I Like Pizza

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.

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.

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒅; 𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

Carlos Sainz x Reader

You’re sitting across from him at a quaint café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the soft chatter of nearby tables. The light catches in your eyes as you lean forward, animatedly sharing a story about your latest adventure. Carlos chuckles at your enthusiasm, but it’s the way you tug your sleeve up absentmindedly to adjust your watch that catches his attention. It’s such a small, inconsequential motion, but for some reason, it makes his heart skip.

It’s not the first time this has happened. He remembers the time you helped him organize his chaos of a travel bag before a race. You didn’t complain, didn’t even ask—just smiled and dove in, folding shirts and tucking socks into corners as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He’d stood there, arms crossed, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched you. It wasn’t about the bag. It was the way you hummed softly while you worked, the way you made even the mundane feel special.

And then there was that night at the paddock. He’d invited you to join his team for dinner after a particularly grueling day. You’d laughed with them like you’d known them forever, making jokes, listening intently, drawing everyone in with your warmth. It was the way you casually asked him if he’d gotten enough rest, your tone soft but firm, your concern genuine.

Carlos didn’t understand it at first. He chalked it up to admiration, respect, appreciation for someone who felt like a constant in his otherwise hectic, unpredictable life. But then there were the little things, the moments he couldn’t ignore. Like the time you’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat during a late-night drive, your head resting against the window, lips slightly parted. He’d turned the music down instinctively, not wanting to disturb you, and caught himself stealing glances at how peaceful you looked.

Or the way you laughed—not the polite, reserved laugh you gave strangers, but the full-bodied, uninhibited laugh that made your eyes crinkle and your head tilt back. He realized he wanted to be the reason for that laugh as often as possible.

It hits him one evening when you’re both walking through a park, your hands stuffed in your pockets to keep warm. You pause mid-sentence to crouch down and pet a stray dog that’s approached you. Carlos watches as your face lights up, your voice soft as you speak to the animal. The way you care, the way you notice the small things—it’s like you see the world differently, and he realizes he doesn’t want to see it without you.

“Do you always stop for every dog you meet?” he teases, his voice light, though his chest feels heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

You glance up at him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Only the ones that look like they need a little extra love,” you reply.

And that’s when it clicks for him. The little things—the small, seemingly insignificant details that make you who you are—they aren’t so little after all. They’re everything. And as you stand, brushing off your jeans and meeting his gaze, Carlos knows. He’s in love with you.

Well, my boyfriend's in a band

Kyle Scheible x Reader

You sit on the edge of Kyle's bed, watching him tune his guitar. The soft, melodic hums fill the air, a rhythm that’s almost like a heartbeat. His room is cozy, dimly lit with a string of fairy lights that hang lazily around the walls, casting a warm glow. You can’t help but smile, knowing this moment is one you’ll want to keep with you forever.

He looks up, catching your gaze with a grin that makes your heart skip. “Ready to sing?” he asks, his voice warm and playful.

You nod, but your hands feel a little shaky. It's been like this every time, the anticipation and excitement mixing together. It’s not just about the music—it's about the connection you share, the way the world fades when you’re together, creating something only the two of you understand.

“Okay, here we go,” Kyle says, strumming a few chords. The melody is familiar, and you can already feel the words tugging at your chest.

He starts to sing, his voice smooth and confident, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You wait for your cue, the moment to join him. And then, when it comes, you begin to sing too. Your voices blend effortlessly, harmonizing as if you've been doing this for years, even though it’s only been a few months since you first picked up a microphone together.

His eyes never leave you as you sing. It's like he’s looking into your soul, finding every note, every word, and making it his own. The connection between you both is undeniable, stronger than any music, stronger than any stage. It's just the two of you, lost in the melody, lost in each other.

As the song reaches its climax, Kyle steps closer, his guitar resting against him as he takes your hand. The music fades into the background, and it's just his presence that fills the space, the way his fingers brush against yours, the way his eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes you forget everything else.

When the song ends, the room is filled with silence, but it’s comfortable, easy. Kyle’s thumb gently traces the back of your hand, his lips curving into a soft smile.

“That was perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if it’s just for you.

You lean in, resting your forehead against his, feeling the warmth of his breath. "You're perfect."

And in that moment, with him in his room, his guitar by his side, and the world outside forgotten, you know you wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.

Are they… together?

Timothee Chalamet x Reader

You’re on set, the lights dimmed, and the sound of the director’s voice fades into the background as you and Timothée exchange glances. It’s been like this for a while now: secret smiles between takes, shared quiet moments while everyone else is distracted. No one knows about the two of you. It’s been a little slice of happiness you’ve kept to yourselves, hidden behind the scenes.

The crew is setting up for the next shot, and Timothée steps closer to you. He brushes his hand against yours as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, though it’s not. You feel the warmth of his touch, the softness of his fingers against yours, and your heart skips a beat. You look up to meet his eyes, and for a moment, everything else disappears. His gaze is soft, full of affection, but it’s the playful twinkle that gives away the secret he’s been keeping.

With a mischievous grin, Timothée leans in and, in one swift motion, plants a quick kiss on your cheek, just as someone in the crew calls for a break. You both freeze, caught in the moment, and for a split second, you wonder if anyone saw. But before you can think too much about it, Timothée smirks, clearly enjoying the little game he’s playing.

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn away, but your heart is racing. He’s not done yet. You feel his breath close to your ear as he whispers, "I can’t help myself," before sneaking a kiss to the corner of your lips.

Then, without warning, someone — maybe a crew member, maybe a fellow actor — snaps a photo. You don’t realize it at first, but that’s the moment everything changes.

The next day, you’re scrolling through social media during a lunch break, and there it is: a candid photo of the two of you, Timothée’s lips grazing your cheek, your smile barely caught in the moment. It’s simple, sweet, and it’s been shared thousands of times. The caption? Just a question: "Are they… together?"

The comments flood in, fans piecing the puzzle together, speculating, debating. A wave of excitement and curiosity sweeps across the internet. Your heart sinks and rises in equal measure.

Timothée finds you a few minutes later, eyes full of mischief, a grin playing on his lips. "So… I guess we’re not secret anymore?"

You roll your eyes but can’t help the blush that creeps up your neck. "I guess not."

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.

𝓢𝓸 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓘𝓼 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

Regulus Black x Reader

part one

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

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

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

“You look like you could use some help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

Request

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.

Cold cold man

Tangerine x Reader

You’ve always known Tangerine was different. The first time you met him, his eyes bore into you with an intensity that felt like it could shatter glass. He had a way of making silence heavy, a tangible thing that pressed against your chest. Yet, even then, you felt something beneath his cold demeanor—a flicker of warmth that refused to burn brightly but never quite went out.

Tangerine isn’t like other people, not the kind who showers you with flowery words or makes grand gestures. Instead, his love is quiet, hidden in the spaces between his sharp edges. It’s there in the way he listens, the way he notices things most wouldn’t—like how you always fidget with your ring when you’re nervous or how you hum to yourself when you think no one’s watching. He never says anything about it, never makes a point of it, but he remembers.

You wish, sometimes, that he could be easier, softer. You wish he’d hold your hand in public or tell you how beautiful you look without needing to be prompted. But that’s not Tangerine. His compliments, when they come, are rare and understated.

“Nice dress,” he’ll mutter, barely looking at you. But you know it’s his way of saying you’re breathtaking.

His coldness isn’t cruelty—it’s just who he is. And you’ve learned to read between the lines. You’ve learned to see the way his hand brushes yours, just slightly, when you walk side by side. How he’ll stand a little closer to you when the room feels too big, too loud. How, in the middle of the night, when he thinks you’re asleep, his fingers will trace patterns on your arm, feather-light and reverent.

One evening, you’re sitting on the couch together, the TV playing some show neither of you is really watching. He’s quiet, as always, his expression unreadable. But then, out of nowhere, he speaks.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, voice low and rough.

“At what?” you ask, turning to him.

“This,” he gestures vaguely between you two. “Us. Love. I’m not good at showing it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his tone. “You don’t have to be perfect at it, Tan. I don’t need big gestures or constant reminders. I just need you.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, you swear you see something crack in him. “I know I’m a cold man,” he says softly. “But you make me want to be better. Even if I’m slow, even if I don’t always say the right things. I want to try. For you.”

It’s the most he’s ever said about his feelings, and it takes your breath away. You reach out, placing your hand over his. His fingers are stiff at first, hesitant, but then they relax, curling around yours.

“I don’t need you to be anything but yourself,” you whisper. “That’s enough for me.”

And for the first time, Tangerine smiles—not a big smile, but a small, genuine curve of his lips that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it’s for you.

You realize that Tangerine’s love may not be easy or loud, but it’s real. It’s in every quiet gesture, every small act of care, every unspoken word. And for you, that’s more than enough.