Latest Posts by dreameyess11 - Page 3

𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕'𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆

John Wick x Reader

You step onto the terrace, the cool night air brushing your skin, and the city sprawls before you—its lights twinkling like stars, a reminder of all the times you used to dream with him. You don’t know why you came here tonight, not really. Maybe it’s the glass of champagne you’re holding in your hand, or maybe it’s the way the gala inside feels too constricting. You feel a sudden need to breathe, to escape the glitz and glamour for just a moment.

You slowly slip off your heels, a small sigh escaping your lips as you feel the pressure lift from your feet. You close your eyes for a second, grounding yourself in the sounds of the city below. The hum of traffic, the occasional distant laughter, the clink of glasses from inside the ballroom. It all blends into one low murmur, a noise you once thought you couldn’t escape.

Then you hear it.

The quiet, measured footsteps behind you.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it, in the way the air shifts around you, in the tension that suddenly tightens your chest. John Wick. That name. That face. That past. It's been years since you last saw him, years since you last spoke, yet here he is again, the same intensity in his presence, the same storm of contradictions wrapped up in one man.

He stands just a few feet away, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the pull of him. His eyes are on you, but you don’t look at him—not yet. You haven’t figured out how to face him yet, after all this time.

"You always did like the quiet," he says, his voice low, rough, like gravel being ground underfoot. His words stir something deep inside you, a forgotten ache, a soft memory of what was once so easy between you two.

You take a long breath and finally turn, meeting his gaze. There it is, that flicker in his eyes, the same dangerous fire that used to haunt you—still haunts you. But there’s something different now. Weariness. A kind of resignation.

"Why are you here?" You don’t recognize your own voice—it’s calm, steady, like you’re in control. But deep down, you can feel the storm brewing. It’s always been like this with him, hasn’t it? A push and pull you could never quite untangle.

"I could ask you the same thing." His gaze flickers to the city beyond you both, as if looking for something. Or maybe running from it.

You can’t help but let out a bitter laugh. "Always the man of few words, John. Always running."

"Not anymore," he replies quietly, almost to himself, but you catch it.

The distance between you both feels like an ocean now, yet your heartbeat betrays you, thumping louder than the city beneath your feet. It’s stupid, isn’t it? This unresolved tension, the way you’ve always gravitated toward each other, like magnets, pulling back together no matter how far apart you’ve drifted.

"Why did you leave?" The question escapes before you can stop it. It’s raw, unexpected—yet it’s been there all along, lingering under the surface. He owes you that answer. You owe yourself that answer.

He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze narrowing as he takes a step closer. You can smell him now, a blend of cologne and leather, something dark, familiar. But then he pauses, his voice dropping low, almost like a confession.

"I had things to do. People to protect." His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to the ground for a moment. "Things got... messy."

You nod, a cold chill creeping through you. You know exactly what he means. You knew him before the gunshots, before the chaos. You knew him when he was still yours—and you were his, in some broken, unspoken way.

"Did you ever think about me?" The words slip out before you can bite them back.

John’s eyes meet yours, the weight of your question hanging between you like smoke. His expression is unreadable, but something shifts in his gaze—a flicker of regret? Or maybe longing. He’s never been good at hiding what he feels.

"Every day," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity is there, in the way he looks at you. "I tried to forget. But some things you can't walk away from."

Your heart skips a beat. He’s here. He’s saying all the right things, but you don’t know if you should believe him. After everything, after the pain, the betrayals... Can you even go back to that version of you both?

You step back, away from him, needing space. Your mind screams at you to run, but your body betrays you, frozen in place.

"You should go." It’s a command, but it feels weak, unsure, like a part of you is begging him to stay.

John doesn't move immediately, just watches you, his gaze lingering on your face as if trying to memorize it all over again. Then, finally, he gives a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

"Maybe next time," he says, his voice softer, gentler than before. Then, with a single step backward, he turns and walks away, disappearing into the shadows.

You’re left standing there, on the terrace, with nothing but the city lights, the cool night air, and the echo of a past you thought you'd buried.

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

Sergei Kravinoff x Reader

You're alone in the backyard of your house, surrounded by the scent of the flowers you've so carefully tended. The night breeze caresses your cheeks, but there's something else in the air: a presence. You sense it even before you hear it.

"You're too trusting for your own good, you know that?" Sergei Kravinoff says, his voice deep and drawling, emerging from the shadows like a predator on the prowl.

You turn to him, but you don't back away. Despite what you know of his reputation, you can't fear him. There's something in his gaze, in those hunter eyes, that reveals a vulnerability he'd never admit out loud.

"You shouldn't come close like that, Sergei. You might scare someone." Your voice is soft, almost joking, but he feels it like a blow to the chest. You're not scared. You never are with him, even though he knows you should be.

He takes a step forward, the moonlight illuminating his imposing figure. The muscles in his body seem tense, as if he is holding something back: an instinct, a desire.

“Not you,” he answers, crossing his arms, trying to appear indifferent. But his tone betrays him. He can’t understand how someone like you can speak so calmly, so sweetly, to a man like him.

You bend down to pick up a flower that has fallen to the ground, a white daisy, simple but beautiful. You hold it between your fingers as you smile.

“Do you want to stay a while? I could make you some tea.”

Kravinoff blinks, bewildered. Tea? No one offers him something so simple, so human. But you… you just want to share a quiet moment with him.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, moving even closer. His voice is a whisper now, and his gaze locks with yours as if he wants to unravel the mystery of your kindness.

You look up at him, holding the daisy in your hand. There is no doubt in your eyes, no judgment, just a warmth he doesn’t think he deserves.

“Because I believe that, behind all that strength, you deserve rest, too.”

Your words completely disarm him. Sergei Kravinoff, the great hunter, the man who has faced the fiercest beasts, feels caught up in something he’s never experienced: your tenderness.

He reaches out a hand to you, hesitating for a moment, before taking the flower you offer. His fingers are large and rough, but they hold the daisy with surprising care.

“You are too sweet for this world,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Too sweet for me.”

You laugh softly, a sound he knows he will remember for the rest of his life.

“Maybe,” you admit, “but I like that you’re here.”

For the first time in years, Sergei Kravinoff allows himself to let his guard down. He sits with you in the moonlight, holding that tiny flower like it’s the most valuable treasure in the world, and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, he knows he’s hopelessly lost… and he doesn’t care.

Love Grows

Laurie Laurence x Reader

You’re sitting cross-legged on the patchy grass outside the Marches’ house, a canvas propped up on your knees and a brush clutched in your fingers. The late afternoon sun catches the fiery strands of your untamed red hair, making them glow like embers. You’re trying to capture the scene in front of you—a mix of sun-dappled trees and the charming, worn shutters of the house but your mind keeps wandering.

And then, of course, he appears. Laurie Laurence. Teddy, as Jo calls him, but you prefer Laurie. There’s something about the way the name rolls off your tongue that feels like music.

“Painting again?” His voice is warm, teasing. You don’t look up immediately. Instead, you dip your brush into a streak of crimson and drag it across the canvas.

“Observant as ever,” you reply dryly, though you’re secretly glad he came. He always comes. There’s something magnetic about Laurie—the way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the way his laughter feels like a promise of mischief. You know he doesn’t belong to you, not really. He belongs to Jo, or maybe to the whole March family. But when he’s here, leaning lazily against the fence like he has all the time in the world for you, it’s easy to imagine otherwise.

“What are you working on today?” he asks, stepping closer. You can feel his shadow fall across your canvas.

You shrug, deliberately nonchalant.

Laurie chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes your heart skip. “You’re full of mysteries, you know. People talk about you, you know that? They say your hair’s wild, your clothes don’t match, and that you’re always mumbling about colors no one else can see. They think you’re crazy.” He says it lightly, but there’s something in his tone—a challenge, maybe.

You finally glance up, meeting his eyes. “And what do you think?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“I think,” Laurie says slowly, “that the world would be a much duller place without you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavier than you expected. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but before you can respond, Laurie drops to the ground beside you, long legs sprawled carelessly. He plucks a blade of grass and twirls it between his fingers. “Teach me,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Teach you what?”

“To see the world the way you do.” He gestures vaguely at your painting. “To make it look so alive, so...wild. Like you.”

There’s a tenderness in his voice you’re not used to, and it disarms you. You hand him the brush before you can second-guess yourself. “Here. You try.”

Laurie takes the brush with a grin, but as he awkwardly drags it across the canvas, you can’t help but laugh. “You’re hopeless,” you tease.

“Hopelessly charmed, maybe,” he retorts, and the way he looks at you then, eyes soft and searching, makes your breath catch. You wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you, if he feels the same pull that you do.

For a moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of you, the colors on your canvas forgotten. Laurie leans closer, so close you can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. “You know,” he murmurs, “you’re kind of a mystery to me, too.”

And then, just as quickly as the moment came, it’s gone. Laurie leans back, grinning like the scoundrel he is, and hands you the brush. “You’re a better teacher than I am a student,” he says.

But his words linger, and as the sun sets and the colors deepen, you find yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, you’re not such a mystery to him after all.

Masterlist

JAMES POTTER

James

Irresistible

Like The Movies

Dance with me

Kisses

Puppy

Midnight Craving

REGULUS BLACK

Dear Heart, why him

So This Is Love (request)

For you, i'd steal the stars

CARLOS SAINZ

I can't read your mind

You smiled; i fell in love

maybe i just wanna be yours

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

Love, love, love

First time parents

There is gentleness about him.

Cooking class

To the one who understands my soul (request)

CHARLES LECLERC

Monaco

Strangers

Wrong Date

Now he's thinkin' 'bout me every night

She's a romantic

When can i see you?

I hate the snow

Sleeping Beauty

EGGSY UNWIN

Have you ever fall in love?

TANGERINE

Cold cold man

You know i love a london boy

Love

Mr & Mrs Smith

Wife

DAVE LIZEWSKI

Oh my God! I still love you

My girlfriend gets so depressed

ALEXEI VRONSKY

Lazy morning

I just wanted to kiss you

dreamgirl

LAURIE LAURENCE

Love Grows

KYLE SCHEIBLE

Well, my boyfriend's in a band

TIMOTHEE CHALAMET

Valentine

Are they… together? (request)

I love him

Romantic Lover

a lovely night

Damn, I really want to kiss you.

DREW STARKEY

Midnight

I want you and only you

NICHOLAS CHAVEZ

wrong person right time

HARRIS DICKINSON

pretty girl

You mad at me? (request)

JENSEN ACKLES

I have no car

you're my favorite

Stranger

DEAN WINCHESTER

Sweet witch

She's from heaven

JOHN WICK

I love you, and it's killing me

DANTE SPARDA

THE DEVIL

blah, blah, blah....shut up

sweetheart

LEON KENNEDY

I can do it myself

daddy's little girl

Religion's in your lips

you drew stars around my scars

Handsome

Everybody knows that i'm a good girl, officer

Skin care

I’m not ready

Are you drunk?

ANAKIN SKYWALKER

Good father

Nightmares

Sweet Creature

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

discussions

You can't catch me now

Date

Fatherhood

PAUL ATREIDES

Are we allies or enemies?

PIETRO MAXIMOFF

Boyfriend

SERGEI KRAVINOFF

You're too sweet for me

BUCKY BARNES

PETER PARKER

Are you flirting or starting a fight?

i'm in love with an idiot

Miss Stark

I change my hair every week

MILES MORALES

Something about you

DICK GRAYSON

i like pizza

JASON TODD

And she feels like home

it's a bad idea, right?

MARAUDERS

We'll be friends forever

Messy

𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽, 𝔀𝓱𝔂 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Regulus Black x Reader

You’ve never given much thought to Regulus Black before. Sure, you’ve seen him in the hallways, always composed, with his sharp cheekbones and darker-than-night eyes. He’s the Slytherin prince everyone whispers about, the one who’s far too serious for his age, but he’s never been more than a fleeting thought in your mind.

Until now.

It starts in Potions class, of all places. You’ve always prided yourself on being decent enough, but today, Professor pairs you with him. Regulus Black. The boy who carries his family’s name like a burden but wears his ambition like armor.

“You’d best keep up” he says without even looking at you as he flips through his textbook. His voice is smooth, like honey drizzled over something bitter.

You clench your jaw, determined not to rise to the bait. “And you’d best stop assuming you’re the only one with a brain.”

The ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s not much, but you see it, and for some reason, your chest feels strange—tight and warm all at once.

You don’t know when it begins to shift. At first, it’s annoyance. His snide remarks get under your skin, but you find yourself countering them with your own sharp wit. He’s infuriatingly precise, and you hate how his quiet confidence seems to unsettle you.

But then there’s a moment. A single moment that plants the seed of something dangerous.

It’s late one evening in the library. You’re poring over a book for a Transfiguration essay when you notice him at the table across from you. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie loosened, and for once, he looks almost…human. Tired, even.

“You’re staring,” he mutters without looking up.

Your cheeks flush, and you quickly look back at your parchment. “I wasn’t staring. I was…thinking.”

His dark eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, you swear there’s something vulnerable in them. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression. But that second lingers, and it worms its way into your mind, your chest, your soul.

After that, you notice things. The way he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear when he’s focused. The faint scar on his left hand, like a memory of something he won’t share. The way he always pauses before answering questions in class, as if weighing the worth of his words.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. You’re intrigued, nothing more.

But then he defends you. It’s during a confrontation in the corridor with some Slytherins who have taken the House rivalry a step too far. You’re outnumbered, your wand gripped tightly in your hand, when Regulus steps out of the shadows.

“Enough,” he says, his voice cold and sharp. The others freeze, their bravado crumbling under his gaze. They mutter apologies and disappear, leaving you standing there, stunned.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

You should walk away. You should let this be a fleeting interaction, but something in you snaps. “Who are you, Regulus Black? Really?”

He looks at you then, truly looks at you, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his armor. The weight of expectations, the quiet desperation of someone trapped by his own choices. He doesn’t answer, but his silence tells you more than words ever could.

And that’s when you realize the truth.

You’re falling for him.

It’s not dramatic, like a lightning strike. It’s slow, like the creeping warmth of sunlight after a storm. It terrifies you, because Regulus Black is everything you shouldn’t want. He’s a Slytherin. He’s guarded, secretive, and so achingly distant. But beneath it all, you see someone who is trying—fighting—to be more than what the world expects him to be.

And maybe, you think you can be the one to remind him he’s not alone. Even if it breaks your heart in the end.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

Dante Sparda x Reader

The Devil May Cry office is exactly as you expected it to be—chaotic and reeking of stale pizza. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, as Dante flips lazily through a magazine, his boots propped up on the desk. He doesn't even glance your way, though you know he senses you. He always does.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite troublemaker," you drawl, your voice dripping with mock sweetness.

He looks up, finally, one eyebrow quirking at your entrance. "Didn't realize demons had favorites," he replies, his tone dry. "Thought you guys were more into, y'know, chaos and destruction."

You stride into the room, letting your heels click dramatically against the floor. "Oh, come on, Dante. You’re different." You lean on his desk, close enough to invade his personal space but far enough to keep him guessing. "You’ve got that rugged charm. That devil-may-care attitude. It’s almost like you’re trying to impress me."

He smirks, leaning back further in his chair. "Rugged charm, huh? And here I thought you were just here to cause me more problems."

He doesn’t flinch, which is one of the reasons you like coming here. Most humans would’ve run screaming by now—or tried to kill you. Dante, though, treats you like an annoying stray cat that keeps showing up at his door.

"So," you continue, circling the desk and trailing your nails lightly along its edge, "what’s on the agenda today? Slaying? Exorcisms? More of that broody self-reflection you do when you think no one’s looking?"

His chair creaks as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Y'know, for someone who’s technically my enemy, you spend a lot of time hanging around here. What's the angle, sweetheart?"

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "Can’t a girl just enjoy good company? Besides,"—you perch on the edge of his desk, close enough that your knees brush his—"you’re the most fun I’ve had in centuries. The way you swing that sword around... it’s almost poetic."

His eyes narrow, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am," you reply smoothly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off your shoulder. "Admit it, Dante. You’d miss me if I stopped coming around."

"Miss you?" He snorts, standing up and towering over you in that annoyingly effortless way he does. "The day I miss you is the day hell freezes over."

You stand too, refusing to be outdone, and trail a finger along the front of his jacket. "Careful, Sparda. If you keep lying to yourself, you might start believing it."

For a moment, the tension crackles between you like electricity, his blue eyes boring into yours. Then, he steps back, grabbing his sword from where it rests against the wall. "Tell you what," he says, slinging it over his shoulder. "Why don’t you tag along on my next job? You keep talking big about how much fun I am—let’s see if you can keep up."

Your grin widens. "Oh, Dante. I thought you’d never ask."

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t hide the smirk playing at his lips. "Just don’t get in my way."

"And miss a chance to watch you work? Never."

As he strides toward the door, you fall in step beside him, already plotting your next move. You’ll flirt, you’ll tease, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get under his skin just enough to make him wonder if you’re more than just a nuisance.

Because deep down, you know he enjoys the game as much as you do.

pretty girl

Harris Dickinson x Reader

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the sea as you stand on the balcony, the city lights flickering like stars in the distance. You shiver slightly, but before you can retreat inside, strong arms wrap around you from behind. Harris Dickinson pulls you close, his breath warm against your neck as he murmurs, “Cold, love?”

You nod, leaning into his embrace, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding you. He turns you in his arms, his blue eyes searching yours, filled with something tender, something unspoken. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face before he tilts your chin up.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he’s in awe. And then he kisses you—softly at first, like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of your lips. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, as if you’re something delicate, something precious.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a gentle murmur. “My pretty girl.” The words send a shiver down your spine, not from the cold but from the way he says them—possessive yet reverent, as if you are his favorite thing in the world.

You smile, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw before curling into the fabric of his sweater.

The night stretches before you, filled with possibilities, with whispered promises and stolen kisses. And in this moment, wrapped in his arms, nothing else matters but the way he holds you—like you are the only thing he ever wants to hold.

Wrong Date

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You sigh, adjusting the hem of your dress as you step into the dimly lit, extravagant restaurant. The chandeliers overhead sparkle like tiny galaxies, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. This was a mistake. You didn’t even want to be here, but your friends had practically shoved you into a taxi, insisting that “love comes when you least expect it.”

So here you are, waiting for some guy named Marc—or was it Alan? Honestly, you barely remembered.

The host leads you to a table near the window, where a man is already seated, scrolling through his phone. His light brown hair is slightly tousled, and when he looks up, his green eyes catch the candlelight. He’s handsome—annoyingly so.

“You’re early,” you say, trying to hide your nerves.

He blinks at you, clearly caught off guard. Then, after a beat, he smiles. “I guess I am.”

His accent is smooth, French… no, something else? You don’t dwell on it. You just want to get this evening over with.

“So,” you begin, forcing a polite smile, “what do you do?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You really don’t know?”

You frown. “Should I?”

For a second, he just stares at you, then laughs—a warm, genuine sound that surprises you. “I suppose not. I’m Charles. And you?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it, letting it roll off his tongue. You don’t want to admit that it sounds nice when he says it.

The conversation is awkward at first. He seems charming, but you feel like you have nothing in common. He talks about traveling, fast cars, and competition. You’re more into books, museums, and quiet evenings.

“I don’t get the appeal of racing,” you confess, sipping your wine. “Driving in circles for hours? Sounds exhausting.”

He nearly chokes on his drink, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’ve never watched Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not interested.”

For some reason, that makes him grin. “You might be the first person I’ve met who says that.”

“Glad to be unique,” you say dryly.

But then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way he listens when you talk about your favorite authors, or the way his eyes light up when he describes the thrill of racing. You start teasing him about his job, and he teases you right back, challenging your every assumption. Before you know it, you’re both laughing, the initial awkwardness melting away.

The waiter arrives with dessert, and that’s when your phone buzzes. A message from your friend: “Where are you? Marc says he’s been waiting for 30 minutes!”

Your breath catches. You look at Charles, then at the text.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You hesitate before showing him the message. He reads it, and instead of looking offended, he bursts into laughter.

“Wrong date?” he guesses.

“Wrong date,” you confirm, covering your face in embarrassment.

For a second, there’s silence. Then he leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Well,” he says, “if it makes you feel better… I’m really glad you sat at the wrong table.”

And somehow, you realize—you are too.

𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

The first rays of dawn creep through the gossamer curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. You awaken to the quiet rustle of movement nearby, your heart quickening before your eyes even open. The subtle aroma of fresh coffee mingles with the faint scent of cedar and citrus—his scent, distinctly Alexei.

When you finally open your eyes, he is there by the window, his silhouette framed by the early morning glow. Alexei Vronsky, ever the picture of effortless elegance, is dressed in a loose white shirt, the first few buttons undone, and dark trousers that cling perfectly to his lean form. His dark hair is tousled, his face turned toward the pale morning sky. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

His head turns at the sound, and when his eyes meet yours, they soften instantly, a rare and fleeting vulnerability in their depths. He crosses the room in long strides, the faintest smile playing on his lips. The smile is just for you—it always is.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering against your cheek. “But the light...it was too perfect not to watch.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip from your shoulder. “And you didn’t think to share it with me?”

“I wanted to preserve the peace,” he replies, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes now. His hand trails down your arm, tracing idle patterns against your skin. “But I’m glad you’re awake. The morning is always better with you.”

You laugh softly, the sound seeming to warm him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finding your lips. The kiss is unhurried, tender, as though he has all the time in the world for you—and only you.

“Shall we take our coffee outside?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and intimate. “The garden is beautiful this time of day.”

“Only if you promise to keep me warm,” you tease, though you already know he will.

His eyes darken slightly, filled with something deeper than just affection. “Always,” he vows.

And with that, Alexei rises, holding out his hand to you. The morning stretches ahead, full of promises whispered in golden light and moments shared in quiet intimacy.

𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over your bedroom, illuminating Leon’s tired but ever-gentle face. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as you tuck your twin daughters into bed. Their little chests rise and fall in peaceful rhythm, the warmth of their innocence filling the room.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, a knowing smile tugging at your lips as you step toward him.

Leon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you blame me?” His voice is low, full of quiet admiration. “Seeing you with them… it reminds me how lucky I am.”

You shake your head with a laugh, but the way his blue eyes soften makes your heart clench. Even after all these years—after the missions, the nightmares, the scars—he still looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

The two of you slip into the hallway, careful not to wake the girls. As soon as you close the door, Leon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. His scent fills your senses.

“Tough mission today?” you murmur against his chest, your fingers tracing small circles on his back.

He exhales heavily, his grip tightening around you. “Not as tough as coming home and seeing our girls growing up so fast.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice. “I swear, they were just babies yesterday.”

You pull back slightly, cupping his face in your hands. “They’re still our babies. And they always will be.”

His lips quirk into a half-smile before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I know.” Then, his voice turns playful. “But what about you? Still my girl?”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spreads. “Always.”

He grins before dipping his head, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s not rushed, not desperate—it’s the kind of kiss that speaks of years of love, of promises kept, of battles fought side by side.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “I missed you today,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his palm.

His expression grows serious, and you know what he’s thinking—that he fights so you and the girls never have to. That every time he walks out the door, he carries the fear of not coming back.

But tonight, he’s here. And that’s all that matters.

You take his hand and lead him toward your bedroom, ready to steal whatever moments of peace the night will allow. Because loving Leon Kennedy means loving a man who fights battles you’ll never see—but who will always, always come home to you.

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅; 𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You’re sitting across from him at a quaint café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the soft chatter of nearby tables. The light catches in your eyes as you lean forward, animatedly sharing a story about your latest adventure. Carlos chuckles at your enthusiasm, but it’s the way you tug your sleeve up absentmindedly to adjust your watch that catches his attention. It’s such a small, inconsequential motion, but for some reason, it makes his heart skip.

It’s not the first time this has happened. He remembers the time you helped him organize his chaos of a travel bag before a race. You didn’t complain, didn’t even ask—just smiled and dove in, folding shirts and tucking socks into corners as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He’d stood there, arms crossed, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched you. It wasn’t about the bag. It was the way you hummed softly while you worked, the way you made even the mundane feel special.

And then there was that night at the paddock. He’d invited you to join his team for dinner after a particularly grueling day. You’d laughed with them like you’d known them forever, making jokes, listening intently, drawing everyone in with your warmth. It was the way you casually asked him if he’d gotten enough rest, your tone soft but firm, your concern genuine.

Carlos didn’t understand it at first. He chalked it up to admiration, respect, appreciation for someone who felt like a constant in his otherwise hectic, unpredictable life. But then there were the little things, the moments he couldn’t ignore. Like the time you’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat during a late-night drive, your head resting against the window, lips slightly parted. He’d turned the music down instinctively, not wanting to disturb you, and caught himself stealing glances at how peaceful you looked.

Or the way you laughed—not the polite, reserved laugh you gave strangers, but the full-bodied, uninhibited laugh that made your eyes crinkle and your head tilt back. He realized he wanted to be the reason for that laugh as often as possible.

It hits him one evening when you’re both walking through a park, your hands stuffed in your pockets to keep warm. You pause mid-sentence to crouch down and pet a stray dog that’s approached you. Carlos watches as your face lights up, your voice soft as you speak to the animal. The way you care, the way you notice the small things—it’s like you see the world differently, and he realizes he doesn’t want to see it without you.

“Do you always stop for every dog you meet?” he teases, his voice light, though his chest feels heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

You glance up at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Only the ones that look like they need a little extra love,” you reply.

And that’s when it clicks for him. The little things—the small, seemingly insignificant details that make you who you are—they aren’t so little after all. They’re everything. And as you stand, brushing off your jeans and meeting his gaze, Carlos knows. He’s in love with you.

Irresistible

James Potter x Reader

You never meant to get caught up in James Potter’s chaos. He was charming, yes, but entirely too reckless for your tastes. Still, there’s something about him—maybe the way he struts into every room as if he owns it, or how he always manages to make you laugh even when you’re scowling at him.

Take this morning, for example. You’d just settled into the library, determined to finish your essay on the practical applications of nonverbal spells, when he appeared out of nowhere, flopping into the chair across from you.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” you asked without looking up, already dreading the inevitable distraction.

“Spending time with my favorite person, obviously,” he said, propping his chin on his hand and grinning like he’d been caught doing something wicked.

You snorted. “Right. Because that’s exactly what I need while trying to concentrate.”

“What can I say?” he said, leaning closer. “I’m charming and irresponsible.” He paused dramatically, then corrected himself with a cocky smirk. “I mean, irresistible.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “Keep telling yourself that.”

But James wasn’t deterred. If anything, he took your sarcasm as a challenge. Over the next week, he made it his personal mission to win you over, employing every ridiculous tactic he could think of.

One day, you found a bouquet of enchanted daisies on your desk in Charms, each flower whispering, “Go out with James Potter!” in singsong voices. You pretended not to hear them, but you caught yourself smiling anyway.

Another time, he orchestrated a scene in the Great Hall, standing on a bench and loudly declaring, “There’s only one person in this entire castle who can make my heart race faster than a Quidditch match, and they’re sitting right over there!”

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice. “Merlin’s beard, Potter, sit down!” you hissed, your face burning as the entire table turned to look at you.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way his hazel eyes sparkled with mischief when he caught your gaze—or the way your heart skipped a beat when he grinned at you like that.

It wasn’t all grand gestures, though. Sometimes, James surprised you with quiet moments that felt... different. Like the time he found you sitting by the lake, lost in thought, and simply plopped down beside you without saying a word. He didn’t try to make you laugh or tease you into a reaction; he just sat there, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you.

“Why do you even bother?” you asked eventually, breaking the quiet.

“Bother with what?” he replied, tossing a pebble into the water.

“With me. You could have anyone you want, Potter. Why waste your time chasing someone who’s... not interested?”

James turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because you’re different. You don’t put up with my nonsense, and you make me want to be... better.”

For once, he didn’t seem like the cocky, overconfident boy you’d always pegged him as. Instead, he was just James—genuine and a little vulnerable.

And maybe that’s when it hit you: you didn’t dislike him as much as you pretended to.

The next day, when he approached you in the common room with that same incorrigible grin, you decided to throw him off.

“All right, Potter,” you said, crossing your arms. “One date. But if you embarrass me even once, it’ll be your last.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “Me? Embarrass you? Never!”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed, and the sound was warmer than the crackling fire behind you. “You won’t regret it,” he promised, offering you his hand.

And maybe, just maybe, you believed him.

Good father

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Anakin Skywalker stood by the window, looking out into the starry expanse of space. The distant stars twinkled like tiny pinpoints of hope. But in his heart, a storm raged. His past was a web of regret, pain, and loss, but now the future loomed before him with hope. Two little lives. Two precious twins. Luke and Leia.

The faint sound of their soft cries drifted in from the other room. Anakin closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the sound with a tenderness that surprised even him. He wasn't used to that kind of love, the pure, unwavering devotion a father felt for his children. His thoughts drifted back to the first time he'd held them in his arms, their tiny faces wrinkled in confusion and wonder. They were perfect, a reflection of his redemption, and yet he felt unworthy of them.

As the days passed, Anakin found himself struggling with the idea of fatherhood. His life as a Jedi had never prepared him for this—he had been trained to fight, to serve, to protect, but never to care. Yet there he was, standing on the threshold of a new beginning, wanting to be the best father he could be.

He heard footsteps behind him. A soft, warm presence enveloped him like a comforting blanket. Anakin turned to find her standing there—his wife, his mate, his love. The woman who had helped him find the light again.

You smiled, your eyes filled with quiet strength. “They’re hungry,” you said softly.

Anakin nodded, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I want to help… but I’m not sure how.”

You walked to his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re already doing that,” you assured him. “Just by being here, by wanting to be involved, you’re already showing them how much you care about them.”

He smiled, grateful for your words, though doubts still lingered in his heart. They had always shared a deep connection, one that had been forged in both passion and struggle. But now they were parents, and there was no guide to tell him what to do. He could feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, but there was something else, too, something more powerful than the fear that had once controlled him. It was love.

As they entered the nursery, Anakin took a deep breath, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his son’s blanket. Luke’s small hand curled around his finger, and the world seemed to slow down, leaving only the warmth of that small hand. Leia, wrapped up next to her brother, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Anakin admitted quietly, his voice filled with vulnerability. “But I want to try. I want to be a good father to them.”

You stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You already are. They will grow up knowing your love, your strength, and your heart. That is all they need.”

Anakin nodded, feeling the weight of your words settle in his chest. It wasn’t about being perfect, it was about being there, showing up every day, even when doubts clouded his mind. He had once feared his own ability to love, thinking it was a weakness that would destroy him. But now, with Luke and Leia in his arms, he realized it was his greatest strength.

The sound of the twins’ cries soon filled the room again, and Anakin smiled softly, his heart filling with tenderness. He was no longer the young Jedi who had once struggled to control his emotions. He had learned that love, in its purest form, was not something to be feared, it was something to be embraced.

Together, they cared for their children that night, and in every tender touch and every glance shared between them, Anakin knew that this was where he belonged. He was no longer alone. And for the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to truly be a father.

𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓽 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

You stand in the middle of the cozy kitchen, apron tied clumsily around your waist, hands fumbling with the cutting board. The recipe you found online seemed simple enough, but as you glance back and forth between the instructions and the ingredients sprawled out on the counter, doubt starts to creep in.

Leon leans casually against the doorway, his signature smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His presence alone is enough to distract you, but he doesn’t say anything—just watches you struggle with the knife as you attempt to chop an onion.

“I can do it myself,” you say, without looking up.

“I know you can,” he replies, his voice calm and full of warmth. “But let me.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching the soft glint of amusement in his blue eyes. He’s already pushing off the doorframe and rolling up his sleeves. His movements are so natural, so unassuming, and you’re left staring as he gently takes the knife from your hand.

“You don’t trust me?” you tease, stepping aside to let him take over.

“Of course I do,” he says, picking up the onion you’d abandoned. “I just trust me more with sharp objects.”

You laugh at that, and the sound seems to light up the room, even in the dim glow of the kitchen. Leon glances at you briefly, and for a moment, there’s something in his expression—something unspoken yet so profoundly tender.

As he starts to chop the onion with precision, you can’t help but admire the way his hands move, confident and skilled. His hair falls slightly into his face, and you resist the urge to brush it back.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur.

He pauses, his knife hovering above the cutting board. Turning to you, he leans in just enough that the warmth of his proximity makes your heart race.

“You’ve been doing everything all day,” he says softly, his voice steady but gentle. “Let me take care of you for once.”

There’s a sincerity in his words that leaves you momentarily speechless. He’s always been like this—selfless, always putting others first. You reach up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Fine,” you concede, folding your arms. “But don’t think this means you’re getting out of dishes.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, and the way he looks at you in that moment—like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your chest tighten.

“Deal,” he says, going back to the onion.

You lean against the counter, watching him work, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax. The room smells of fresh ingredients and something else entirely—comfort, safety, and a quiet kind of love.

And as Leon finishes chopping and moves on to help with the rest of the meal, you realize that moments like this—simple, quiet, and shared—might just be your favorite kind of adventure with him.

And she feels like home

Jason Todd x Reader

It’s nearing midnight when the rhythmic tapping on the window pulls you from the quiet comfort of your book. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. That sound is familiar. Rising from the couch, you pad softly to the window. Pulling back the curtain, your heart sinks.

There he is—Jason Todd—leaning against the window frame, a silhouette of leather and exhaustion. His helmet dangles loosely from one hand, the other clutching his side. Blood trickles from a cut above his brow, streaking his face.

“Jason!” you gasp, hurriedly unlocking the window and helping him inside.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice strained but laced with the wry humor you know so well. “Miss me?”

Your worry turns into a flurry of activity. You guide him to the couch, muttering something about stubborn vigilantes. He winces as he settles down, his usual confident demeanor dimmed by pain.

“What happened?” you demand, kneeling before him to inspect the damage.

“Bad night,” he mutters. “Some gang thought they could take me out. Clearly, they didn’t succeed.” His smirk is fleeting as he winces again.

“Jason, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Your voice cracks, tears threatening to spill. “You scare me every time you show up like this.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the apology in his eyes far deeper than the words. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Your chest tightens. You can’t stay mad, not when he looks at you like that. Gently, you remove his gloves and begin cleaning his wounds. His shoulders relax under your touch, tension melting away as you care for him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this alone,” you say softly, wrapping a bandage around his arm. “You can lean on me, Jason. Always.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he reaches out, pulling you into his lap with surprising strength.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours.

“Maybe not,” you tease, your lips quirking into a small smile. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough but filled with warmth. His arms tighten around you, and you feel his breath against your skin.

“Thank you,” he says after a long pause, his voice barely audible.

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the only sound your steady breathing as you hold each other. In that moment, nothing else matters—just the quiet promise of your love and the hope that, no matter what, you’ll face the chaos of his world together.

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

It was one of those evenings where the city hummed with the noise of too many conversations and the clinking of glasses. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with pretension and the faint smell of paint, but you’d come because your friend needed support for her exhibit. You hadn’t expected him to walk through the door, but there he was. Nicholas Chavez, in all his maddening glory, wearing that lopsided smirk that you hated so much.

Or maybe you hated how it still made your heart race.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and casual as he approached you. Too casual, considering how you’d left things.

You glanced up from your drink, letting your gaze rest on him for only a second before looking away. “Nicholas,” you said flatly. No smile, no warmth.

The last time you’d seen him had been months ago. That so-called “adventure,” as he had so flippantly called it later. For you, it had been chaos—intense, thrilling, and ultimately devastating. You’d fallen for his charm, his wit, the way he seemed to turn every moment into a movie scene. He had swept you up into a whirlwind of late nights and stolen glances, leaving you breathless and raw.

And then he’d left.

No explanation, no warning—just gone. A cryptic text weeks later had offered little closure: It was fun while it lasted, huh?

You’d hated him ever since.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone sharp.

“Supporting the arts,” he said, feigning innocence. He picked up a wine glass from a passing tray and leaned against the wall, as if the room existed solely for his benefit. “And maybe hoping to run into someone.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like a dagger to your chest. “Come on, don’t be like that. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Even a little?”

You wanted to tell him exactly how much you hadn’t missed him. How his absence had been like a relief, a weight lifted. But the words stuck in your throat because, if you were honest, there had been moments—late at night, when the city was quiet and your thoughts ran wild—when you’d wondered if he’d think of you. If he’d regret leaving.

And now, here he was, with that infuriating smile and those dark eyes that saw through you too easily.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Liar.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and cutting. “Do you know how much I hate you, Nicholas?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in, so close you could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “If that’s true,” he murmured, “then why are you still standing here?”

Your breath caught, your heart betraying you with its rapid beat. You wanted to slap him, to walk away and never look back. But part of you stayed rooted, drawn to him in ways you couldn’t explain or justify.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said finally, stepping back. “Not my time, not my attention, not even my anger.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded, the smirk fading. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your mind reeling.

You hated him.

You hated that part of you still didn’t want him to leave.

Are we allies or enemies?

Paul Atreides x Reader

You stand across the grand, austere chamber of the Arrakis Palace, the heavy silence broken only by the faint sound of desert winds. You feel the weight of your Bene Gesserit training pressing against your every thought, a constant reminder that this union was never meant to be one of choice, but of necessity. Politics, power, survival—they had all converged into this moment, binding you to Paul Atreides.

His eyes, the piercing blue of spice saturation, meet yours. He is inscrutable, as always. You can sense the storms within him, as vast and unknowable as the sands of Arrakis. The Kwisatz Haderach. A man destined to transcend, to lead, to destroy. And you—trained for obedience, manipulation, and control—now stand as his equal in name, though neither of you believes it.

“Are we allies or enemies? ” His voice cuts through the stillness like the cry of a crysknife drawn from its sheath.

The question startles you. You’d expected another day of brittle silence, the uneasy truce that defines your every interaction. But Paul is not one to avoid confrontation.

You tilt your head slightly, a gesture of feigned curiosity masking the churn of your emotions. “That depends, doesn’t it? On whether you see me as a tool of the Sisterhood or as… something else.”

He steps closer, his expression unreadable. The weight of his presence is suffocating, a reminder of why he inspires both reverence and fear among his followers. “You were sent here to control me. To influence my choices. But here you are, bound to me. Tell me does that not make you my prisoner?”

His words strike a nerve, but you do not flinch. Your training does not allow it. Instead, you let your gaze harden. “A prisoner, perhaps. Or a key to your survival. The Bene Gesserit do not act without reason.”

“And what is your reason, now?” he presses.

You hesitate. You have spent so long guarding your thoughts, hiding your true self behind layers of calculated responses. But here, in this moment, with his intensity boring into you, the truth slips free.

“I don’t know.”

The admission feels like a crack in a dam, letting loose a torrent of emotions you’d sworn to suppress. You hate him for this—for unraveling you so easily. For making you feel.

Paul’s expression softens, just barely. “Neither do I,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “This… this was not my choice, either.”

The vulnerability in his words surprises you. For a moment, you see not the Emperor, not the god-like figure revered by the Fremen, but a man caught in the same web of fate as you.

“All is fair in love and war,” you murmur, the words bitter on your tongue.

Paul chuckles, a dry, mirthless sound. “And this is both, isn’t it?”

You nod, the truth of it hanging heavy between you. This marriage is a battlefield, each of you wielding words and glances as weapons. Yet, beneath the tension lies something else. A fragile, unspoken connection that neither of you dares to name.

“I can’t fight with you anymore,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

Paul studies you for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, to your astonishment, he extends a hand. “Then don’t. Let us… find another way.”

You stare at his outstretched hand, your heart pounding in your chest. Trust does not come easily to a Bene Gesserit, and yet…

Slowly, you place your hand in his. His grip is firm, steady, and for the first time, you feel a glimmer of something that might one day grow into trust.

It will not be easy. The path ahead is fraught with danger, betrayal, and loss. But as you stand there, hand in hand with the man you once saw only as a rival, you dare to hope that perhaps, together, you can forge a different destiny.

One where love and war do not have to destroy you both...

Cold cold man

Tangerine x Reader

You’ve always known Tangerine was different. The first time you met him, his eyes bore into you with an intensity that felt like it could shatter glass. He had a way of making silence heavy, a tangible thing that pressed against your chest. Yet, even then, you felt something beneath his cold demeanor—a flicker of warmth that refused to burn brightly but never quite went out.

Tangerine isn’t like other people, not the kind who showers you with flowery words or makes grand gestures. Instead, his love is quiet, hidden in the spaces between his sharp edges. It’s there in the way he listens, the way he notices things most wouldn’t—like how you always fidget with your ring when you’re nervous or how you hum to yourself when you think no one’s watching. He never says anything about it, never makes a point of it, but he remembers.

You wish, sometimes, that he could be easier, softer. You wish he’d hold your hand in public or tell you how beautiful you look without needing to be prompted. But that’s not Tangerine. His compliments, when they come, are rare and understated.

“Nice dress,” he’ll mutter, barely looking at you. But you know it’s his way of saying you’re breathtaking.

His coldness isn’t cruelty—it’s just who he is. And you’ve learned to read between the lines. You’ve learned to see the way his hand brushes yours, just slightly, when you walk side by side. How he’ll stand a little closer to you when the room feels too big, too loud. How, in the middle of the night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers will trace patterns on your arm, feather-light and reverent.

One evening, you’re sitting on the couch together, the TV playing some show neither of you is really watching. He’s quiet, as always, his expression unreadable. But then, out of nowhere, he speaks.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, voice low and rough.

“At what?” you ask, turning to him.

“This,” he gestures vaguely between you two. “Us. Love. I’m not good at showing it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his tone. “You don’t have to be perfect at it, Tan. I don’t need big gestures or constant reminders. I just need you.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, you swear you see something crack in him. “I know I’m a cold man,” he says softly. “But you make me want to be better. Even if I’m slow, even if I don’t always say the right things. I want to try. For you.”

It’s the most he’s ever said about his feelings, and it takes your breath away. You reach out, placing your hand over his. His fingers are stiff at first, hesitant, but then they relax, curling around yours.

“I don’t need you to be anything but yourself,” you whisper. “That’s enough for me.”

And for the first time, Tangerine smiles—not a big smile, but a small, genuine curve of his lips that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it’s for you.

You realize that Tangerine’s love may not be easy or loud, but it’s real. It’s in every quiet gesture, every small act of care, every unspoken word. And for you, that’s more than enough.

James

James Potter x Reader

You sit across the hall, your textbooks open but long forgotten. Your gaze drifts again, as it always does, to him. His dark, untidy hair catches the torchlight, and those round glasses of his reflect the golden glow of the Great Hall. James Potter. A name you’ve turned over and over in your head like a secret, a charm you’re too scared to cast out loud.

You’ve spent months like this, stealing glances when you’re sure he’s too busy laughing with Sirius, or gesturing wildly as he retells a Quidditch move to Peter. Sometimes he’s so absorbed in a conversation with Lily Evans you’re almost grateful, because it makes him easier to look at without fear of being caught. But today, something shifts.

It’s a Tuesday, and you’ve got Transfiguration next, but your head is too full of him to think about lessons. You risk another glance, just one more before you leave the hall, and your stomach drops.

James is looking right at you.

Your breath hitches. You freeze mid-motion, your hand gripping your goblet too tightly, and in that awful, wonderful moment, he smirks. It’s the kind of smirk that tilts at the corner of his mouth, mischievous and knowing. His hazel eyes glint with something you can’t name, and before you know it, he’s leaning toward you.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice casual but somehow making your heart race like you’ve just fallen off your broomstick. "My name’s James."

It’s ridiculous—of course you know his name. Everyone knows his name. He’s James Potter, Quidditch star, Gryffindor hero, Marauder ringleader. But somehow, hearing him say it to you makes your cheeks burn. You stammer out your name, and he grins wider.

And that’s when it begins.

At first, it feels like magic, like something out of the books you’ve pored over in the library late at night. He talks to you in the hallways, waves when he sees you during meals. Once, he even steals your quill in class and pretends he doesn’t know what you’re talking about until you’re chasing him around the desks. For a brief, dazzling moment, it feels like all those hours you spent dreaming of him weren’t wasted.

But then you start to notice the jokes. The way he rolls his eyes when Sirius whispers something in his ear. How he doesn’t take anything seriously, least of all you. It’s all harmless fun to him, you realize, even as your heart twists itself into knots. He isn’t looking for the same kind of magic you are.

And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. About his laugh, his messy hair, the way he says your name like it’s part of some elaborate prank he hasn’t explained yet. He’s a fool, you tell yourself. A foolish, arrogant, brilliant boy who doesn’t even know what he’s done to you.

You spend hours wondering how you let yourself fall for him, dreaming of what could have been. And yet, even as the weeks pass, you still feel the heat of those flames. James Potter. A name you’ll carry with you, even after he’s long forgotten yours.

I can't read your mind

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The low hum of the Madrid evening wraps around you like a gentle embrace, broken only by the murmur of distant voices and the occasional clink of glasses. You stand on the balcony of a sleek penthouse, your sequined gown catching the moonlight as if it were meant to. Tonight had been a triumph—the premiere of your latest film—but your thoughts are tangled, a script with too many subplots to follow.

Behind you, the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your reverie. You turn to see Carlos Sainz, his tailored suit catching the light as effortlessly as his smile catches your breath. His hands are tucked casually in his pockets, and his eyes, dark and mischievous, carry that infuriating glint that always seems to find your weak spot.

“You’ve been hiding out here,” he says, his voice teasing as he leans on the railing beside you.

“I needed air,” you reply, keeping your tone even, neutral.

This isn’t the first time you’ve crossed paths. For months, it’s been the same: fleeting encounters at festivals, galas, yacht parties in Monaco. There’s always been a pull between you, something unspoken but electric. Tonight, though, it feels like the air between you has shifted.

“You’re quiet,” he observes, tilting his head. “Not like you.”

You grip the railing, searching for the right words. “Do you ever feel like… you can’t figure someone out? Like no matter what they say, their actions keep contradicting their words?”

His brow lifts, intrigued. “Sometimes. But I usually don’t waste time trying to figure people out. They show you who they are, one way or another.”

You let out a soft laugh, tinged with frustration. “That’s easy for you to say. You live life in the fast lane. No time to overthink.”

“And you?” he counters, his voice dipping lower. “You’re always overthinking, aren’t you?"

The way he looks at you makes your heart skip. You glance away, but the weight of his gaze lingers. Finally, you admit what’s been gnawing at you.

“I just… I don’t get you, Carlos. One minute, you’re charming and attentive, and the next, you’re distant. You say you want to keep things casual, but then you look at me like this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and the silence makes your pulse quicken. Then, he takes a step closer, his presence radiating warmth.

“I didn’t think someone like you would slow down for someone like me,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink, startled by his candor. “Why not?”

“You’re a star. Everyone wants a piece of you. I didn’t want to add to that. But now…” He pauses, his fingers brushing yours on the railing. “Now, I’m starting to think I’ve been wrong.”

Your breath catches. In his eyes, you see something raw, unguarded—a glimpse of the man behind the charm.

“Maybe I don’t want casual,” he continues, his voice softer now. “Maybe I’m just scared you don’t want anything more.”

The honesty in his words cracks something open in you. You’ve been holding back, too, afraid to show him just how much he’s gotten under your skin.

“I don’t need you to read my mind, Carlos,” you say, your hand turning to intertwine with his. “I just need you to be honest with me.”

His smile, the one that always weakens your knees, softens into something real. “That, I can do.”

The city lights shimmer below as he leans in, his lips brushing yours. The kiss is unhurried, sincere, and it drowns out the doubts that had clouded your mind. In that moment, the world falls away, leaving only the quiet truth of what you’ve both been searching for all along.