𝒘𝒆'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓

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.

𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

Nicholas Chavez x Reader

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he’d left.

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

You’d hated him ever since.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,” you lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hated him.

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

𝐎𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐝! 𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

Dave Lizewski x Reader

You’ve known Dave Lizewski since you were kids, your childhood filled with random conversations, shared secrets, and playground adventures. He was always the awkward, goofy guy with a heart of gold, never really standing out but always managing to make you laugh. The two of you went your separate ways as you got older, but somehow, you always ended up in the same classes, walking the same halls. It was almost like fate had a funny way of pulling you back together.

Now, here you are, teenagers, both of you in the same high school, sitting next to each other in History class. And yet, nothing feels the same. Dave has changed. You’ve noticed it before—the way he’s grown into his body, how he’s stopped wearing those ridiculous superhero T-shirts that used to make you laugh, but still, you’ve always seen him the same way. You’ve always known him as Dave, the boy who couldn’t seem to look at you without turning red.

But lately, something’s different. You’ve started catching him looking at you—really looking at you. Not just glancing over your shoulder or sneaking a glance when he thinks you're not paying attention, but staring at you, his expression softer, almost like he’s seeing you for the first time. It makes your heart skip a beat every time, and you’re sure he’s noticed.

Today, during lunch, you’re sitting in the cafeteria, your tray in front of you, half-eaten. You’re talking to your friends, but your eyes keep straying to the table where Dave is sitting with his usual group. You can feel his eyes on you again, a familiar warmth creeping up your neck, making you look over to find him already glancing in your direction. His face is flushed, as if he’s embarrassed to have been caught, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. You almost don’t want to look away because you feel it, too—the pull.

You decide to take the plunge and stand up, walking over to his table, your heart racing in your chest. His friends all wave and greet you, but you can’t focus on them. Dave is sitting there, his hand resting awkwardly on his tray, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. You meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

“Hey, Dave,” you say, breaking the silence with a smile. His gaze softens immediately, and he sits up straighter, like he’s been waiting for you to come over for ages.

“Hey, you...” he replies, his voice just a little shaky. There’s a small pause before he adds, “You look… really nice today.”

You can’t help but smile at the sincerity in his words, the way he blushes immediately afterward. It’s the same old Dave, the one who’s always been awkward, but now there’s something new between you. Something unspoken. You shift on your feet, unsure of what to say next, and then you hear him mutter, almost to himself, “I… I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“Really?” You can’t help but let the words slip out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his eyes meeting yours again. “Yeah, since we were little. But I was always too afraid to say anything.”

A soft laugh escapes you, not mocking, but warm and knowing. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you were always so out of my league,” he admits, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I figured you’d never look at me the same way.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “You’re an idiot,” you tell him gently, feeling a rush of affection toward him. “You’ve always been my friend, Dave. I think… I think I’ve always liked you, too.”

His eyes widen, the surprise written clearly on his face. It’s like the world has just tilted on its axis for him. His hand twitches, like he wants to reach out to you but doesn’t know how to.

“Well, I guess I’m just an idiot who got lucky then,” he says with a grin, that familiar warmth returning to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your heart racing. “I guess so.”

You sit down next to him, the world seeming to melt away as you both fall into easy conversation, like no time has passed. But now, there’s something new between you, something you can’t ignore. The spark that was always there is finally being acknowledged, and you both know it’s only the beginning of something much bigger.

And as the lunch bell rings, signaling the end of another school day, you find yourself feeling lighter, your heart warmer than it’s ever been. This, whatever this is between you and Dave, feels like it’s meant to be.

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.

𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓭𝔂'𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over your bedroom, illuminating Leon’s tired but ever-gentle face. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as you tuck your twin daughters into bed. Their little chests rise and fall in peaceful rhythm, the warmth of their innocence filling the room.

“You’re staring,” you whisper, a knowing smile tugging at your lips as you step toward him.

Leon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you blame me?” His voice is low, full of quiet admiration. “Seeing you with them… it reminds me how lucky I am.”

You shake your head with a laugh, but the way his blue eyes soften makes your heart clench. Even after all these years—after the missions, the nightmares, the scars—he still looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

The two of you slip into the hallway, careful not to wake the girls. As soon as you close the door, Leon wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. His scent fills your senses.

“Tough mission today?” you murmur against his chest, your fingers tracing small circles on his back.

He exhales heavily, his grip tightening around you. “Not as tough as coming home and seeing our girls growing up so fast.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice. “I swear, they were just babies yesterday.”

You pull back slightly, cupping his face in your hands. “They’re still our babies. And they always will be.”

His lips quirk into a half-smile before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “I know.” Then, his voice turns playful. “But what about you? Still my girl?”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your chest spreads. “Always.”

He grins before dipping his head, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s not rushed, not desperate—it’s the kind of kiss that speaks of years of love, of promises kept, of battles fought side by side.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “I missed you today,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek.

You smile, pressing a kiss to his palm.

His expression grows serious, and you know what he’s thinking—that he fights so you and the girls never have to. That every time he walks out the door, he carries the fear of not coming back.

But tonight, he’s here. And that’s all that matters.

You take his hand and lead him toward your bedroom, ready to steal whatever moments of peace the night will allow. Because loving Leon Kennedy means loving a man who fights battles you’ll never see—but who will always, always come home to you.

I can't read your mind

Carlos Sainz x Reader

The low hum of the Madrid evening wraps around you like a gentle embrace, broken only by the murmur of distant voices and the occasional clink of glasses. You stand on the balcony of a sleek penthouse, your sequined gown catching the moonlight as if it were meant to. Tonight had been a triumph—the premiere of your latest film—but your thoughts are tangled, a script with too many subplots to follow.

Behind you, the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your reverie. You turn to see Carlos Sainz, his tailored suit catching the light as effortlessly as his smile catches your breath. His hands are tucked casually in his pockets, and his eyes, dark and mischievous, carry that infuriating glint that always seems to find your weak spot.

“You’ve been hiding out here,” he says, his voice teasing as he leans on the railing beside you.

“I needed air,” you reply, keeping your tone even, neutral.

This isn’t the first time you’ve crossed paths. For months, it’s been the same: fleeting encounters at festivals, galas, yacht parties in Monaco. There’s always been a pull between you, something unspoken but electric. Tonight, though, it feels like the air between you has shifted.

“You’re quiet,” he observes, tilting his head. “Not like you.”

You grip the railing, searching for the right words. “Do you ever feel like… you can’t figure someone out? Like no matter what they say, their actions keep contradicting their words?”

His brow lifts, intrigued. “Sometimes. But I usually don’t waste time trying to figure people out. They show you who they are, one way or another.”

You let out a soft laugh, tinged with frustration. “That’s easy for you to say. You live life in the fast lane. No time to overthink.”

“And you?” he counters, his voice dipping lower. “You’re always overthinking, aren’t you?"

The way he looks at you makes your heart skip. You glance away, but the weight of his gaze lingers. Finally, you admit what’s been gnawing at you.

“I just… I don’t get you, Carlos. One minute, you’re charming and attentive, and the next, you’re distant. You say you want to keep things casual, but then you look at me like this.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and the silence makes your pulse quicken. Then, he takes a step closer, his presence radiating warmth.

“I didn’t think someone like you would slow down for someone like me,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink, startled by his candor. “Why not?”

“You’re a star. Everyone wants a piece of you. I didn’t want to add to that. But now…” He pauses, his fingers brushing yours on the railing. “Now, I’m starting to think I’ve been wrong.”

Your breath catches. In his eyes, you see something raw, unguarded—a glimpse of the man behind the charm.

“Maybe I don’t want casual,” he continues, his voice softer now. “Maybe I’m just scared you don’t want anything more.”

The honesty in his words cracks something open in you. You’ve been holding back, too, afraid to show him just how much he’s gotten under your skin.

“I don’t need you to read my mind, Carlos,” you say, your hand turning to intertwine with his. “I just need you to be honest with me.”

His smile, the one that always weakens your knees, softens into something real. “That, I can do.”

The city lights shimmer below as he leans in, his lips brushing yours. The kiss is unhurried, sincere, and it drowns out the doubts that had clouded your mind. In that moment, the world falls away, leaving only the quiet truth of what you’ve both been searching for all along.

Good father

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Boyfriend

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

You’re leaning against the bar, nursing a glass of something far too sweet, trying to blend into the crowd that pulses around you. The bass of the music vibrates through your chest, but it’s not the rhythm making your pulse race. It’s him. Pietro Maximoff.

He’s across the room, laughing, tossing his silver hair back as if the spotlight should follow him. It always does, in a way. There’s something magnetic about him, something that pulls you in even when you tell yourself you’ve had enough of his games.

You’ve told yourself a thousand times that this isn’t anything. Just two people who can’t seem to stay away from each other. He’s not your boyfriend. You’re not his girlfriend. And yet, the way his eyes keep darting to you, sharp and possessive, says otherwise.

You don’t want to admit that it bothers you, but it does. The girl he’s talking to is tall, leaning in too close, her hand brushing his arm. You watch as his grin falters for a fraction of a second, his gaze finding yours.

And just like that, he’s gone. A blur of silver and blue as he darts through the crowd, leaving the girl startled and blinking at the empty space he’s left behind.

“Jealous?” he says, suddenly at your side, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip.

“Of what?” you ask, turning your head away from him, pretending not to care.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your ear. “You tell me.”

You hate that he’s right. That you do care. That the idea of him with anyone else makes something twist in your chest. But you’re not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Maximoff,” you say, setting your glass down with a little more force than necessary.

He laughs, low and rich, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Right. Because you were just standing there, staring at me for no reason.”

Your jaw tightens. “Maybe I was staring at her.”

He blinks, caught off guard for a split second, before the smirk returns. “Sure, detka. Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s too close now, his hand brushing against yours, and suddenly the room feels too small, the music too loud.

“You don’t want me to see anyone else,” he says, softer this time, the teasing gone from his voice. “And I don’t want you to see anyone either. So why are we pretending?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you hate how easily he does this to you—how easily he gets under your skin, how easily he makes you want things you swore you didn’t need.

“Because it’s complicated,” you say, your voice barely audible over the music.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he says, and then his hand is on your cheek, tilting your face toward him.

You could pull away. You should pull away. But instead, you let him close the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a way that’s both familiar and electric.

And for the first time, you wonder if maybe he’s right. Maybe it doesn’t have to be complicated at all.

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.