Religion's In Your Lips

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.

And she feels like home

Jason Todd x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you.”

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

Masterlist

JAMES POTTER

James

Irresistible

Like The Movies

Dance with me

Kisses

Puppy

Midnight Craving

REGULUS BLACK

Dear Heart, why him

So This Is Love (request)

For you, i'd steal the stars

CARLOS SAINZ

I can't read your mind

You smiled; i fell in love

maybe i just wanna be yours

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

Love, love, love

First time parents

There is gentleness about him.

Cooking class

To the one who understands my soul (request)

CHARLES LECLERC

Monaco

Strangers

Wrong Date

Now he's thinkin' 'bout me every night

She's a romantic

When can i see you?

I hate the snow

Sleeping Beauty

EGGSY UNWIN

Have you ever fall in love?

TANGERINE

Cold cold man

You know i love a london boy

Love

Mr & Mrs Smith

Wife

DAVE LIZEWSKI

Oh my God! I still love you

My girlfriend gets so depressed

ALEXEI VRONSKY

Lazy morning

I just wanted to kiss you

dreamgirl

LAURIE LAURENCE

Love Grows

KYLE SCHEIBLE

Well, my boyfriend's in a band

TIMOTHEE CHALAMET

Valentine

Are they… together? (request)

I love him

Romantic Lover

a lovely night

Damn, I really want to kiss you.

DREW STARKEY

Midnight

I want you and only you

NICHOLAS CHAVEZ

wrong person right time

HARRIS DICKINSON

pretty girl

You mad at me? (request)

JENSEN ACKLES

I have no car

you're my favorite

Stranger

DEAN WINCHESTER

Sweet witch

She's from heaven

JOHN WICK

I love you, and it's killing me

DANTE SPARDA

THE DEVIL

blah, blah, blah....shut up

sweetheart

LEON KENNEDY

I can do it myself

daddy's little girl

Religion's in your lips

you drew stars around my scars

Handsome

Everybody knows that i'm a good girl, officer

Skin care

I’m not ready

Are you drunk?

ANAKIN SKYWALKER

Good father

Nightmares

Sweet Creature

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

discussions

You can't catch me now

Date

Fatherhood

PAUL ATREIDES

Are we allies or enemies?

PIETRO MAXIMOFF

Boyfriend

SERGEI KRAVINOFF

You're too sweet for me

BUCKY BARNES

PETER PARKER

Are you flirting or starting a fight?

i'm in love with an idiot

Miss Stark

I change my hair every week

MILES MORALES

Something about you

DICK GRAYSON

i like pizza

JASON TODD

And she feels like home

it's a bad idea, right?

MARAUDERS

We'll be friends forever

Messy

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.

Are we allies or enemies?

Paul Atreides x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I love him

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.

𝐎𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐝! 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

Dave Lizewski x Reader

You’ve known Dave Lizewski since you were kids, your childhood filled with random conversations, shared secrets, and playground adventures. He was always the awkward, goofy guy with a heart of gold, never really standing out but always managing to make you laugh. The two of you went your separate ways as you got older, but somehow, you always ended up in the same classes, walking the same halls. It was almost like fate had a funny way of pulling you back together.

Now, here you are, teenagers, both of you in the same high school, sitting next to each other in History class. And yet, nothing feels the same. Dave has changed. You’ve noticed it before—the way he’s grown into his body, how he’s stopped wearing those ridiculous superhero T-shirts that used to make you laugh, but still, you’ve always seen him the same way. You’ve always known him as Dave, the boy who couldn’t seem to look at you without turning red.

But lately, something’s different. You’ve started catching him looking at you—really looking at you. Not just glancing over your shoulder or sneaking a glance when he thinks you're not paying attention, but staring at you, his expression softer, almost like he’s seeing you for the first time. It makes your heart skip a beat every time, and you’re sure he’s noticed.

Today, during lunch, you’re sitting in the cafeteria, your tray in front of you, half-eaten. You’re talking to your friends, but your eyes keep straying to the table where Dave is sitting with his usual group. You can feel his eyes on you again, a familiar warmth creeping up your neck, making you look over to find him already glancing in your direction. His face is flushed, as if he’s embarrassed to have been caught, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. You almost don’t want to look away because you feel it, too—the pull.

You decide to take the plunge and stand up, walking over to his table, your heart racing in your chest. His friends all wave and greet you, but you can’t focus on them. Dave is sitting there, his hand resting awkwardly on his tray, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. You meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“Hey, Dave,” you say, breaking the silence with a smile. His gaze softens immediately, and he sits up straighter, like he’s been waiting for you to come over for ages.

“Hey, you...” he replies, his voice just a little shaky. There’s a small pause before he adds, “You look… really nice today.”

You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his words, the way he blushes immediately afterward. It’s the same old Dave, the one who’s always been awkward, but now there’s something new between you. Something unspoken. You shift on your feet, unsure of what to say next, and then you hear him mutter, almost to himself, “I… I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Really?” You can’t help but let the words slip out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his eyes meeting yours again. “Yeah, since we were little. But I was always too afraid to say anything.”

A soft laugh escapes you, not mocking, but warm and knowing. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you were always so out of my league,” he admits, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I figured you’d never look at me the same way.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “You’re an idiot,” you tell him gently, feeling a rush of affection toward him. “You’ve always been my friend, Dave. I think… I think I’ve always liked you, too.”

His eyes widen, the surprise written clearly on his face. It’s like the world has just tilted on its axis for him. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out to you but doesn’t know how to.

“Well, I guess I’m just an idiot who got lucky then,” he says with a grin, that familiar warmth returning to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your heart racing. “I guess so.”

You sit down next to him, the world seeming to melt away as you both fall into easy conversation, like no time has passed. But now, there’s something new between you, something you can’t ignore. The spark that was always there is finally being acknowledged, and you both know it’s only the beginning of something much bigger.

And as the lunch bell rings, signaling the end of another school day, you find yourself feeling lighter, your heart warmer than it’s ever been. This, whatever this is between you and Dave, feels like it’s meant to be.

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.

𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, pressing a kiss to his palm.

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

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

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