Valentine

sweetheart

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.

Kisses

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?

𝓘 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Religion's in your lips

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓷𝓸𝔀

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You never understood why people romanticized the snow. It was cold, it was wet, and worst of all—you always, always got sick. Yet, here you were, wrapped in layers upon layers of clothing, standing knee-deep in powdery white as Charles laughed beside you, his breath misting in the air.

“This was a terrible idea,” you grumble, tugging your scarf up higher.

Charles only grins, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Come on, mon amour, it’s our anniversary. You have to admit, it’s beautiful.”

You glance around. The mountains stretch endlessly, the world around you painted in a perfect, postcard-worthy white. The cabin behind you is warm and inviting, but Charles had convinced you to take a walk—"Just for a little while," he had said. And because you could never say no to him, you agreed.

“I can appreciate it from inside,” you reply, shivering.

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.” Then, before you can react, he crouches down, scooping up a handful of snow.

Your eyes widen in warning. “Charles, don’t you dare—”

Too late. The snowball lands on your coat with a soft thud, and Charles bursts into laughter.

“Oh, that’s it!” You scoop up your own handful and launch it at him, but he dodges effortlessly, his racing reflexes working against you even here.

You huff, crossing your arms, but the cold is already sinking into your bones. Charles notices immediately, his teasing expression softening. “Okay, okay, let’s go inside.” He steps closer, wrapping his arms around you, his warmth instantly comforting. His lips press against your forehead, and you sigh, leaning into him.

“I hate the snow,” you mumble against his chest.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple. “But I love you.”

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.

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 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.