Sweetheart

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.

i'm in love with an idiot

Peter Parker x Reader

You’ve been through a lot as Spider-woman—villains, heartbreak, and the constant balancing act of being a hero. But this? This is a new one. One minute you were swinging through your city, hot on the trail of a rogue scientist tinkering with dimensional technology, and the next, a kaleidoscope of colors swirled around you. When the dizzying vortex spat you out, the New York skyline looked just familiar enough to make you think you were still home—until you saw him.

Peter Parker. Spider-Man.

You’ve heard of him in passing through multiverse murmurs, but standing face-to-face with him? You hadn’t expected that. Not today.

“You’re… me?” he asks, his voice laced with incredulity but carrying a lightness that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this strange twist of fate won’t be so bad.

“No,” you correct him with a wry smile. “I’m better.”

The two of you bond quicker than you expected, drawn together by shared experiences that no one else could fully understand. Swinging side-by-side through the city, you find yourself surprised by how easily he makes you laugh—his dry humor, his dorky jokes, the way he apologizes to pigeons when he narrowly avoids colliding with them mid-swing.

But it’s not just the humor that gets to you. It’s his heart.

One evening, as the sun dips below the skyline, the two of you perch on the edge of a skyscraper, sharing takeout Chinese food straight out of the cartons. Peter listens intently as you talk about your universe—the sacrifices you’ve made, the people you’ve lost.

“You carry so much,” he says softly, his brown eyes locking onto yours. “But you don’t have to carry it alone. Not here, not with me.”

His words linger in the air between you, heavy with something unspoken. You want to say something back, something meaningful, but the way he’s looking at you makes your breath catch in your throat.

Before you can think better of it, you lean closer. So does he.

The kiss is tentative at first, his lips brushing yours as if asking permission. But when you deepen it, his hand comes up to cradle your face, and it feels like the world itself pauses for just a moment. You’re no longer Spider-woman from another universe, no longer a stranger in his world. You’re just… you. And he’s Peter.

When you finally pull back, the city stretches out below you, its lights twinkling like a thousand tiny stars. Peter grins, his usual confidence returning.

“Well,” he says, his tone teasing, “I guess interdimensional travel isn’t all bad.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not bad at all.”

As the night stretches on, you know this can’t last forever. Eventually, you’ll have to find a way back to your universe. But for now, with Peter by your side, the weight of your world feels just a little lighter.

Wrong Date

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You sigh, adjusting the hem of your dress as you step into the dimly lit, extravagant restaurant. The chandeliers overhead sparkle like tiny galaxies, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. This was a mistake. You didn’t even want to be here, but your friends had practically shoved you into a taxi, insisting that “love comes when you least expect it.”

So here you are, waiting for some guy named Marc—or was it Alan? Honestly, you barely remembered.

The host leads you to a table near the window, where a man is already seated, scrolling through his phone. His light brown hair is slightly tousled, and when he looks up, his green eyes catch the candlelight. He’s handsome—annoyingly so.

“You’re early,” you say, trying to hide your nerves.

He blinks at you, clearly caught off guard. Then, after a beat, he smiles. “I guess I am.”

His accent is smooth, French… no, something else? You don’t dwell on it. You just want to get this evening over with.

“So,” you begin, forcing a polite smile, “what do you do?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You really don’t know?”

You frown. “Should I?”

For a second, he just stares at you, then laughs—a warm, genuine sound that surprises you. “I suppose not. I’m Charles. And you?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it, letting it roll off his tongue. You don’t want to admit that it sounds nice when he says it.

The conversation is awkward at first. He seems charming, but you feel like you have nothing in common. He talks about traveling, fast cars, and competition. You’re more into books, museums, and quiet evenings.

“I don’t get the appeal of racing,” you confess, sipping your wine. “Driving in circles for hours? Sounds exhausting.”

He nearly chokes on his drink, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’ve never watched Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not interested.”

For some reason, that makes him grin. “You might be the first person I’ve met who says that.”

“Glad to be unique,” you say dryly.

But then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way he listens when you talk about your favorite authors, or the way his eyes light up when he describes the thrill of racing. You start teasing him about his job, and he teases you right back, challenging your every assumption. Before you know it, you’re both laughing, the initial awkwardness melting away.

The waiter arrives with dessert, and that’s when your phone buzzes. A message from your friend: “Where are you? Marc says he’s been waiting for 30 minutes!”

Your breath catches. You look at Charles, then at the text.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You hesitate before showing him the message. He reads it, and instead of looking offended, he bursts into laughter.

“Wrong date?” he guesses.

“Wrong date,” you confirm, covering your face in embarrassment.

For a second, there’s silence. Then he leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Well,” he says, “if it makes you feel better… I’m really glad you sat at the wrong table.”

And somehow, you realize—you are too.

𝓒𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You glance at Carlos from across the kitchen counter, a mischievous glint in your eyes. The two of you had decided to make pasta from scratch—something new, something fun—but so far, all you’ve managed to do is make a mess.

Carlos stands with his sleeves rolled up, his strong forearms dusted with flour. “Are you sure we’re doing this right?” he asks, tilting his head as he kneads the dough. His fingers press into it with practiced confidence, but you can’t help but focus on the way his lips curl into a playful smirk.

“Not at all,” you admit, laughing as you try to roll out your own dough. It sticks stubbornly to your hands, refusing to cooperate.

Carlos chuckles, stepping closer. “Let me help.” He moves behind you, guiding your hands with his own. His chest brushes against your back, warm and solid, and you can feel his breath against your neck. It’s almost unfair how easily he distracts you.

“Is this your plan all along?” you tease, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “To flirt your way out of actually making pasta?”

He grins, his fingers lacing over yours as he helps smooth out the dough. “Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice low and playful. “But I think it’s working.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like that—his brown eyes full of warmth, his lips just a breath away. Your heart stumbles over itself when he leans in, brushing his nose against your cheek.

“You’re still making a mess,” he murmurs against your skin.

You laugh, turning in his arms, pressing a bit of flour to the tip of his nose. He gasps in mock offense, but before he can retaliate, you catch his lips in a kiss—soft, slow, and utterly sweet.

For a moment, the pasta is forgotten, the flour-covered counter a distant concern. It’s just you and Carlos, the taste of laughter and love between you.

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.

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

It was one of those evenings where the city hummed with the noise of too many conversations and the clinking of glasses. The gallery was crowded, the air thick with pretension and the faint smell of paint, but you’d come because your friend needed support for her exhibit. You hadn’t expected him to walk through the door, but there he was. Nicholas Chavez, in all his maddening glory, wearing that lopsided smirk that you hated so much.

Or maybe you hated how it still made your heart race.

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and casual as he approached you. Too casual, considering how you’d left things.

You glanced up from your drink, letting your gaze rest on him for only a second before looking away. “Nicholas,” you said flatly. No smile, no warmth.

The last time you’d seen him had been months ago. That so-called “adventure,” as he had so flippantly called it later. For you, it had been chaos—intense, thrilling, and ultimately devastating. You’d fallen for his charm, his wit, the way he seemed to turn every moment into a movie scene. He had swept you up into a whirlwind of late nights and stolen glances, leaving you breathless and raw.

And then he’d left.

No explanation, no warning—just gone. A cryptic text weeks later had offered little closure: It was fun while it lasted, huh?

You’d hated him ever since.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, keeping your tone sharp.

“Supporting the arts,” he said, feigning innocence. He picked up a wine glass from a passing tray and leaned against the wall, as if the room existed solely for his benefit. “And maybe hoping to run into someone.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like a dagger to your chest. “Come on, don’t be like that. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me. Even a little?”

You wanted to tell him exactly how much you hadn’t missed him. How his absence had been like a relief, a weight lifted. But the words stuck in your throat because, if you were honest, there had been moments—late at night, when the city was quiet and your thoughts ran wild—when you’d wondered if he’d think of you. If he’d regret leaving.

And now, here he was, with that infuriating smile and those dark eyes that saw through you too easily.

“I didn’t,” you lied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Liar.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and cutting. “Do you know how much I hate you, Nicholas?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. Instead, he leaned in, so close you could smell the faint trace of his cologne. “If that’s true,” he murmured, “then why are you still standing here?”

Your breath caught, your heart betraying you with its rapid beat. You wanted to slap him, to walk away and never look back. But part of you stayed rooted, drawn to him in ways you couldn’t explain or justify.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you said finally, stepping back. “Not my time, not my attention, not even my anger.”

He looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he nodded, the smirk fading. “Fair enough.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, your chest tight and your mind reeling.

You hated him.

You hated that part of you still didn’t want him to leave.

Wife

Tangerine x Reader

The first rays of sunlight stream through the delicate lace curtains, casting golden patterns across the soft white sheets. The warmth of the morning caresses your skin, but it is the gentle rise and fall of Tangerine’s breath beside you that truly warms you.

You turn your head slightly, and there he is—your husband. Your husband. The word still feels surreal, even after the vows, the dance, the laughter, and the quiet, stolen kisses beneath the stars last night. His dark lashes rest against his cheeks, his face peaceful in sleep, the softest trace of a smile curving his lips.

Tangerine shifts, the sheets rustling as he stirs. Then, with a sleepy groan, he blinks open his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that have always held you captive. When he sees you, his smile widens.

“Morning, love,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, tinged with his ever-present British charm. His hand reaches for yours beneath the covers, fingers lacing together effortlessly, as if they were always meant to fit.

You can’t help but smile. “Morning, husband.”

His eyes darken slightly at the word, a mixture of awe and mischief flickering in them. “Say that again.”

You chuckle, but he’s already shifting closer, his arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you against him. His warmth is intoxicating, his scent filling your senses.

“Husband,” you whisper, and Tangerine groans playfully, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Mm, I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing that,” he mumbles against your skin before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. His lips trail upward, over your jaw, until they finally meet yours in a kiss that speaks of promises and forever.

You sigh into him, fingers threading through his tousled hair, your heart swelling as he deepens the kiss. It’s slow, unhurried, a taste of the eternity you now have together.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles over the back of your hand. “We have the whole day to ourselves,” he muses. “No schedules, no guests, no distractions.”

You hum in agreement, trailing a finger along his jawline. “What shall we do, then?”

Tangerine smirks, that boyish, heart-stealing grin you fell in love with. “Well, love, we could stay right here and continue this…” His lips brush yours again, teasingly. “Or we could make breakfast.”

You laugh, nudging him. “Are you bribing me with food?”

“Absolutely.” He grins. “A full English breakfast, just for my beautiful wife. What do you say?”

You pretend to consider, then with a dramatic sigh, you say, “Fine. But only if you wear an apron.”

Tangerine chuckles, shaking his head. “Married one day, and you’re already making demands.” He pauses, then leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “I suppose I’ll allow it.”

You giggle as he rolls out of bed, stretching before turning back to you, holding out a hand. “Come on, my love.”

My love. Your heart stutters at the sound of it.

You take his hand, letting him pull you up and into his arms once more. As you stand there, wrapped in the golden morning light, you realize—this is forever. And there’s no place you’d rather be.

𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽, 𝔀𝓱𝔂 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Regulus Black x Reader

You’ve never given much thought to Regulus Black before. Sure, you’ve seen him in the hallways, always composed, with his sharp cheekbones and darker-than-night eyes. He’s the Slytherin prince everyone whispers about, the one who’s far too serious for his age, but he’s never been more than a fleeting thought in your mind.

Until now.

It starts in Potions class, of all places. You’ve always prided yourself on being decent enough, but today, Professor pairs you with him. Regulus Black. The boy who carries his family’s name like a burden but wears his ambition like armor.

“You’d best keep up” he says without even looking at you as he flips through his textbook. His voice is smooth, like honey drizzled over something bitter.

You clench your jaw, determined not to rise to the bait. “And you’d best stop assuming you’re the only one with a brain.”

The ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s not much, but you see it, and for some reason, your chest feels strange—tight and warm all at once.

You don’t know when it begins to shift. At first, it’s annoyance. His snide remarks get under your skin, but you find yourself countering them with your own sharp wit. He’s infuriatingly precise, and you hate how his quiet confidence seems to unsettle you.

But then there’s a moment. A single moment that plants the seed of something dangerous.

It’s late one evening in the library. You’re poring over a book for a Transfiguration essay when you notice him at the table across from you. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie loosened, and for once, he looks almost…human. Tired, even.

“You’re staring,” he mutters without looking up.

Your cheeks flush, and you quickly look back at your parchment. “I wasn’t staring. I was…thinking.”

His dark eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, you swear there’s something vulnerable in them. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression. But that second lingers, and it worms its way into your mind, your chest, your soul.

After that, you notice things. The way he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear when he’s focused. The faint scar on his left hand, like a memory of something he won’t share. The way he always pauses before answering questions in class, as if weighing the worth of his words.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. You’re intrigued, nothing more.

But then he defends you. It’s during a confrontation in the corridor with some Slytherins who have taken the House rivalry a step too far. You’re outnumbered, your wand gripped tightly in your hand, when Regulus steps out of the shadows.

“Enough,” he says, his voice cold and sharp. The others freeze, their bravado crumbling under his gaze. They mutter apologies and disappear, leaving you standing there, stunned.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

You should walk away. You should let this be a fleeting interaction, but something in you snaps. “Who are you, Regulus Black? Really?”

He looks at you then, truly looks at you, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his armor. The weight of expectations, the quiet desperation of someone trapped by his own choices. He doesn’t answer, but his silence tells you more than words ever could.

And that’s when you realize the truth.

You’re falling for him.

It’s not dramatic, like a lightning strike. It’s slow, like the creeping warmth of sunlight after a storm. It terrifies you, because Regulus Black is everything you shouldn’t want. He’s a Slytherin. He’s guarded, secretive, and so achingly distant. But beneath it all, you see someone who is trying—fighting—to be more than what the world expects him to be.

And maybe, you think you can be the one to remind him he’s not alone. Even if it breaks your heart in the end.

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...

Good father

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Anakin Skywalker stood by the window, looking out into the starry expanse of space. The distant stars twinkled like tiny pinpoints of hope. But in his heart, a storm raged. His past was a web of regret, pain, and loss, but now the future loomed before him with hope. Two little lives. Two precious twins. Luke and Leia.

The faint sound of their soft cries drifted in from the other room. Anakin closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the sound with a tenderness that surprised even him. He wasn't used to that kind of love, the pure, unwavering devotion a father felt for his children. His thoughts drifted back to the first time he'd held them in his arms, their tiny faces wrinkled in confusion and wonder. They were perfect, a reflection of his redemption, and yet he felt unworthy of them.

As the days passed, Anakin found himself struggling with the idea of fatherhood. His life as a Jedi had never prepared him for this—he had been trained to fight, to serve, to protect, but never to care. Yet there he was, standing on the threshold of a new beginning, wanting to be the best father he could be.

He heard footsteps behind him. A soft, warm presence enveloped him like a comforting blanket. Anakin turned to find her standing there—his wife, his mate, his love. The woman who had helped him find the light again.

You smiled, your eyes filled with quiet strength. “They’re hungry,” you said softly.

Anakin nodded, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “I want to help… but I’m not sure how.”

You walked to his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re already doing that,” you assured him. “Just by being here, by wanting to be involved, you’re already showing them how much you care about them.”

He smiled, grateful for your words, though doubts still lingered in his heart. They had always shared a deep connection, one that had been forged in both passion and struggle. But now they were parents, and there was no guide to tell him what to do. He could feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, but there was something else, too, something more powerful than the fear that had once controlled him. It was love.

As they entered the nursery, Anakin took a deep breath, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his son’s blanket. Luke’s small hand curled around his finger, and the world seemed to slow down, leaving only the warmth of that small hand. Leia, wrapped up next to her brother, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” Anakin admitted quietly, his voice filled with vulnerability. “But I want to try. I want to be a good father to them.”

You stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You already are. They will grow up knowing your love, your strength, and your heart. That is all they need.”

Anakin nodded, feeling the weight of your words settle in his chest. It wasn’t about being perfect, it was about being there, showing up every day, even when doubts clouded his mind. He had once feared his own ability to love, thinking it was a weakness that would destroy him. But now, with Luke and Leia in his arms, he realized it was his greatest strength.

The sound of the twins’ cries soon filled the room again, and Anakin smiled softly, his heart filling with tenderness. He was no longer the young Jedi who had once struggled to control his emotions. He had learned that love, in its purest form, was not something to be feared, it was something to be embraced.

Together, they cared for their children that night, and in every tender touch and every glance shared between them, Anakin knew that this was where he belonged. He was no longer alone. And for the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to truly be a father.