Puppy

𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warning: Mentions of Narcolepsy

The warm water wraps around you like a cocoon, the steam curling into the air as you lean back against the edge of the tub. It’s been a long day, and the soft scent of lavender is supposed to help you relax. Your eyes flutter shut for just a moment—just a moment, you think—but you know better.

Before you can react, the familiar weight of exhaustion tugs at you, pulling you under like an unseen tide.

But before you sink too far, strong arms are already there. Charles.

"Hey, chérie," his voice is soft, laced with concern as he pulls you upright. His arms are warm, steady, the kind of safety you don’t even have to think about. "I’ve got you."

You blink up at him, dazed. He’s crouched beside the tub, sleeves of his hoodie damp, his curls a little disheveled like he ran the moment he realized you’d been in here too long.

"I—" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Did I...?"

"You were falling asleep," he confirms, brushing wet strands of hair away from your face. "I was in the other room, but I had a feeling."

Of course he did. He always does.

You swallow, guilt settling in. "I didn’t mean to..."

"Shhh." He shakes his head, offering you that small, understanding smile that always makes your heart ache in the best way. "You don’t have to apologize."

With careful hands, he reaches for a towel, wrapping it around you before lifting you effortlessly from the water. The air is cooler against your skin, but he holds you close, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

"You scared me a little," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "But you’re okay. That’s all that matters."

You curl into his chest, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the softness of his hoodie. "Thank you for always catching me."

His grip tightens, his lips brushing against your temple. "Always, mon amour."

And in his arms, you know—you will always be safe.

And she feels like home

Jason Todd x Reader

It’s nearing midnight when the rhythmic tapping on the window pulls you from the quiet comfort of your book. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. That sound is familiar. Rising from the couch, you pad softly to the window. Pulling back the curtain, your heart sinks.

There he is—Jason Todd—leaning against the window frame, a silhouette of leather and exhaustion. His helmet dangles loosely from one hand, the other clutching his side. Blood trickles from a cut above his brow, streaking his face.

“Jason!” you gasp, hurriedly unlocking the window and helping him inside.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he rasps, his voice strained but laced with the wry humor you know so well. “Miss me?”

Your worry turns into a flurry of activity. You guide him to the couch, muttering something about stubborn vigilantes. He winces as he settles down, his usual confident demeanor dimmed by pain.

“What happened?” you demand, kneeling before him to inspect the damage.

“Bad night,” he mutters. “Some gang thought they could take me out. Clearly, they didn’t succeed.” His smirk is fleeting as he winces again.

“Jason, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Your voice cracks, tears threatening to spill. “You scare me every time you show up like this.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with a gloved hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the apology in his eyes far deeper than the words. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just… I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Your chest tightens. You can’t stay mad, not when he looks at you like that. Gently, you remove his gloves and begin cleaning his wounds. His shoulders relax under your touch, tension melting away as you care for him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this alone,” you say softly, wrapping a bandage around his arm. “You can lean on me, Jason. Always.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he reaches out, pulling you into his lap with surprising strength.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours.

“Maybe not,” you tease, your lips quirking into a small smile. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough but filled with warmth. His arms tighten around you, and you feel his breath against your skin.

“Thank you,” he says after a long pause, his voice barely audible.

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the only sound your steady breathing as you hold each other. In that moment, nothing else matters—just the quiet promise of your love and the hope that, no matter what, you’ll face the chaos of his world together.

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

Dean Winchester x Reader

You hear the telltale growl of the Impala before you see it, a sound as familiar as the smell of herbs in your little apothecary. Dean Winchester steps out first, as he always does, with Sam trailing behind him like the level-headed shadow he is.

"You called," Dean says, leaning against the doorframe of your shop, his green eyes scanning your face as if you’re already plotting something dangerous.

Which, of course, you are.

"Dean," you purr, letting his name roll off your tongue like silk. "I knew you'd come running. Did you miss me?"

He doesn’t rise to the bait—at least not immediately. Instead, he crosses his arms, feigning indifference, but the twitch of his lips betrays him.

Sam clears his throat. "There’s a case. People turning up dead with their hearts ripped out. Thought it might be… your kind of thing."

"My kind of thing?" You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. "Sam, you wound me. I’m a harmless witch."

"Yeah, harmless," Dean mutters under his breath, but there’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You step closer, the floorboards creaking under your boots. Dean doesn’t back away—he never does—but his shoulders stiffen slightly as you invade his space. You make sure to trail your fingers along his jacket sleeve, a casual, fleeting touch that you know will make him clench his jaw.

"Relax, Dean," you whisper, tilting your head up to look him in the eye. "I don’t bite… unless you ask nicely."

Sam groans. "Can we not? Please?"

You laugh, a low, melodic sound that fills the small shop. Dean glares at Sam, muttering something about "ruining the fun," before turning his attention back to you.

"So, what do you know about this heart-stealing monster?" he asks, his tone all business now.

You sigh, stepping away from him to rifle through a shelf of dusty books. "A creature that rips out hearts? Sounds like a revenant or a very angry ex-girlfriend."

Dean snorts. "Any way to narrow it down?"

You flip open a heavy tome, running your finger along the yellowed pages. "Maybe. But it’ll cost you."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Cost me? What, you want cash? A favor? My firstborn?"

You close the book and give him a sly smile. "No, Dean. I want you to smile for me. A real one."

Sam makes an exasperated noise, but Dean just stares at you, his lips twitching. "That’s what you want?" he asks, his voice low.

"Mm-hmm," you hum, leaning against the counter. "That, and maybe dinner. You know, for research purposes."

Dean shakes his head, but there’s a softness in his eyes now, a hint of amusement mixed with something else—something he probably doesn’t want to admit.

"You’re impossible," he mutters.

"And yet, here you are," you counter, smirking.

He doesn’t argue because you’re right. Dean Winchester might be stubborn, but he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame. And you? You’re more than happy to let him burn.

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.

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.

sweetheart

Dante Sparda x Reader

You’ve never met someone as insufferable as Dante Sparda. With his smug grin, devil-may-care attitude, and a penchant for turning everything into a joke, he’s the embodiment of everything you hate. A cocky show-off who acts like the world owes him a favor just because he’s good with a sword.

And you? You’re just someone who doesn’t have time for his nonsense.

The mission was simple enough. Something about a demon nest hidden in the abandoned catacombs beneath the city. Dante, for reasons you’d never understand, insisted on tagging along. You told him no. He came anyway.

“Y’know, you really shouldn’t go into places like this alone,” he says as the two of you step into the cold, damp tunnels. He walks beside you, his oversized sword slung casually over his shoulder, a revolver holstered at his side. His red coat sways with every step, and you find yourself gritting your teeth at how effortlessly he makes it all look.

“Shouldn’t you be off somewhere preening in front of a mirror?” you snap, your voice echoing in the gloom. “Or maybe finding someone else to bother?”

He chuckles, that infuriating sound that somehow manages to sound both genuine and mocking. “Ouch. Right in the ego. You know, if you keep being this mean to me, I might start thinking you don’t like me.”

“Good,” you reply, not missing a beat. “Maybe you’ll take the hint and leave me alone.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You hate that nickname. You hate how he says it, like it’s some kind of inside joke you’re not in on. You shoot him a glare, and he winks in response.

It doesn’t take long before the first wave of demons descends. You’re faster than him—quicker to draw your weapon and strike. Your blade cuts through the air with precision, dispatching the lesser demons with practiced ease.

Dante, of course, makes a show of it. He leaps into the fray like it’s a performance, spinning his sword in wide, exaggerated arcs. His guns bark loudly as he fires off a few rounds, each shot landing perfectly.

“Having fun yet?” he calls out, grinning at you over his shoulder.

You don’t answer, focusing instead on taking down the last of the creatures. When the fight is over, you stand amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. Dante, of course, looks like he just walked out of a salon. Not a hair out of place.

“You’re welcome,” he says, sheathing his sword with a flourish.

“For what?” you ask, wiping blood from your blade. “Showing off? Or getting in my way?”

“For making this whole thing more entertaining.” He leans casually against the wall, crossing his arms. “Admit it—you’d be bored without me.”

You don’t bother responding.

The deeper you go into the catacombs, the more the tension between you builds. It’s not just the danger of the place or the oppressive atmosphere—it’s him. Always there, always pushing your buttons.

“So,” he says after a while, breaking the silence, “why do you hate me so much?”

You roll your eyes. “Do you really want me to list all the reasons? We’ll be here all night.”

“Try me.”

You sigh, exasperated. “You’re arrogant, annoying, and you never take anything seriously.”

“Anything else?”

“You flirt with everything that moves.”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’ve got good taste.”

You stop walking, turning to face him. “This isn’t a game, Dante. People’s lives are at stake. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then just leave.”

For a moment, something shifts in his expression. The grin falters, and you catch a glimpse of something deeper—a flicker of understanding, maybe even regret.

Then it’s gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got your back.”

“I don’t need you to have my back,” you snap. “I don’t need you, period.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, brushing past you. “But don’t be too surprised when I’m the one saving your ass later.”

You glare at his back as he walks ahead, his red coat disappearing into the shadows. You hate him. You really do.

But somehow, against all logic, you know he’s right.

Request

Note:

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

• Only fem!readers

pretty girl

Harris Dickinson x Reader

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the sea as you stand on the balcony, the city lights flickering like stars in the distance. You shiver slightly, but before you can retreat inside, strong arms wrap around you from behind. Harris Dickinson pulls you close, his breath warm against your neck as he murmurs, “Cold, love?”

You nod, leaning into his embrace, the steady rise and fall of his chest grounding you. He turns you in his arms, his blue eyes searching yours, filled with something tender, something unspoken. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face before he tilts your chin up.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he’s in awe. And then he kisses you—softly at first, like he’s savoring the moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of your lips. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, as if you’re something delicate, something precious.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a gentle murmur. “My pretty girl.” The words send a shiver down your spine, not from the cold but from the way he says them—possessive yet reverent, as if you are his favorite thing in the world.

You smile, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw before curling into the fabric of his sweater.

The night stretches before you, filled with possibilities, with whispered promises and stolen kisses. And in this moment, wrapped in his arms, nothing else matters but the way he holds you—like you are the only thing he ever wants to hold.

Something about you

Miles Morales x Reader

The city hums beneath you, a melody of honking cars and bustling crowds blending into the kind of rhythm you’ve always loved. From this high up, perched on the edge of a rooftop, you can see everything—the glowing skyline, the pulsing heart of Brooklyn, and him. Miles Morales. Spider-Man.

You’re not supposed to be here, but then again, neither is he.

“You come up here often?” he asks, pulling his mask off just enough to reveal his face. His brown eyes gleam with something warm, something curious, and it makes your chest tighten. You don’t know how he does that—how he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, even in a city as loud as this one.

You’ve known him for a while now. At first, just the regular run-ins, where you didn’t even know he was Spider-Man. Then, it was late-night conversations over coffee at your favorite bodega, stolen moments in crowded streets, the way he started to show up more often, his hoodie pulled low, trying to act like he wasn’t waiting for you.

Now, here you are—on a rooftop under a bruised-purple sky, where the air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet.

“You tell me,” you shoot back, your voice lighter than you feel. “Spider-Man probably has all the best views, right?”

He grins, and it’s like the city lights get caught in his smile, making it brighter. “Yeah, but this one’s different.”

You tilt your head, your brows furrowing. “Different how?”

Miles leans back, his arms propping him up as he looks out over the city. The golden glow of the setting sun brushes across his face, painting him in warm light. And when he looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing something more than just your face. Something deeper.

“Because you’re here,” he says, his voice softer now. “You look... I don’t know. Like a dream or something. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen...”

“Wow,” you interrupt, laughing despite yourself. “That’s cheesy, even for you, Morales.”

His laugh joins yours, a sound so easy and real that it makes your heart stumble. But then his gaze softens again, and the weight of it pins you in place.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You don’t see it, but you’re... everything. Like, when I’m out there—swinging around, doing the whole hero thing—it’s your face I think of when things get tough.”

The words catch you off guard. You’ve never had anyone talk to you like this, like you’re more than just another person in the crowd. Like you’re something worth remembering. Worth fighting for.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Miles…”

Before you can say anything else, he’s standing, holding a hand out to you. “Come on,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate for only a second before slipping your hand into his. His grip is warm, steady, and when he pulls you closer, you don’t even think about the drop below. With a quick flick of his wrist, his web shoots out, catching onto a building across the way.

“You trust me?” he asks, grinning.

“Do I have a choice?” you tease, but your heart races for a completely different reason now.

“Nope,” he says, and before you can overthink it, he pulls you into his arms and leaps.

The city blurs into streaks of light and color, the wind rushing past your face as you hold onto him. His laughter rings in your ears, and for the first time in a long time, you feel free.

When he finally lands on another rooftop, you’re breathless. Not from the swinging, but from the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the most important thing in his world.

“See?” he says, still holding onto you. “Best view in the city.”

And as the last rays of sunlight fade into the horizon, you realize he’s not talking about the skyline.

Cold cold man

Tangerine x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“At what?” you ask, turning to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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