Are They… Together?

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You stand in the center of the room, arms crossed, frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Leia, her little fists clenched at her sides, glares up at you with defiance sparking in her eyes. It’s been a long day, and you don’t have the patience for another one of her outbursts.

"Leia Skywalker," you say, voice firm. "How many times have I told you not to sneak out of the palace at night?"

"I wasn’t sneaking!" she fires back. "I just wanted to see the ships take off!"

Your jaw tightens. "That’s not the point, young lady. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is? What if something had happened to you? What if—"

And then it happens.

The way she tilts her chin up, the fire in her eyes, the sheer stubbornness in her expression—it stops you cold.

Because you’ve seen that exact look before.

On someone else.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen silent until a voice—deep, familiar—breaks through.

"She was just curious, love" Anakin says. "She’s got a strong spirit, that’s all."

You turn, and there he is. Standing just beyond the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with that mix of misplaced amusement and ill-advised sympathy. You give him a sharp look, and he hesitates, as if just now realizing he’s stepped onto a battlefield.

"Oh, don’t even start," you warn, voice low. "This is your fault."

Anakin blinks. "My fault?"

"Yes!" You throw a hand toward Leia, who watches the exchange with interest, clearly sensing the shift in the storm. "Do you see that face? That’s your face! That stubborn, reckless, I’ll do what I want look—she gets that from you!"

Anakin has the audacity to look confused. "Well… I mean… maybe a little?"

"A little?" You raise an eyebrow. "Anakin Skywalker, this is exactly how you looked when you told Obi-Wan, ‘Don’t worry, Master, I got this’ right before crashing into a droid battalion!"

Leia snickers. Anakin shoots her a quick look, like they’re suddenly allies in this war. You can see the silent exchange—We’re in this together, kid.

"You are not bonding over this!" you snap, pointing at both of them. "You do not get to encourage her!"

"I wasn’t—"

"You were!"

"I just—"

"Anakin!"

He sighs, rubbing the back of his head, finally conceding defeat. "Okay, okay. Maybe she got the stubbornness from me. But you have to admit, she gets her sharp mind and leadership from you."

You press your lips together, torn between lingering frustration and the warmth of that compliment. Leia, ever the opportunist, sees the distraction and makes her move.

"So… am I still grounded?" she asks hopefully.

You and Anakin turn to her at the same time.

"Yes!" you say in unison.

Leia groans, and Anakin grins at you behind her back. You shake your head, exasperated, but as you meet his gaze—those same blue eyes staring at you with that familiar mix of mischief and devotion—you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

You’re outnumbered.

And Force help you, it’s only going to get worse from here.

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

Sergei Kravinoff x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

𝒘𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓

The Marauders x Reader

You lie still, your body heavy beneath the weight of the blankets, but it’s the emotional weight pressing down on you that keeps you rooted to the bed. The room is dim, the soft light of the late afternoon sun barely cutting through the curtains. The world feels distant, muffled, like it’s all happening somewhere far away that you can’t reach.

You haven't felt like getting up for days. Your thoughts are tangled, and your heart seems too tired to care. It’s been a struggle, and every time you close your eyes, the darkness seems to take over just a little more.

But today... today something is different.

You hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching, followed by a familiar voice, the one that always manages to make you feel just a little less alone. It's Sirius, though his voice is quieter than usual. He knows you’ve been struggling, and he doesn’t want to push, not when you’re clearly hurting so much. “Hey, you still with us?” he asks gently, his head peeking around the doorframe. His messy hair falls in front of his eyes, and you can see the concern etched on his face, even in the dim light.

You don’t respond, not at first, but you don’t need to. He knows.

Behind him, James slips in, his usual exuberance toned down today, as if he too recognizes the weight that hangs in the air. His eyes are softer than usual as he sits at the edge of your bed, carefully, like he’s afraid the wrong move might break something in you. “We brought snacks,” he says lightly, as if the mention of food could somehow bridge the gap between where you are and where they want you to be. But you don’t react, not right away.

Sirius sits next to you on the other side, his presence warm and comforting. “It’s okay, you know,” he says quietly, and you can feel the sincerity in his words, like he’s trying to make sure you understand. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... just let us be here.”

You want to reach out, but your hands feel frozen, as though they might crumble if you try. But somehow, Remus is there too, sitting beside James, his calm voice breaking through the silence. “We’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to be alone with this.”

And just like that, the space around you feels a little less cold. The three of them settle in around you, not asking you to speak, not demanding anything from you, just offering themselves—offering their company, their support, their friendship.

You feel Sirius nudge you lightly, a playful smile in his voice. “So, what do you say, then? You up for a game of wizard’s chess? I promise I’ll let you win this time.”

James chuckles, rolling his eyes. “As if. We all know you’ll win anyway, Padfoot. You always do.”

“Not the point, Prongs,” Sirius teases, nudging you again. “It’s about the fun. Let’s just sit here for a while, yeah?”

You finally look up, meeting his eyes, and there’s no judgment there—only a quiet understanding. The same goes for James, who gently sets down the snacks, and Remus, whose presence alone seems to soothe the ache inside you.

You don’t have to say anything, not now. You know they’ll stay with you, no matter how long it takes for the fog to lift. There’s no rush. No pressure.

You feel a flicker of something—something warm, something that feels a little like hope.

Maybe it’ll take time to feel like yourself again. Maybe it’ll take time for the weight to lift. But you don’t have to carry it alone.

And that, in itself, is enough.

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.

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.

pretty girl

Harris Dickinson x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

Request

Note:

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

• Only fem!readers

hii‼️i love you work sooo much and how the songs are just so perfect for every thing you write😻 idk if you take requests but if you do, can you write smth inspired by i see the light from tangled with cs55🙏🏼 it could be that reader is introverted and doesn't always take risks or go out of here comfort zone and how he gets her out of her shell but also becomes her comfort zone, or how ever you think seems good🙏🏼💕

𝓣𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You never meant to be there. Not in the pit lane, not in the team garage, and definitely not pressed up against the fence watching sparks fly from the rear of an F1 car. You came to the race weekend because your friend had an extra ticket and you figured it was better than your usual Saturday — a quiet apartment, a half-finished book, maybe a cup of tea you forget to drink until it's cold.

You’re not the type for noise. Not the type for fast things, or crowds, or the adrenaline that seems to fuel people like him. Carlos Sainz. You only knew his name because your friend said it with a dreamy sigh on the flight. You’d nodded politely and Googled him in the hotel room just to keep up the conversation.

And yet, somehow, he notices you.

It’s a ridiculous story, the kind you’d never believe if someone else told it. You’re just standing there, watching the team pack up, when he walks over. You try not to stare. He’s still in his race suit, hair a little wild from the helmet, sweat at his temples. He smiles like you’re not just another face in the blur of fans and engineers.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he says with an easy charm.

You look down at yourself, at your sensible shoes and your hands nervously twisting the strap of your bag. “I don’t,” you reply, more honestly than you mean to.

He laughs. “Then we have something in common. I’m not supposed to like quiet people. They say I talk too much.”

You expect him to move on, to laugh again and disappear into the crowd. But he doesn’t. He stays. He asks your name, and when you give it, he repeats it slowly, like he's making sure he gets it right. Like it matters.

It starts there — a few minutes, a joke, the strange magnetism of someone who belongs to a world you never considered stepping into. You meet again the next day. Then again. And then it’s coffee, and walking through cities you’ve never seen, and him letting you talk at your own pace, which is slow and careful, like the words might fall apart if you move too fast.

He’s patient. He’s bright in a way you aren’t used to. He makes jokes you don’t always understand, but he notices the way your eyes light up when he mentions something you do. He starts learning your rhythms. He teases, gently. Encourages, softly. You find yourself saying “yes” to things you usually decline. A boat ride. A dinner with too many people.

He pulls you out of yourself — not in a way that erases you, but in a way that stretches your boundaries without snapping them. He makes the world feel a little less sharp, a little less terrifying.

But something strange happens. He stops feeling like the push out of your comfort zone. He starts feeling like home.

His voice on the phone when he’s halfway around the world. The way he throws you a grin from the driver’s seat. The softness in his eyes when he knows you're about to withdraw, and the patience he shows when you do.

You used to think comfort meant hiding. Quiet. Predictability.

Now you know it can also mean someone who makes the noise bearable.

Someone who doesn't ask you to be loud, just to be you.

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.”

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.