’t know how to respond to that. “Uh, thanks?” you manage, your voice an octave higher than usual. “You’re, um, pretty too. Can I say that? Is that weird?”

Timothée laughs, low and warm, and it feels like the room tilts just a little. “It’s not weird,” he says, leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand. “But it’s kind of adorable that you’re overthinking it.”

You want to roll your eyes, to deflect, but he’s looking at you with such unguarded affection that it’s hard to hide. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin instead, trying to focus on anything other than the intensity of his gaze.

“This is weird for me,” you blurt out, surprising even yourself. “Like, I’ve rejected affection for years, and now I have it, and—damn it—it’s kind of weird.”

Timothée’s expression softens, and his hand reaches across the table to cover yours. “Weird’s okay,” he says. “Weird’s honest. I like honest.”

Your heart stumbles, then takes off at a sprint. He’s too much—too kind, too perceptive, too everything, and you’re terrified of what that means. But then his thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding you, and you realize that maybe it doesn’t have to be terrifying. Maybe it can just be good.

The waiter arrives with dessert, breaking the moment, and you’re grateful for the distraction. It’s a shared plate of macarons in delicate pastel hues, and Timothée immediately pops a pink one into his mouth, humming in approval.

“Try the lavender one,” he says, holding it out to you with an encouraging smile.

You hesitate, then lean forward to take a bite. It’s soft and sweet, just like this moment, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself enjoy it.

Timothée grins, his lips dusted with sugar. “See? Not so bad, right?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. Not so bad.”

And as the rain taps gently against the window and Timothée starts rambling about the best macaron flavors, you think that maybe, just maybe, love isn’t as scary as you thought.