Masterlist

Request

James Potter x Reader

The roar of the crowd echoes around the Quidditch pitch, the crisp autumn air buzzing with anticipation. You stand near the Gryffindor stands, wrapped in your house scarf, the golden threads gleaming in the sunlight. The match is moments away from starting, but James Potter doesn’t seem to care.

“James,” you laugh breathlessly, trying—and failing—to push him away as he presses another kiss to your lips. “You’re supposed to be on the pitch!”

He grins against your mouth, warm and insistent. “Not without my good luck charm.”

Your cheeks burn, though you know it’s not from the cold. “You say that every match,” you murmur, fingers tangling in his wind-tousled hair.

“Because it’s true,” he replies, tilting his head just enough to steal another kiss, deeper this time, his Quidditch gloves brushing against your jaw as he cups your face. You melt for a moment before reality tugs you back.

“James,” you scold, though your voice lacks conviction. Behind him, the Gryffindor team is already mounting their brooms, waiting.

James finally pulls away—reluctantly, with a groan—his hazel eyes shining with mischief. “Fine, fine. But if we win, I’m giving you all the credit.”

You roll your eyes but smile as he swings a leg over his broom, hovering in the air. Before he flies off, he winks. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

As if you would.

The whistle blows, and James shoots into the sky, weaving effortlessly through the air, dodging Bludgers with practiced ease. And even from below, as you cheer with the rest of Gryffindor, you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the taste of laughter and stolen moments lingering.

Maybe he’s right—maybe you are his good luck charm. And if that means more kisses before every match, well… who are you to argue?

𝓢𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓪 𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓬

Charles Leclerc x Reader

The warm breeze gently tousling your hair as you look out over the twinkling city lights. It's a calm evening, the kind that holds a certain magic, the kind where anything seems possible. You've had a long day, but something about tonight feels different, as if the universe is aligning just for you.

Suddenly, you hear the soft strum of a guitar. You turn, and there, standing in the dim light of the courtyard below, is Charles Leclerc. His face is partially hidden by the shadows, but his intense gaze locks with yours. His lips curl into a knowing smile as he continues to play, his fingers moving with ease over the strings.

“¿What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly with surprise and curiosity.

He steps closer, the sound of his guitar filling the air as he sings in a soft, melodic tone.

His voice is warm and rich, the words flowing like a river, effortlessly bridging the gap between your hearts. It's not just a song, it's a serenade, something deeply personal, meant only for you.

You feel a flutter in your chest, a blend of emotions you can’t quite place. But as Charles continues to sing, you realize it's a feeling you've been longing for—romance, connection, tenderness, all wrapped up in this unexpected moment.

When he finishes the song, there's a quiet pause. He looks at you, waiting, perhaps for a sign, for the acknowledgment of his heartfelt gesture. You walk towards him, your heart racing, as you reach the balcony edge.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” you whisper, your voice softer now, almost lost in the night air.

Charles chuckles, a sound that feels like the perfect harmony to his song. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You smile back at him, feeling an undeniable pull towards him. You step down the stairs and cross the courtyard to meet him. The space between you closes, and as you finally stand face to face, he looks at you with such intensity, it’s almost as if he’s memorizing every detail.

“You’re incredible,” you say, your heart beating faster than ever.

He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face, and for a moment, everything falls away—the world, the noise, the distance. It’s just the two of you, surrounded by the quiet of the night.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “But I would be nothing without you.”

It feels like everything aligns perfectly. The stars, the music, the warmth of the night, and the spark between you two. It’s not just a serenade. It’s a promise, a moment in time that will never be forgotten.

As he gently pulls you into his arms, you close your eyes and let yourself sink into the rhythm of the night, of the love blooming around you.

dick grayson x Reader

The rooftop is quiet, save for the soft hum of Gotham City below. You're sitting cross-legged next to Dick, sharing a pizza box between you. The moonlight reflects off the sleek black of his suit, but he looks more relaxed than ever. The domino mask hides his eyes, but you can feel them on you anyway.

“I like pizza,” he says, breaking the silence with a grin, as if this is some profound revelation.

You smirk, biting into a slice. “You like pizza. Groundbreaking.”

His smile widens. “You like pizza.”

“I do,” you reply, matching his playful tone. “Are you building up to something, Grayson?”

He leans back on his hands, the warm breeze tousling his dark hair. “Maybe. But you’ll have to wait for the big finish.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart betrays you, skipping a beat. Dick Grayson has a way of pulling you into his orbit, where everything feels lighter, brighter—even on a night like this.

“I am bad at poems,” he suddenly declares, tilting his head dramatically, his face angled toward the stars. His tone is so earnest, it takes you a second to realize he’s trying to be funny.

You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that makes his smile soften into something more sincere. “Yeah, I can see that,” you tease.

“Harsh,” he replies, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. Then, leaning forward slightly, he looks at you with a kind of quiet intensity. His voice drops lower, losing its humor but keeping its warmth. “Kiss me.”

The words hang in the air, simple but charged. You freeze, your slice of pizza forgotten. The world feels like it’s tilting, your pulse racing to keep up.

“You’re just going to throw that out there?” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugs, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Sometimes you just have to say what you feel. No masks, no games.”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s talking about more than just this—if he’s showing you a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Either way, you don’t wait for him to repeat himself. You lean in, meeting him halfway.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, like a secret shared between just the two of you. When you finally pull back, his forehead rests lightly against yours, and there’s a spark of mischief back in his voice.

“So,” he says softly, “does this mean we’re sharing the last slice?”

You laugh, your chest light, and nudge him playfully. “Not a chance, Grayson.”

He grins, the rooftop feels like the safest, happiest place in the world.

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You’re standing at the edge of a quiet park, watching the golden light of dusk stretch across the horizon. The world feels both too big and too small at the same time, but as you turn your head, you see him—Timothée. He’s sitting on the bench, looking at you with that quiet smile, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

You feel a familiar knot tighten in your chest. There’s something about him, something pure in the way he makes you feel. But it also scares you. You’ve been here before, haven’t you? In places where love felt too heavy, too much to bear. Past relationships have left scars, and sometimes, you’re not sure if you can let anyone in again.

But Timothée doesn’t rush you. He never does. He watches you, his gaze soft and understanding, as though he sees the parts of you that even you don’t want to face. You can tell he knows. He knows you’re unstable, that your past weighs on you in ways you haven’t even shared. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays.

You take a step toward him, your heart racing. When you sit beside him, you can feel the warmth of his presence, steady and reassuring. He doesn’t try to fix you. He doesn’t need to. His love is quiet, like a whisper that says, I’m here, and I’ll wait.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hurt,” he says, his voice low, just above a whisper. There’s no judgment in his words, only understanding. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

And you feel it. That truth. The certainty that for once, someone is here for you, just as you are. Your heart trembles, caught in the weight of it all. The fear, the doubt, the belief that no one could ever love you in the way you need. Yet Timothée, with his gentle hands and his even gentler heart, shows you a love that is real, a love that’s not built on perfection but on understanding.

He doesn’t say much, but it doesn’t matter. In this quiet moment, you know that his love is exactly what you’ve needed, even when you didn’t believe it was possible. His love is the best thing that’s ever happened to you—steady, patient, and never too much, never too fast.

You feel like you can breathe.

“Do you know how much I love you?” he asks, his voice soft and vulnerable.

You don’t have to answer. You don’t need to. Because in his arms, in his eyes, you already understand. And somehow, that feels like enough.

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The city lights flicker like distant stars, casting a golden glow over the quiet streets as you walk beside Carlos, your heels dangling from your fingers. The night air is crisp, cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth radiating from him. Your arm is looped through his, your body leaning into his side for balance—not just from the cocktails still buzzing in your veins, but from the sheer exhaustion of dancing, laughing, living in the moment.

Carlos glances down at you, his lips curving into a small, amused smile. “You okay, princesa?” His voice is soft, edged with that familiar Spanish lilt that makes your heart skip a beat.

You hum in response, tilting your head to look up at him. “Mhm. Just tired,” you admit, your cheek resting briefly against his shoulder. “And maybe a little tipsy.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. “I can tell,” he teases, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “But I think you just wanted an excuse to hold onto me.”

Rolling your eyes, you nudge him playfully. “As if I need an excuse,” you murmur, feeling bold under the haze of the night.

The streets are nearly empty, the world around you quiet except for the occasional distant honk of a car or the rhythmic click of a streetlamp buzzing above. It feels like you and him exist in a little pocket of time, away from everything—away from the noise, the cameras, the chaos of the world he belongs to.

“You didn’t have to walk me back,” you say after a beat, though secretly, you’re glad he insisted.

Carlos exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Of course, I did. Can’t let you wander around barefoot in the middle of the night. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

You laugh, squeezing his arm. “A very bad one,” you tease, earning a smirk from him.

You reach the entrance of the hotel, the grand glass doors reflecting the two of you standing close, wrapped up in something unspoken. You should let go, step back, but neither of you do. His hand lingers near your wrist, his thumb grazing your skin in lazy circles, sending a rush of warmth through you.

“Did you have fun tonight?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more intimate.

You nod, searching his eyes—deep brown, warm like melted chocolate, laced with something unreadable. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Did you?”

Carlos doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch featherlight, his fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath catches, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs finally, his gaze never leaving yours. “I did.”

The space between you seems to shrink, electricity crackling in the air. Your fingers tighten around his arm, your body instinctively swaying closer.

“Carlos…” you whisper, unsure of what you’re asking, what you’re wanting—until his hand cradles the side of your face, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone.

“What?” he breathes, voice hushed, his forehead nearly resting against yours.

The night stands still, the city quiet, the only sound the shared breaths between you.

Dante Sparda x Reader

You’ve never met someone as insufferable as Dante Sparda. With his smug grin, devil-may-care attitude, and a penchant for turning everything into a joke, he’s the embodiment of everything you hate. A cocky show-off who acts like the world owes him a favor just because he’s good with a sword.

And you? You’re just someone who doesn’t have time for his nonsense.

The mission was simple enough. Something about a demon nest hidden in the abandoned catacombs beneath the city. Dante, for reasons you’d never understand, insisted on tagging along. You told him no. He came anyway.

“Y’know, you really shouldn’t go into places like this alone,” he says as the two of you step into the cold, damp tunnels. He walks beside you, his oversized sword slung casually over his shoulder, a revolver holstered at his side. His red coat sways with every step, and you find yourself gritting your teeth at how effortlessly he makes it all look.

“Shouldn’t you be off somewhere preening in front of a mirror?” you snap, your voice echoing in the gloom. “Or maybe finding someone else to bother?”

He chuckles, that infuriating sound that somehow manages to sound both genuine and mocking. “Ouch. Right in the ego. You know, if you keep being this mean to me, I might start thinking you don’t like me.”

“Good,” you reply, not missing a beat. “Maybe you’ll take the hint and leave me alone.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You hate that nickname. You hate how he says it, like it’s some kind of inside joke you’re not in on. You shoot him a glare, and he winks in response.

It doesn’t take long before the first wave of demons descends. You’re faster than him—quicker to draw your weapon and strike. Your blade cuts through the air with precision, dispatching the lesser demons with practiced ease.

Dante, of course, makes a show of it. He leaps into the fray like it’s a performance, spinning his sword in wide, exaggerated arcs. His guns bark loudly as he fires off a few rounds, each shot landing perfectly.

“Having fun yet?” he calls out, grinning at you over his shoulder.

You don’t answer, focusing instead on taking down the last of the creatures. When the fight is over, you stand amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. Dante, of course, looks like he just walked out of a salon. Not a hair out of place.

“You’re welcome,” he says, sheathing his sword with a flourish.

“For what?” you ask, wiping blood from your blade. “Showing off? Or getting in my way?”

“For making this whole thing more entertaining.” He leans casually against the wall, crossing his arms. “Admit it—you’d be bored without me.”

You don’t bother responding.

The deeper you go into the catacombs, the more the tension between you builds. It’s not just the danger of the place or the oppressive atmosphere—it’s him. Always there, always pushing your buttons.

“So,” he says after a while, breaking the silence, “why do you hate me so much?”

You roll your eyes. “Do you really want me to list all the reasons? We’ll be here all night.”

“Try me.”

You sigh, exasperated. “You’re arrogant, annoying, and you never take anything seriously.”

“Anything else?”

“You flirt with everything that moves.”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’ve got good taste.”

You stop walking, turning to face him. “This isn’t a game, Dante. People’s lives are at stake. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then just leave.”

For a moment, something shifts in his expression. The grin falters, and you catch a glimpse of something deeper—a flicker of understanding, maybe even regret.

Then it’s gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got your back.”

“I don’t need you to have my back,” you snap. “I don’t need you, period.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, brushing past you. “But don’t be too surprised when I’m the one saving your ass later.”

You glare at his back as he walks ahead, his red coat disappearing into the shadows. You hate him. You really do.

But somehow, against all logic, you know he’s right.

𝓢𝓱𝓮'𝓼 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷

Dean Winchester x Reader

You stand in the shadows of the bunker’s library, watching him. Dean Winchester. Warrior, hunter, protector of humanity, and—though he’d never admit it—someone you care about far more than you should. You shouldn’t feel this way, not about a mortal. Not about him. But here you are, an angel of the Lord, too beautiful for human eyes, too divine for mortal comprehension, and utterly captivated by a man who is as broken as he is resilient.

Dean doesn’t see you yet. His attention is on the open journal in front of him, brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he studies the lore. His fingers absently drum on the tabletop, and you know from the rhythm that he’s frustrated. He always does this when he’s stuck, as if the answer will reveal itself if he just focuses hard enough.

“You gonna stand there all night?” he asks suddenly, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. He doesn’t look up, but you know he’s smirking. He always knows when you’re near, like he’s attuned to your presence in a way even you can’t explain.

“I thought you were too busy to notice,” you reply, stepping out of the shadows. Your voice is soft, melodic, almost too much for mortal ears, but Dean doesn’t flinch. He never does. You’re beginning to think he’s immune to your celestial nature—or maybe he’s just too stubborn to be affected.

He looks up then, his green eyes meeting yours, and for a moment, you wonder if he can see you as you truly are. You’re careful to mask your full form, to dull the radiance of your being so you don’t overwhelm him, but Dean has always had a way of looking past the surface.

“You’re hard to miss,” he says, his tone light but his gaze piercing. “What’s up, angel? Got some divine wisdom to drop on me, or are you here to remind me how screwed we are?”

“I thought you might need help,” you say, moving closer. You sit across from him, your presence casting a faint glow over the table. The journal’s pages seem dull in comparison, their ink pale shadows against your light.

Dean leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Help, huh? What kind of help are we talking? Smite a demon? Heal a wound? Or maybe just sit here and look pretty while I do all the work?”

His teasing makes your heart ache in a way you don’t quite understand. He uses humor as a shield, a way to deflect from the weight he carries, but you can see the cracks beneath the surface. You want to reach across the table, to touch his hand and let him feel the peace you could offer, but you know he’d pull away. Dean Winchester doesn’t believe he deserves peace.

“You underestimate me,” you say instead, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he says, his eyes flicking to yours. “You’re not exactly the kind of angel they talk about in Sunday school, are you?”

“No,” you admit, leaning forward slightly. “I’m not.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. Dean’s gaze softens, and for a moment, you think he might say something. Something real. But then he shakes his head, breaking the spell.

“Well, if you’re here to help, you can start by explaining why none of this lore makes any damn sense,” he says, gesturing to the journal. “Sam’s out chasing leads, and I’m stuck here trying to figure out how to kill something that’s apparently unkillable.”

You glance at the journal, the symbols and text instantly clear to you. You could solve this in seconds, but you hesitate. You know Dean needs more than answers. He needs to feel like he’s in control, like he’s not just a pawn in some divine game.

So instead of giving him the solution, you say, “Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way. What if the key isn’t in the lore, but in what it’s protecting?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Protecting, huh? Alright, angel, I’ll bite. What are we looking for?”

You smile, a real smile this time, and lean back in your chair. “Let’s figure it out together.”

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The soft hum of your favorite song played in the background as you and Carlos sat cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by a sea of wedding magazines, swatches of fabric, and color samples. It was late evening, and the golden glow of candles you both lit gave the room a warm, almost magical, ambiance.

“Are you sure about this color?” Carlos asked, holding up a swatch of burgundy velvet between his fingers, his brow furrowed in concentration. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him taking the smallest details so seriously, his usual calm demeanor tinged with just a hint of nervous energy.

“It’s perfect,” you reassured him, scooting closer to examine the fabric. “It’ll look stunning with the ivory table settings.”

Carlos leaned back, running a hand through his chestnut hair. “I just want everything to be perfect for you.” His words were soft, sincere, and they made your heart swell.

“You mean us,” you corrected with a teasing smile, brushing his hand lightly. He caught your fingers mid-motion, lacing them with his.

“Right, us,” he said, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Although I think you’re doing most of the hard work here. I just follow orders.”

You laughed, nudging him gently. “Hardly! You’ve vetoed, what, three cake flavors already?”

“Okay, the pistachio one was just wrong,” he replied, laughing as well. His laughter echoed in the room, and you realized, not for the first time, how his joy had the power to lift the heaviest of days.

As the evening wore on, you both found yourselves lying on the plush rug, your head resting on his shoulder. He was scrolling through photos on his phone, showing you venue options while sneaking in snapshots of your happiest moments together—road trips, cozy mornings, stolen moments from race weekends.

“Do you remember this?” he asked, showing you a picture of the two of you on a small boat in the middle of Lake Como. The sun had set behind you, casting a fiery glow over the water.

“Of course,” you replied, tracing the screen with your finger. “You were steering us straight into another boat.”

Carlos chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Best near-crash of my life.”

You closed your eyes, letting his voice and the memory wash over you. “We’ve had so many beautiful moments together, haven’t we?”

“And we’re about to have the most beautiful one yet,” he whispered, his voice full of conviction. “When I see you walking down that aisle… that’s going to be a moment I’ll never forget.”

Your throat tightened, and you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His brown eyes held a softness, a depth that made you feel like the luckiest person in the world.

“You’re going to cry, aren’t you?” you teased, your voice breaking the emotion with a lightness that had become second nature between you two.

“I’m not making any promises,” he replied, grinning. “But if I do, you can’t hold it against me. Deal?”

“Deal,” you murmured, leaning up to kiss him softly, your fingers brushing against his jawline. In that moment, surrounded by the chaos of wedding planning and the comfort of his arms, you realized you didn’t need perfection. You just needed him.

And that was the most beautiful detail of all.

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.

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.

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.