And She Feels Like Home

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.

𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warning: Mentions of Narcolepsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he did. He always does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

discussions

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You stand in front of Anakin, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, your gaze burning through him with the weight of your anger. His reckless behavior—always pushing himself into danger, always taking risks as though his life means nothing—has been wearing on you for far too long. The way he smiled after every close call, as if his return was guaranteed. You can’t understand it, not when you love him so deeply, not when you can’t imagine a life without him.

"Anakin," you snap, your voice sharper than you intend, but it doesn’t matter. He needs to understand. "You think you’re invincible? That you can just waltz into danger every time, and I’ll stand here, waiting for you to come back like nothing happened?"

He looks at you, and you can feel it immediately—the shift in his eyes. There’s something about the way his gaze settles on you, not the anger, not the resistance, but the way he takes in your form as though he’s seeing you for the first time. For a moment, you falter, the words on your tongue hanging there, lost in the intensity of his stare.

You try to remain firm, to keep up your scolding, but his presence is like a force pulling you closer, a magnet that draws you in against your will. His eyes—the same intense blue that always makes your heart skip a beat—trace your every feature, lingering on your face, your lips, your eyes.

"You look… beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low, almost as if he's surprised by it. You feel a blush creep up your neck, though you try to fight it. The weight of his admiration is overwhelming, but it’s not enough to make you forget the anger that still lingers in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to regain control. "This isn’t about how I look, Anakin. This is about you putting yourself in danger, again. Do you not care what it does to me when you do that?"

He takes a step closer, his expression softening despite the intensity still in his eyes. You want to stay angry, to keep holding on to your frustration, but the way he looks at you, the tenderness in his gaze, makes it so much harder.

"I care," he says quietly, his voice full of sincerity. "More than anything." He reaches out to touch your face, and you don’t pull away. His hand is warm against your skin, and you feel the familiar surge of love for him, battling with the fear you’ve held inside.

"But I also know," he continues, his voice becoming more serious, "that I can’t live in fear. I have to do what I must do. And I don’t want you to fear losing me, not when I can feel how much you love me." He steps back slightly, giving you space, but his eyes never leave yours.

You stare at him, torn between wanting to shout, to demand he stop, and wanting to reach out to him and feel his embrace. His smile, soft and understanding, catches you off guard. It’s the look of a man who knows he’s wrong, but who also knows that, for all his faults, you’ll always be there for him.

"Promise me," you whisper, the words almost lost in the air. "Promise me you’ll stop putting yourself at risk like that."

Anakin’s gaze softens even more, the conflict in his eyes giving way to the deep love he carries for you. He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours, and you close your eyes, breathing in the warmth of his presence. "I promise, love" he murmurs, the words sincere, yet you can feel the weight of everything he can’t say, of the duty that still calls to him, even as his heart is tethered to yours.

You let go of the anger, feeling only the peace that comes from being with him.

𝓢𝓸 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓘𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

Regulus Black x Reader

part one

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

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

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

“You look like you could use some help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Request

Note:

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

• Only fem!readers

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.

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.

Valentine

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

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

Then Timothée happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Puppy

James Potter x Reader

A soft knock at your dorm room door startles you from your book. It’s late, too late for most visitors—except for one. You already know who it is before you even swing the door open.

There he stands, James Potter, windswept hair even messier than usual, his glasses slightly askew, and his eyes alight with something mischievous. But it isn’t just James at your door. Cradled in his arms is a tiny, shivering ball of fur—a puppy, barely bigger than his Quidditch gloves.

“Alright, love, before you say anything—yes, I know I probably shouldn’t have picked him up. And yes, I might have ignored about a dozen rules to get him here. But look at this face,” James says, stepping forward into your room, holding up the pup as if presenting undeniable evidence. “He was all alone outside the castle, near the forest. Just sitting there, looking like his entire little world was crumbling.”

You don’t even try to fight the smile tugging at your lips. The puppy’s big, watery eyes blink up at you, and he lets out a tiny, pitiful whimper. You feel your heart melt instantly.

“Oh, James,” you whisper, reaching out to touch the soft fur on the puppy’s head. “You couldn’t just leave him out there?”

“Course not,” he says, grinning triumphantly as if he knew you’d say that. “Not when he reminds me of someone.”

You look up at him in confusion. “Who?”

James smirks, gently nudging your chin with his finger. “You, obviously. Same ridiculously adorable face. Same ability to make me fall for them at first sight.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you swat at his arm, though there’s no real force behind it. He just laughs, shifting the puppy in his arms before carefully placing him in yours. The little thing instantly nuzzles against your chest, letting out a soft sigh.

You glance down at him, your heart aching with affection. “We can’t keep him, you know.”

James tuts, shaking his head. “We kept Sirius, didn’t we?”

You burst out laughing. “That’s different! Sirius is a person.”

“Debatable,” James mutters under his breath before wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, love. Just for tonight. We’ll figure something out in the morning.”

You know you should protest, insist that sneaking a puppy into the dorms is entirely reckless. But standing here, with James so close, the warmth of the tiny creature in your arms, and the soft look in his hazel eyes—you find that you don’t really care about the rules.

With a sigh, you lean into James and whisper, “Alright.”

James grins, pressing a quick, affectionate kiss to your temple. “Deal. And for the record, I’d rescue a thousand puppies if it meant seeing that look on your face again.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is too full to argue. Wrapped up in James’s warmth and the quiet love of the tiny creature in your arms, you realize—this boy will never stop finding ways to make you fall for him.

are you still writing for harris dickinson? if yes could i request you do angst to fluff where reader is upset with him for something just to be petty and he reassures her?

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓪𝓭 𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓮

Harris Dickinson x Reader

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, arms crossed, mood simmering with the kind of quiet drama only you can conjure. The room smells like sea air and his cologne — all warm citrus and something woodsy that annoyingly makes your heart soften, even now. Harris stands by the window, completely unaware he’s made you mad… or maybe he knows. That makes it worse.

“You didn’t even notice,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the hotel notepad, where you’ve doodled angry little stars.

He turns slowly, one brow lifting. “Didn’t notice what?”

You don’t answer. You shouldn’t have to. It was your new dress. The one you picked just because you thought he’d look at you like he did that night in Venice — the whole world narrowing to just you in a crowded piazza. Tonight, you got a distracted peck on the cheek and a comment about the weather.

“You’re being quiet,” he says, walking toward you, hands sliding into the pockets of his linen trousers. He looks annoyingly good. Summer suits him. “Too quiet. You mad at me?”

You shrug.

He crouches in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes are soft. The kind that always make your stomach flip, no matter how much you want to hold your ground.

“I know that face,” he says, voice low and teasing. “That’s the ‘you messed up, and I’m gonna make you work for it’ face.”

You look away, lips threatening a smile you refuse to let free. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, now I have to worry,” he laughs gently, fingers tapping along your thigh. “C’mon, love. Tell me what I missed. I hate not knowing.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” he agrees, grinning, which earns him a light swat to the shoulder. “But I still want to know. You matter to me — even the silly stuff.”

You hesitate, then sigh. “You didn’t say anything about the dress.”

His expression changes — shifts from amused to sincere, instantly. “What?” His fingers tighten just a little. “You think I didn’t notice?”

You nod, cheeks hot now that the words are out.

“Babe,” he murmurs, standing up slowly, crowding your space just enough to make your breath catch. “You walked into that restaurant tonight and wrecked me. I’ve just been trying to act normal because I didn’t want to start something I couldn’t finish in public.”

You blink, thrown off by the heat in his voice. “That’s… dramatic.”

“I’m an actor,” he smirks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “But I’m also just a man trying not to fall to his knees every time you look at me like that.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice barely above a whisper. “You looked unreal, baby. You always do.”

You finally smile — just a little. He sees it and kisses it, soft and slow. And just like that, your petty storm dissolves in the warmth of him.