𝓜𝔂 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓼𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭

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.

Kisses

James Potter x Reader

The roar of the crowd echoes around the Quidditch pitch, the crisp autumn air buzzing with anticipation. You stand near the Gryffindor stands, wrapped in your house scarf, the golden threads gleaming in the sunlight. The match is moments away from starting, but James Potter doesn’t seem to care.

“James,” you laugh breathlessly, trying—and failing—to push him away as he presses another kiss to your lips. “You’re supposed to be on the pitch!”

He grins against your mouth, warm and insistent. “Not without my good luck charm.”

Your cheeks burn, though you know it’s not from the cold. “You say that every match,” you murmur, fingers tangling in his wind-tousled hair.

“Because it’s true,” he replies, tilting his head just enough to steal another kiss, deeper this time, his Quidditch gloves brushing against your jaw as he cups your face. You melt for a moment before reality tugs you back.

“James,” you scold, though your voice lacks conviction. Behind him, the Gryffindor team is already mounting their brooms, waiting.

James finally pulls away—reluctantly, with a groan—his hazel eyes shining with mischief. “Fine, fine. But if we win, I’m giving you all the credit.”

You roll your eyes but smile as he swings a leg over his broom, hovering in the air. Before he flies off, he winks. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

As if you would.

The whistle blows, and James shoots into the sky, weaving effortlessly through the air, dodging Bludgers with practiced ease. And even from below, as you cheer with the rest of Gryffindor, you can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, the taste of laughter and stolen moments lingering.

Maybe he’s right—maybe you are his good luck charm. And if that means more kisses before every match, well… who are you to argue?

𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Peter Parker x Reader

You lean against the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below like a thousand stars caught in the web of concrete. The wind ruffles your hair, but you're not bothered by it. Not when you're so focused on the one person who’s been messing with your mind lately—Spider-Man.

He's perched on the edge of the building, eyes scanning the streets below, looking for trouble. But the moment you step into his line of sight, everything shifts. He straightens up, his posture alert, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a challenge, maybe even a glint of something else. He knows who you are, and you know him. You've crossed paths more times than you'd care to admit—fighting, teasing, bickering.

And yet, there's always that tension. You can feel it in the air, like the charged buzz before a thunderstorm.

“So, what are we doing tonight, Webhead?” you call out, deliberately leaning closer as you speak, making sure he notices the sway of your voice. You see the way his jaw tightens, how his body stiffens, and it's almost enough to make you smirk. Almost.

“You know,” he says, voice low and steady, but you can catch the edge of something more, “I’m getting kind of tired of you showing up just to cause chaos.” He flips himself into a crouch, ready for anything.

“Cause chaos?” You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a playful smile. “I’m just here to have a little fun. You should try it sometime.” Your eyes meet his, and there's an almost teasing energy in your stare, the same electric current that always seems to pass between you two.

His eyes narrow. “Are you flirting with me or starting a fight?”

You let out a soft laugh, a laugh that dances between confidence and something far more dangerous. “Why not both?” You take a step closer, watching the way his breath catches. You know he’s trying to keep his cool, but the way his gaze flickers down to your lips gives him away. You’ve seen that look before. He’s not entirely immune.

There’s a beat of silence between you, the kind that teases at something deeper. Something almost… dangerous. You both know you're enemies. You've fought on opposite sides countless times. But there’s something about this game you play. It's like a constant tug-of-war between attraction and animosity.

Spider-Man lunges toward you with a speed you barely manage to sidestep. The playful tension slips into something more intense, more urgent. He spins around, keeping his distance, but you can feel his presence pressing in on you.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t want that,” you tease, taking a slow step forward, daring him to make the next move.

His lips twitch, like he’s about to say something—maybe even flirt back—but then he stops himself. It’s almost as if he’s wrestling with his own reaction, weighing the consequences of letting this thing between you two slip into something more. Something… personal.

But then, in a flash of motion, he’s gone. No fight. No words. Just the whisper of his webbing as it disappears into the night.

You stand there for a moment, watching the empty space where he used to be. A soft laugh escapes your lips.

This isn’t over. You both know it.

And deep down, you both know it never will be.

blah, blah, blah....shut up

Dante Sparda x Reader

You step into the dimly lit cathedral, boots clicking against the cracked stone floor. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the decrepit walls, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass windows. You know he's here. You always do. The air carries that familiar charge—like lightning waiting to strike.

And then, he speaks.

"Well, if it isn’t my favorite thorn in the side. Couldn’t stay away, could you?"

The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, comes from the darkness above. Dante Sparda. That smirk of his practically audible even before you see his face.

You tilt your head slightly, fingers tightening around your weapon. "You’re the one who makes this whole 'hero of humanity' thing a lot more interesting. Couldn't resist the urge to see me again?"

A slow clap echoes through the cathedral as he steps out of the shadows. That cocky strut of his, the way his crimson coat flares behind him—it’s maddening how he makes the line between charm and arrogance blur. His silver hair glints in the pale light, and his mismatched eyes, one blue and one crimson, are locked on you.

"You’ve got a way with words," he drawls, stopping a few feet from you, Rebellion slung lazily over his shoulder. "Too bad I’ll have to cut this poetry slam short."

You roll your eyes, though your lips twitch in a smirk of their own. "Big talk from someone who’s never managed to land a killing blow."

He chuckles at that, low and rich, the sound curling around you like smoke. "You’d miss me too much if I did." He leans forward just slightly, tilting his head. "Tell me, sweetheart, what keeps bringing you back? The thrill? The chase? Or…" He flashes you a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Is it me?"

Your stomach twists, and not in the way you’d like to admit. His arrogance is insufferable, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t light a fire under your skin. Still, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.

"You’re delusional," you retort, stepping closer, daring him to close the gap. "But if you must know, I like keeping my enemies alive. Makes the victories more satisfying."

He hums thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over you, unabashed and brazen. "Oh, I bet you do."

You scoff, but there’s heat rising to your cheeks, and you hate how he notices. He always does. His grin only widens, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s teasing you just to throw you off your game—or if he really means it. Either way, it works.

"You done yet?" you snap, raising your weapon, the blade gleaming as it catches the faint light. "Or are you just stalling because you know you’re going to lose?"

Dante’s eyes light up with that familiar spark of reckless excitement, and he lifts Rebellion, pointing it lazily at you. "Oh, I’m just getting started, babe."

And then he’s on you, a whirlwind of steel and smirks, the clash of your blades ringing out through the cathedral. He fights like he talks—bold, unpredictable, and maddeningly confident. Every strike you throw is met with a counter, every feint answered with a cocky remark that makes you want to punch that smirk off his face.

But there’s something about the way he moves, the way he watches you, that keeps you from hating him entirely. His eyes burn with more than just battle lust; they hold something else, something you can’t quite put into words. And damn it, you’re starting to think he knows it too.

He locks your blade with his, faces inches apart, his breath warm against your skin. "Admit it," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "You’re having fun."

You glare at him, trying to ignore the way your heart skips a beat. "Shut up."

He laughs, leaning in just a fraction closer. "You’ll miss me when I’m gone."

You don’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, you shove him back with a growl, your blade flashing as you press the attack. His grin only widens, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see a flicker of something genuine behind his cocky facade.

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.

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.

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.

𝒘𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓

The Marauders x Reader

You lie still, your body heavy beneath the weight of the blankets, but it’s the emotional weight pressing down on you that keeps you rooted to the bed. The room is dim, the soft light of the late afternoon sun barely cutting through the curtains. The world feels distant, muffled, like it’s all happening somewhere far away that you can’t reach.

You haven't felt like getting up for days. Your thoughts are tangled, and your heart seems too tired to care. It’s been a struggle, and every time you close your eyes, the darkness seems to take over just a little more.

But today... today something is different.

You hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching, followed by a familiar voice, the one that always manages to make you feel just a little less alone. It's Sirius, though his voice is quieter than usual. He knows you’ve been struggling, and he doesn’t want to push, not when you’re clearly hurting so much. “Hey, you still with us?” he asks gently, his head peeking around the doorframe. His messy hair falls in front of his eyes, and you can see the concern etched on his face, even in the dim light.

You don’t respond, not at first, but you don’t need to. He knows.

Behind him, James slips in, his usual exuberance toned down today, as if he too recognizes the weight that hangs in the air. His eyes are softer than usual as he sits at the edge of your bed, carefully, like he’s afraid the wrong move might break something in you. “We brought snacks,” he says lightly, as if the mention of food could somehow bridge the gap between where you are and where they want you to be. But you don’t react, not right away.

Sirius sits next to you on the other side, his presence warm and comforting. “It’s okay, you know,” he says quietly, and you can feel the sincerity in his words, like he’s trying to make sure you understand. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... just let us be here.”

You want to reach out, but your hands feel frozen, as though they might crumble if you try. But somehow, Remus is there too, sitting beside James, his calm voice breaking through the silence. “We’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to be alone with this.”

And just like that, the space around you feels a little less cold. The three of them settle in around you, not asking you to speak, not demanding anything from you, just offering themselves—offering their company, their support, their friendship.

You feel Sirius nudge you lightly, a playful smile in his voice. “So, what do you say, then? You up for a game of wizard’s chess? I promise I’ll let you win this time.”

James chuckles, rolling his eyes. “As if. We all know you’ll win anyway, Padfoot. You always do.”

“Not the point, Prongs,” Sirius teases, nudging you again. “It’s about the fun. Let’s just sit here for a while, yeah?”

You finally look up, meeting his eyes, and there’s no judgment there—only a quiet understanding. The same goes for James, who gently sets down the snacks, and Remus, whose presence alone seems to soothe the ache inside you.

You don’t have to say anything, not now. You know they’ll stay with you, no matter how long it takes for the fog to lift. There’s no rush. No pressure.

You feel a flicker of something—something warm, something that feels a little like hope.

Maybe it’ll take time to feel like yourself again. Maybe it’ll take time for the weight to lift. But you don’t have to carry it alone.

And that, in itself, is enough.

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓪 𝓛𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓸𝔂

Tangerine x Reader

You hear Tangerine’s voice from the next room, that smooth British accent you fell in love with long before you fell in love with him.

"Darling," he calls, the sound of it like music to your ears. "Where are you hiding now?"

You can't help but smile as you sit curled up on the sofa, a book in hand but hardly paying attention to the words on the page. You loved this little game, the way he made even mundane moments feel like a grand adventure.

“I’m not hiding,” you reply, raising your voice just enough for him to hear but still with a playful edge. “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

You hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps on the hardwood floor, deliberate and slow. “Ah, is that a challenge?”

Before you can respond, he appears in the doorway, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. The way he leans against the frame, the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—it sends a thrill through you.

"Found you," he says softly, his accent turning the simple phrase into something far more enchanting.

Your cheeks heat as you laugh, closing your book and setting it aside. “That didn’t take long. I was hoping you’d try harder.”

Tangerine crosses the room in a few strides and sits beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours before he takes it, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on your palm. “I don’t need to try hard when I know exactly where my favorite person always is.”

You look at him, trying not to let his words completely undo you, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. He leans closer, his voice dropping just slightly, low enough that it feels like a secret meant only for you.

“You like it when I talk, don’t you?” he teases, and his accent wraps around every syllable like a gift he knows you’ll never tire of unwrapping.

“Maybe,” you reply, pretending to play coy even as your heart races.

He grins, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushes yours. “You’re a terrible liar,” he murmurs, his voice warm and soft, the kind of sound that lingers in your chest long after it’s gone.

And then he kisses you—slow, tender, and filled with all the love he doesn’t even need to say because you already know it’s there. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and he smiles, that signature smile you can’t help but adore.

“Did I tell you I love you today?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, though you know he has, in a hundred different ways.

“Well then,” he says, that accent melting into the words like honey, “I love you more than words could ever say. But I’ll happily keep trying to prove it.”

And with him, you know he always will.

𝓜𝓻. & 𝓜𝓻𝓼. 𝓢𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓱

Tangerine x Reader

You stand at the edge of the grand ballroom, surrounded by whispers and the soft clink of champagne flutes. The soft glow of chandeliers casts a warm light over the room, but all you can focus on is him. Dressed in a sharp tuxedo, his eyes glinting with mischief as he casually leans against the wall beside you. You’ve been pretending for hours — a perfectly crafted, flawless marriage in the eyes of everyone around you. But deep down, the tension has been building.

You smile up at him, the polite, charming grin that’s become second nature over the years. But you notice the way his gaze lingers on you, just a second too long. You feel the heat of his attention in the pit of your stomach.

As the music swells, he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I’m starting to wonder if they’re buying it,” he murmurs. “Are you?”

You chuckle, a soft sound that barely escapes your lips. “Of course they are. We’re the perfect couple,” you reply, the words dripping with sweetness, but your heart races. You can’t decide if it's the lie or the truth that excites you.

Then, without warning, his hand finds your back, pulling you just a little closer. The brush of his fingers against your skin sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can react, he tilts your chin up, his lips brushing against yours in a swift, confident kiss.

It’s not what you expect — not the sweet, gentle kiss of a happy couple. It’s urgent. It’s calculated. But it’s also electric. Every nerve in your body seems to hum in response as the crowd blurs around you. The world disappears, leaving only the two of you locked in this game of power, secrets, and undeniable chemistry.

He pulls away just enough to look you in the eyes, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “They’re definitely buying it,” he says softly, his voice a low rasp.

You swallow, still caught in the moment. “You know how to make a scene,” you reply, your voice thick with the tension he’s created. You’re not sure whether to be angry or thrilled — maybe it’s both.

He steps back, adjusting his suit as if nothing happened, and you follow his lead, pretending as if nothing at all has changed. But inside, something has shifted. The night is far from over, and you have a feeling the lines between reality and play are about to blur even more.