𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓪 𝓛𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓸𝔂

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 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.

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧, 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

Timothee Chalamet x Reader

The city hums around you, alive with neon and the distant sound of laughter spilling out of late-night cafés. The air is warm, thick with the scent of rain on pavement. You walk beside Timothée, your fingers brushing as you navigate the quiet streets together, the tension between you almost electric. It’s been weeks—months, even—of stolen glances, of hands hovering near but never quite touching. Of wanting, but waiting.

Tonight feels different.

You pause beneath the golden glow of a streetlamp, the flickering light making his curls look almost bronze. His green eyes flicker to your lips before darting away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His hands slip into the pockets of his coat, as if he’s trying to stop himself from reaching for you.

"God," he exhales, shaking his head slightly, "I really want to kiss you."

Your breath catches. The world around you shrinks until it's just him, just the way his lips part slightly, the way the corner of his mouth tilts into something shy yet completely certain.

You could tease him, ask him what’s stopping him. But instead, you just step closer, feeling the warmth radiating off his body, the scent of cedar and something unmistakably him. His breath hitches as his hands finally emerge from his pockets, ghosting over your waist like he’s asking for permission.

And then finally his lips find yours.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, but then he exhales against your mouth, a tiny sound escaping him that sends warmth flooding through your entire body. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens, slow and sweet, like he’s memorizing the moment.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. He smiles, and it's the kind of smile that feels like a promise.

"I should’ve done that sooner," he murmurs.

You laugh, breathless. "Yeah. You should have."

He grins, then kisses you again—because now that he’s started, he’s never letting go.

𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓷𝓸 𝓬𝓪𝓻

Jensen Ackles x Reader

It’s late in the evening, the kind where the golden glow of the streetlights softens the edges of the world. You’ve just stepped out of the quaint café where you and Jensen had been tucked away for hours, sharing laughter, stolen kisses, and the kind of quiet moments that make your heart swell. The sky is painted in shades of indigo, and the air carries a slight chill.

As you dig through your bag, you remember.

“I have no car,” you mutter, your voice tinged with mild annoyance at yourself for forgetting. You glance at Jensen, expecting a teasing remark or a playful grin. But instead, he just looks at you, his green eyes warm under the streetlight.

“I’ll walk,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink, surprised. “Jensen, it’s at least a couple of miles. And it’s cold—”

He interrupts with a shrug, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. “Then I’ll walk a couple of miles with you. No big deal.”

The sincerity in his tone silences any protests you might have had. He steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne enveloping you, and he tilts his head, a small, boyish smirk playing on his lips. “Besides, I like walking with you. It gives me more time to look at you.”

Your cheeks heat up at his words, and he chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. Without another word, he gently takes your hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and starts leading you down the sidewalk. The city feels quieter than usual, the occasional car passing by, its headlights streaking across your path.

As you walk, Jensen keeps the conversation light, asking about your day and making silly jokes that have you laughing so hard you almost forget the chill in the air. Every now and then, he gives your hand a small squeeze, as if to remind you that he’s there, and that he’d gladly walk a hundred miles just to be with you.

When you finally reach your apartment, your cheeks are flushed from both the cold and his constant teasing. You pause by the door, turning to look at him. “You didn’t have to walk all this way, you know.”

Jensen leans against the doorframe, his hands still in his pockets, and grins. “I know. But I wanted to.” He steps closer, his voice softening as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Besides, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your heart does that familiar flutter, the one that only he can cause. Before you can overthink it, he closes the gap between you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s warm and lingering, like the promise of something more.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and he whispers, “Next time, though, let’s take my car. My feet are killing me.”

You laugh, swatting his chest, and he grins like the mischievous troublemaker you’ve fallen for.

Romantic Lover

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You sit quietly on the edge of the couch, your mind tangled in a web of thoughts that only seem to make everything heavier. The room is dim, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows over your face. You try to focus, but the weight of the world presses on your chest. Everything feels too much today.

Timothée stands in the doorway for a moment, watching you, his expression soft. He knows something's wrong, and it's not like him to just let you struggle in silence. He doesn't say a word at first, just steps closer, his presence steady and warm.

"Hey," he whispers gently, kneeling down in front of you, his fingers brushing the back of your hand. His voice is calm, the kind of calm that pulls you out of your thoughts. "What’s going on, love?"

You try to speak, but words fail you. The sadness feels too big to explain, too deep to put into any sort of coherent sentence. But Timothée doesn't push. He just watches you with those warm, understanding eyes, as though he’s ready to listen for as long as it takes.

And then, without another word, he wraps his arms around you. His embrace is so familiar, so comforting, it feels like the world outside doesn't matter anymore. He pulls you close, your head resting on his shoulder as his fingers gently trace circles on your back. His warmth is all-encompassing, and for a moment, you can’t help but let go.

"Shh..." he murmurs, holding you tighter. "I’ve got you. It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m here."

His touch is soft, the way his hand rubs your back, as though he’s trying to smooth away every bit of worry, every piece of sadness. And somehow, in his arms, the world feels a little less heavy. His heartbeat is steady against your ear, a reminder that no matter how much the world might weigh on you, he's here to carry it with you.

The silence between you two is full of understanding. You don't need to explain everything. You just need him to be there. And he is. Always.

The weight on your chest eases, little by little, as his soothing words and quiet presence start to make the world feel softer. It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about being together, even in the moments where everything feels broken.

Timothée’s fingers run through your hair now, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head softly. “We’ll get through this. Together,” he says quietly.

𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

The first rays of dawn creep through the gossamer curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. You awaken to the quiet rustle of movement nearby, your heart quickening before your eyes even open. The subtle aroma of fresh coffee mingles with the faint scent of cedar and citrus—his scent, distinctly Alexei.

When you finally open your eyes, he is there by the window, his silhouette framed by the early morning glow. Alexei Vronsky, ever the picture of effortless elegance, is dressed in a loose white shirt, the first few buttons undone, and dark trousers that cling perfectly to his lean form. His dark hair is tousled, his face turned toward the pale morning sky. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

His head turns at the sound, and when his eyes meet yours, they soften instantly, a rare and fleeting vulnerability in their depths. He crosses the room in long strides, the faintest smile playing on his lips. The smile is just for you—it always is.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering against your cheek. “But the light...it was too perfect not to watch.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip from your shoulder. “And you didn’t think to share it with me?”

“I wanted to preserve the peace,” he replies, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes now. His hand trails down your arm, tracing idle patterns against your skin. “But I’m glad you’re awake. The morning is always better with you.”

You laugh softly, the sound seeming to warm him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finding your lips. The kiss is unhurried, tender, as though he has all the time in the world for you—and only you.

“Shall we take our coffee outside?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and intimate. “The garden is beautiful this time of day.”

“Only if you promise to keep me warm,” you tease, though you already know he will.

His eyes darken slightly, filled with something deeper than just affection. “Always,” he vows.

And with that, Alexei rises, holding out his hand to you. The morning stretches ahead, full of promises whispered in golden light and moments shared in quiet intimacy.

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞

Sergei Kravinoff x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monaco

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You can feel the weight of the past as you stand in the shadows of Mónaco. The salty air brushes your skin, mixing with the distant hum of the city’s nightlife, but none of that matters. Your eyes are only on one thing: the memory of him.

It’s been months maybe even years and yet the streets of this city hold him like an echo. You know that your plan was never meant to be forever. You were never meant to stay. It was always supposed to be fleeting, the way the summer nights come and go. You, Charles, and the promise of something more... something that could have been, but was never destined to last.

You remember how he used to take your hand as the sun set over the harbor, his face a mask of calm beneath the weight of the world. There were moments when you thought he could escape the fame, the pressure, and just be yours. But reality was always waiting, hovering like the darkness over the circuit at night, just as unpredictable as the next race. The promise of forever slipped through your fingers like sand, and suddenly, there was nothing but the silence between you.

You know it’s too late to go back. To reimagine what could have been. But part of you still holds on to the idea of him of the way his smile could light up even the darkest corners of your mind. The way he kissed you under the lights of the casino, telling you that everything would be okay, even if you both knew better.

You never spoke of a second chance. You didn’t need to. It was clear that the world around you his world was too big, too overwhelming for the two of you. The distance between you grew, just like the races that he kept winning, while you stayed on the sidelines. But there’s a part of you, the part that still lingers in the back of your mind, wondering what if.

What if there was another chance? What if this city, with its grand, timeless streets, could bring you both back together? You laugh softly at the thought. The answer is clear, even if it hurts. You were never meant to stay in each other's lives. But the memories of what happened here under the shadow of the circuit, in the quiet moments when you were alone together will never leave you.

𝓘’𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The first contraction hits, and you know. It’s time.

You sit on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling your belly, breathing through the pressure. The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over the room, peaceful and warm. But across the hall, chaos unfolds.

Leon is frantic.

You hear him rifling through drawers, muttering under his breath as he darts from room to room. “Where’s the bag? The one we packed? Damn it—where did I put the—" A thump follows as something falls over, probably a chair.

You exhale, amused. “Leon, it’s in the closet.”

He appears in the doorway, eyes wild, hair even messier than usual. “Which closet?”

“The only closet in our room, babe.”

He spins around and yanks the door open, fumbling for the hospital bag. You can hear the zipper struggling against his urgency, the sound of baby clothes rustling as he checks for everything twice—maybe three times.

Another contraction builds, but you stay calm, hands resting on your belly. “Leon.”

“Yeah?” He looks up, halfway through stuffing an extra set of onesies into the bag.

You smile at him. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders drop slightly, but his jaw remains tight. You know he’s not just worried about the logistics—he’s scared. Scared for you, for the baby, for everything that could go wrong. You reach for him, and he’s at your side instantly, kneeling in front of you, hands gripping yours.

“I’m not ready,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

“You can handle this, Leon.”

He lets out a shaky chuckle, but his blue eyes are searching yours, full of emotion. “This is different. This is you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

You brush a hand through his hair, smoothing away his worry for just a moment. “We’re going to be okay.”

He nods, squeezing your hands. The panic eases, if only slightly, as he helps you to your feet. The bag is ready, the car is waiting, and the night ahead is unpredictable. But one thing is certain—Leon is here, holding your hand, ready to face it all with you.

Because for all the horrors he’s fought, nothing matters more than this moment. Than you. Than the life you’re about to bring into the world together.

Valentine

Timothée Chalamet x Reader

You’ve always been the type to sidestep romance. Flowers made you sneeze, chocolate was too sweet, and the idea of grand declarations sent shivers up your spine—not the good kind. For years, you prided yourself on being untouchable, untethered. Love was for people in books or movies, not for you.

Then Timothée happened.

You’re not sure when he started slipping past your walls. Maybe it was the way he laughed, quick and bright, like he couldn’t help it. Or maybe it was the way he tilted his head when you spoke, like he was peeling back the layers of your every word. Whatever it was, it was infuriatingly effective.

And now it’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re sitting across from him in a tiny Parisian café that feels plucked from a dream. He picked it, of course, because he’s Timothée and he knows how to set a scene. There’s a faint drizzle outside, blurring the lights into a soft halo around the windows, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, almost absentmindedly, like it’s a fact he just remembered.

Your brain stutters. Pretty? You don’t know how to respond to that. “Uh, thanks?” you manage, your voice an octave higher than usual. “You’re, um, pretty too. Can I say that? Is that weird?”

Timothée laughs, low and warm, and it feels like the room tilts just a little. “It’s not weird,” he says, leaning forward, his chin resting on his hand. “But it’s kind of adorable that you’re overthinking it.”

You want to roll your eyes, to deflect, but he’s looking at you with such unguarded affection that it’s hard to hide. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin instead, trying to focus on anything other than the intensity of his gaze.

“This is weird for me,” you blurt out, surprising even yourself. “Like, I’ve rejected affection for years, and now I have it, and—damn it—it’s kind of weird.”

Timothée’s expression softens, and his hand reaches across the table to cover yours. “Weird’s okay,” he says. “Weird’s honest. I like honest.”

Your heart stumbles, then takes off at a sprint. He’s too much—too kind, too perceptive, too everything, and you’re terrified of what that means. But then his thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding you, and you realize that maybe it doesn’t have to be terrifying. Maybe it can just be good.

The waiter arrives with dessert, breaking the moment, and you’re grateful for the distraction. It’s a shared plate of macarons in delicate pastel hues, and Timothée immediately pops a pink one into his mouth, humming in approval.

“Try the lavender one,” he says, holding it out to you with an encouraging smile.

You hesitate, then lean forward to take a bite. It’s soft and sweet, just like this moment, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself enjoy it.

Timothée grins, his lips dusted with sugar. “See? Not so bad, right?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. Not so bad.”

And as the rain taps gently against the window and Timothée starts rambling about the best macaron flavors, you think that maybe, just maybe, love isn’t as scary as you thought.