Sweet Creature

Irresistible

James Potter x Reader

You never meant to get caught up in James Potter’s chaos. He was charming, yes, but entirely too reckless for your tastes. Still, there’s something about him—maybe the way he struts into every room as if he owns it, or how he always manages to make you laugh even when you’re scowling at him.

Take this morning, for example. You’d just settled into the library, determined to finish your essay on the practical applications of nonverbal spells, when he appeared out of nowhere, flopping into the chair across from you.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” you asked without looking up, already dreading the inevitable distraction.

“Spending time with my favorite person, obviously,” he said, propping his chin on his hand and grinning like he’d been caught doing something wicked.

You snorted. “Right. Because that’s exactly what I need while trying to concentrate.”

“What can I say?” he said, leaning closer. “I’m charming and irresponsible.” He paused dramatically, then corrected himself with a cocky smirk. “I mean, irresistible.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might stick. “Keep telling yourself that.”

But James wasn’t deterred. If anything, he took your sarcasm as a challenge. Over the next week, he made it his personal mission to win you over, employing every ridiculous tactic he could think of.

One day, you found a bouquet of enchanted daisies on your desk in Charms, each flower whispering, “Go out with James Potter!” in singsong voices. You pretended not to hear them, but you caught yourself smiling anyway.

Another time, he orchestrated a scene in the Great Hall, standing on a bench and loudly declaring, “There’s only one person in this entire castle who can make my heart race faster than a Quidditch match, and they’re sitting right over there!”

You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice. “Merlin’s beard, Potter, sit down!” you hissed, your face burning as the entire table turned to look at you.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way his hazel eyes sparkled with mischief when he caught your gaze—or the way your heart skipped a beat when he grinned at you like that.

It wasn’t all grand gestures, though. Sometimes, James surprised you with quiet moments that felt... different. Like the time he found you sitting by the lake, lost in thought, and simply plopped down beside you without saying a word. He didn’t try to make you laugh or tease you into a reaction; he just sat there, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you.

“Why do you even bother?” you asked eventually, breaking the quiet.

“Bother with what?” he replied, tossing a pebble into the water.

“With me. You could have anyone you want, Potter. Why waste your time chasing someone who’s... not interested?”

James turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because you’re different. You don’t put up with my nonsense, and you make me want to be... better.”

For once, he didn’t seem like the cocky, overconfident boy you’d always pegged him as. Instead, he was just James—genuine and a little vulnerable.

And maybe that’s when it hit you: you didn’t dislike him as much as you pretended to.

The next day, when he approached you in the common room with that same incorrigible grin, you decided to throw him off.

“All right, Potter,” you said, crossing your arms. “One date. But if you embarrass me even once, it’ll be your last.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “Me? Embarrass you? Never!”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He laughed, and the sound was warmer than the crackling fire behind you. “You won’t regret it,” he promised, offering you his hand.

And maybe, just maybe, you believed him.

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞

James Potter x Reader

The music fills the room, a soft melody swirling through the air, its notes light and playful. You’re lost in the comfort of the quiet evening, the warmth of the fire flickering on the hearth casting a golden glow over the room. James, casually leaning against the armrest of the couch, lifts his head, eyes meeting yours across the room. There's a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, something you know all too well.

Without saying a word, he stands up, his movements graceful as he closes the space between you. His hand reaches out, fingers warm, and your heart skips as he gently takes yours. You can feel his touch—the familiar softness, the strength beneath.

“Dance with me,” he says, his voice a quiet invitation, pulling you from your thoughts. There's no hesitation in his tone, only a quiet certainty, as if he knows you can’t resist.

You glance up at him, eyes softening. The music continues, the beat slow and steady, and you let him lead you into his arms. His hands find their place at your waist, while you place yours against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside the room seems to disappear. It’s just the two of you, moving together, swaying in time with the song.

James pulls you in closer, his touch tender as you rest your head against his shoulder. The air is thick with unspoken words, with all the affection he has for you, and you can feel it in every movement, in every gentle step.

For a moment, the whole world stops spinning. The only thing that matters is the way your bodies fit together perfectly, the way the music seems to slow, allowing you to savor this moment forever.

He pulls away just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze filled with something deeper. “You’ve always been my favorite dance partner,” he says, his voice full of affection and a hint of playful arrogance.

You smile softly, a feeling of contentment washing over you as you press closer, letting the warmth of his presence fill you. Just the two of you, dancing, lost in each other’s company, under the quiet spell of the music.

𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂𝓫𝓸𝓭𝔂 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓘'𝓶 𝓪 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵, 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓮𝓻

Leon Kennedy x Reader

The flashing red and blue lights make everything feel like a dream—one of those slow, dizzy ones where the world tilts under your feet. The pavement is too cold beneath you, the night air sharp against your bare arms, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when he’s looking at you like that.

Leon S. Kennedy.

It’s almost unfair that someone so good-looking is also the one snapping the handcuffs around your wrists.

“You’re drunk,” he states, his voice annoyingly even.

You blink up at him through heavy lashes, lips curling into a slow, practiced smile. “Nooo,” you drawl, “I’m just…happy.”

He exhales sharply. Not quite a sigh, but close. He looks good like this, under the glow of the police cruiser’s lights, jaw tight, grip firm as he helps—no, drags—you to your feet.

“Come on.” His voice is firm, but there’s no real anger in it. “You’re going downtown.”

You let yourself lean into him, just a little, your head tilting as you peer up at him. “Do you have a girl, officer?” you purr, eyes flicking to his hands. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

Leon stills for a fraction of a second—so quick you almost miss it. But you don’t. You notice everything.

“That’s none of your business,” he replies, guiding you toward the car.

You press closer, the scent of his leather jacket filling your senses. “I’m a good girl, Officer Kennedy.” Your voice is syrupy sweet, laced with false innocence. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, more exasperation than amusement, but you swear you see the corner of his lips twitch. “Yeah? A good girl wouldn’t be getting arrested right now.”

“Arrested?” You feign a gasp, placing a hand against your chest like he just accused you of something awful. “But I’m too pretty for jail.”

“Then maybe,” he says, finally pushing you into the backseat of the cruiser, “you should stop breaking the law.”

The door shuts, locking you in. The night is cold without him close, and you watch as he walks around to the front, slipping into the driver’s seat.

You smirk to yourself, resting your head against the seat.

This night just got way more interesting.

Request

Note:

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

• Only fem!readers

a lovely night

Timothee Chalamet x Reader

You’re standing at the edge of a wooden pier, the ocean stretching out in front of you, its surface rippling with the silver sheen of twilight. The sky is a painter’s dream—swirling blues and purples and soft pink streaks that refuse to settle. You wouldn’t have chosen to be here, not with him, but here you are.

“Nice view,” Timothée says, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not looking at you, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. That ever-present air of confidence, or maybe it’s just boredom. Hard to tell.

“It’d be nicer without the commentary,” you shoot back.

He lets out a short laugh, tilting his head toward you. His curly hair catches the fading light, and for a split second, you think it makes him look... well, annoying, actually. Of course he’d find a way to be effortlessly attractive when you’re trying to stay irritated.

“So why are we here again?” you ask, crossing your arms as the sea breeze teases at the hem of your dress.

“You tell me. You’re the one who wanted to walk instead of staying at the party.”

“Yeah, because parties with you are unbearable.”

“And this is better?” He gestures at the empty pier, the lazy waves, the distant hum of the city behind you both.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t leave.

For a while, the two of you stand in silence. The night starts to creep in, the stars blinking awake. Somewhere out there, a couple would be leaning into each other, whispering something soft, something that matters. But here? Here it’s just you and Timothée, stuck in a conversation neither of you wants to admit feels inevitable.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he says suddenly.

“What’s funny?”

“This. Us. Standing here like this. It’s almost…” He pauses, as if searching for the right word. “Romantic.”

You laugh—sharp and incredulous. “Romantic? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m serious!” He turns to you, grinning now. That ridiculous, lopsided grin you’ve seen a thousand times. “It’s the perfect setting, isn’t it? Moonlight, the ocean, you in that dress”

“Stop.”

“Why? Does it bother you?”

“No, it’s just… You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

The wind picks up, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged. Like maybe there’s something unspoken here, something you’d both rather not acknowledge. But then he shifts, breaking the spell.

“You know,” he says, “if this were a movie, this would be the part where we kiss.”

“Good thing it’s not a movie.”

He chuckles softly, and the sound feels warmer than it should. “Good thing,” he repeats.

And yet, as the night deepens and the stars sharpen their glow, neither of you makes a move to leave. Maybe it’s the view. Or maybe, despite everything, there’s something about wasting a lovely night with someone who isn’t supposed to matter.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

Dante Sparda x Reader

The Devil May Cry office is exactly as you expected it to be—chaotic and reeking of stale pizza. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, as Dante flips lazily through a magazine, his boots propped up on the desk. He doesn't even glance your way, though you know he senses you. He always does.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite troublemaker," you drawl, your voice dripping with mock sweetness.

He looks up, finally, one eyebrow quirking at your entrance. "Didn't realize demons had favorites," he replies, his tone dry. "Thought you guys were more into, y'know, chaos and destruction."

You stride into the room, letting your heels click dramatically against the floor. "Oh, come on, Dante. You’re different." You lean on his desk, close enough to invade his personal space but far enough to keep him guessing. "You’ve got that rugged charm. That devil-may-care attitude. It’s almost like you’re trying to impress me."

He smirks, leaning back further in his chair. "Rugged charm, huh? And here I thought you were just here to cause me more problems."

He doesn’t flinch, which is one of the reasons you like coming here. Most humans would’ve run screaming by now—or tried to kill you. Dante, though, treats you like an annoying stray cat that keeps showing up at his door.

"So," you continue, circling the desk and trailing your nails lightly along its edge, "what’s on the agenda today? Slaying? Exorcisms? More of that broody self-reflection you do when you think no one’s looking?"

His chair creaks as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Y'know, for someone who’s technically my enemy, you spend a lot of time hanging around here. What's the angle, sweetheart?"

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "Can’t a girl just enjoy good company? Besides,"—you perch on the edge of his desk, close enough that your knees brush his—"you’re the most fun I’ve had in centuries. The way you swing that sword around... it’s almost poetic."

His eyes narrow, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him. "You’re a real piece of work, you know that?"

"And yet, here I am," you reply smoothly, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off your shoulder. "Admit it, Dante. You’d miss me if I stopped coming around."

"Miss you?" He snorts, standing up and towering over you in that annoyingly effortless way he does. "The day I miss you is the day hell freezes over."

You stand too, refusing to be outdone, and trail a finger along the front of his jacket. "Careful, Sparda. If you keep lying to yourself, you might start believing it."

For a moment, the tension crackles between you like electricity, his blue eyes boring into yours. Then, he steps back, grabbing his sword from where it rests against the wall. "Tell you what," he says, slinging it over his shoulder. "Why don’t you tag along on my next job? You keep talking big about how much fun I am—let’s see if you can keep up."

Your grin widens. "Oh, Dante. I thought you’d never ask."

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t hide the smirk playing at his lips. "Just don’t get in my way."

"And miss a chance to watch you work? Never."

As he strides toward the door, you fall in step beside him, already plotting your next move. You’ll flirt, you’ll tease, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get under his skin just enough to make him wonder if you’re more than just a nuisance.

Because deep down, you know he enjoys the game as much as you do.

𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓷𝓸𝔀

Charles Leclerc x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Nightmares

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You wake to the sound of soft, hurried footsteps padding across the polished floor, barely audible over the hum of Coruscant’s distant nightlife. The warm body beside you shifts—Anakin, his breathing even and steady, blissfully unaware of the disturbance. You smile faintly, brushing away a stray strand of his tousled hair before turning toward the door.

Two small figures appear in the doorway, outlined by the dim light from the hall. Luke and Leia, clutching their blankets, their wide eyes filled with fear. You’re on your feet in an instant, already kneeling to their level before they can say a word.

“Another nightmare?” you ask softly, stroking Leia’s dark curls as she nods, her lower lip trembling. Luke burrows into your side, his tiny hands gripping your nightclothes tightly. You exchange a glance with Anakin, who’s now awake and sitting up, concern etched across his face.

“Come here,” he says, his voice warm and soothing as he pats the space beside him on the large bed. “There’s plenty of room.”

Leia hesitates, her little brows furrowed, but Luke is already climbing up with your help, wriggling under the blankets. You scoop Leia into your arms, kissing her temple as you carry her to the bed. She sighs, her small frame relaxing against you.

The four of you settle in—a tangle of limbs and blankets, the children nestled between you and Anakin. Luke curls against his father, his small hands gripping Anakin’s tunic as though it’s the only anchor in his stormy dreams. Leia clings to you, her fingers twining with yours as you stroke her hair, whispering reassurances.

“They’re safe,” Anakin murmurs, his voice barely audible as he watches them with that soft, vulnerable look he reserves only for his family. “We won’t let anything harm them.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the galaxy shrinks to just this—your children’s quiet breathing, Anakin’s steady presence, and the love that binds you all together.

Leia stirs, her voice a sleepy murmur. “Daddy, can you tell us a story?”

You glance at Anakin, who raises a brow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “I think your mother tells better stories than I do,” he says, his tone playful.

Rolling your eyes, you lean closer, your voice soft and soothing as you weave a tale. Anakin chimes in now and then, embellishing with dramatic flourishes that make the children giggle despite their exhaustion.

By the time your story ends, Luke and Leia are fast asleep, their nightmares forgotten. Anakin reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he whispers, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You smile, your heart full as you glance at your sleeping children. “It’s not just me,” you whisper back, your gaze meeting his. “It’s us.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his warmth chasing away any lingering shadows. For tonight, the galaxy can wait. Here, in this moment, you have everything you need.

𝓘 𝓳𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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