hannah

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 21 | 🇵🇸

[dulcehightower]

writings …

as a hobby and for fun :), if you wish to request, i'm happy to write them! feel free to reblog, like, and interact.

+ i do not give permission for any of my work to be posted to other websites/third parties/etc. do not claim as your own; if you saw my work being stolen, message me here, or my wattpad flower_helaena, or on ao3 dulce_satur, and i'll do my best to respond to you :).

celebrities

h. styles — parents for a day

h. styles — ma chérie

j. satur — the artist, the muse

movies

pride & prejudice

c. bingley — of pride and prejudice

f. darcy — bewitched me, body and soul

tv shows

squid game

hwang jun-ho — eliminated

ali abdul relationship headcanons

the salesman — best years

[palaceoftears]

I prayed to Allah to help me, I had my fortune told: They told me that a fire would start in my heart, that I would go through a golden road and earn my desire, he would come on top of a white horse and bring me to heaven's door, I would go through that great gate... I passed through the golden road that night and arrived in paradise, I believed it was possible to reach heaven when one's alive. I'm Mahidevran, Suleyman's spring rose, his son's Mustafa fortunate mother.

MC characters (3/?)

[tokillaking13]

[kanopos]

portrait practice with some girl i found on pinterest

[yunsera-deactivated20260427]

can i just say how ridiculous it is that black & poc readers still have to scream and shout about being represented properly in fics?? you’d think that people would get the hint by now, but no. you still have your plain old, brunette with long straight hair and pale skin. like don’t you guys think it’s getting old? it’s 2026.

WHERE IS THE TRUE INCLUSIVITY?

specifically writers who have the “x reader” inserted. i’m so sorry but your fic is NOT x reader if you have your own descriptions of the readers inserted—you’re literally creating an OC. my skin does not flush pink, no he did not run his fingers through my hair, nor did they glide through that easily. and yes, many may say “make your own fics” and i do!!!! but we should not have to fight for representation if your fic is for READERS. it’s supposed to be all readers, no? so why are you inserting certain characteristics that not everyone has? of course you don’t know what all of your readers look like, which is why you don’t add things like that in there. it’s easier for many people not to feel this struggle and to tell us to “stop being dramatic” because YOU don’t have to experience that.

it’s completely unfair to the fans that would love to see themselves represented more and can’t, because writers in 2026 have yet to realize that not everyone has pale skin, flowy hair, and a slim figure.

but no one is really ready for that conversation.

[cherrycolaficslover]

As a brown girl I'm fully with you on this! I just want to be horny in peace but hard to do that when people are barely represented 😔 and there's barely any fics with South Asian or Bengali readers 🥲

[loveridden1999]

what if it all worked out in my favour

[thisonegirl]

This double side-eye SENDS MEEEEEEE😭😭😭😭😭😭

[lovelykhaleesiii]

aerion being a messy bitch & they just can’t stand a second more—

[dulcehightower]

"i should punch you in your throat boy" - them probably

[beljude]

[dulcehightower]

need this pathetic man so bad

[addamvelaryon]

Baelor Breakspear

Artist: sofovian_ (twt/ig)

[dulcehightower]

[awkwardlyeverafter]

2026

[dulcehightower]

“i could marry svetlana”

shane, internally:

[stargazedwinchester]

Hello!! Could you write one in which reader is in a relationship with Dean and is completely obsessed with Deans freckles????

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ the freckles by your eyes, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: it's not the first time you notice the freckles upon dean's face. but it's the first time you let him know how beautiful he is with them. word count: 819 pairing: dean winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The sun hits just right through the motel's kitchen window, catching the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbones. He’s sitting at the table, coffee mug in one hand, eyes still half-lidded with sleep. There’s something about the way morning softens him—the way the harsh edges fade, the way his freckles come alive.

You’ve seen them before, of course. Countless times. But somehow, this morning feels different.

He looks peaceful. Vulnerable, even.

And you realize you’ve never really looked at him like this—like someone allowed to take their time.

You lean on the counter, smiling. “You’ve got more freckles than usual.”

Dean glances up, brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

You nod toward him. “Your face. The sun’s been getting to you.”

He huffs a laugh, rubbing his cheek with his knuckles. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re workin’ a job out in the middle of nowhere with no shade.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you tease, crossing the room. “They look good on you.”

He blinks, startled—not because you said something bold, but because it’s him you said it to. Compliments always seem to catch him off guard, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, trying to brush it off. “Sure they do.”

You stop beside him, hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. “No, really. They do.”

He doesn’t look up at first. But when he does, his eyes are impossibly green in the light, and you can see every tiny freckle scattered across his nose. Some are faint, like whispers. Others darker, like little stories his skin decided to keep.

You tilt your head. “I didn’t realize there were so many.”

“Don’t start counting,” he warns lightly, but there’s a smile threatening the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I’m definitely counting,” you say, grinning as you crouch down beside his chair. “Hold still, Winchester.”

He chuckles, cheeks tinting pink. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you say softly, leaning closer, “you’re not stopping me.”

His smirk fades into something gentler, quieter. You’re close enough now to see the faint freckles just beneath his eyes, like tiny constellations scattered across his skin. You lift a hand, tracing the air just above them.

“There’s one right here,” you whisper, fingertip hovering near his cheekbone. “And another one here.”

He doesn’t move.

His breathing slows, lips parting like he wants to say something but can’t. You can feel the warmth coming off him, smell the faint mix of soap and coffee and old leather.

You finally let your touch land, barely grazing his skin as your thumb traces along the curve of his cheek. “They’re beautiful.”

Dean blinks, eyes flicking to yours. “You mean I’m beautiful?”

You smile. “That too.”

That earns a quiet laugh. “You’re outta your mind.”

You shrug, still tracing the bridge of his nose with your thumb. “Maybe. But I think you should know… when you laugh, the ones by your nose wrinkle up. Like little parentheses.”

He laughs again, softer this time, and you watch them appear—the freckles dancing across his cheeks like they’ve been waiting for you to notice.

“You really pay that much attention?” he asks quietly.

You meet his gaze. “Of course I do.”

Something in his expression falters—like you’ve said something dangerous and tender all at once. He swallows, the muscle in his jaw tightening.

“Why?” he asks, almost under his breath.

“Because,” you murmur, “you spend so much time seeing everyone else. Taking care of everyone else. I just… I like seeing you. The parts you probably don’t even think about.”

He blinks a few times, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting emotion he doesn’t quite know how to hold.

Then he says, very softly, “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you like that about me.”

He smiles, small but real. “Yeah,” he admits. “I really do.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just stay there, watching him, memorizing every fleck of color on his skin, every freckle like a secret he didn’t know he was keeping.

Finally, you press a kiss to his cheekbone, right where the light hits. Then another, right on the bridge of his nose.

Dean exhales shakily. “You’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs.

“Not my plan,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m just admiring the view.”

He grins, eyes fluttering shut, and lets you keep kissing the freckles you love so much. When you pull back, he looks at you like you’ve given him something he didn’t know he was missing.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice rough. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For… not lookin’ past me.”

You smile, brushing your thumb along his cheek one last time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And when he leans forward to kiss you, the sunlight catches his freckles again—tiny constellations glowing beneath your touch—and you think, God, I could spend forever mapping him.

[dina-winchester]

Hey, Pretty Girl

Pairing: Dean x you

Summary: A quiet night in the bunker with Dean.

Warnings: None. Pure fluff & sweetness.

The bunker is quiet, the kind of stillness that only settles when the world outside finally stops spinning for a night. Low lamplight glows from the library, golden and warm, and you follow it like a beacon. You know exactly where he is.

Dean’s sitting at the table, one of those old lore books open in front of him, fingers absently tracing a line of text he’s already read twice. You can see the slight crease in his brow, that faraway look in his eyes that says his mind is anywhere but the page.

You pad toward him on bare feet, slow and quiet, until you’re close enough to lean in.

Your arms slip around his broad shoulders from behind, and you feel him exhale—just a soft breath, like you released something held too long in his chest. You press a kiss to the stubble of his cheek, lingering there for a second longer than you have to.

Dean’s hand lifts to rest on your arm, warm and solid. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to brush his cheek into your kiss before he turns to look up at you.

His eyes find yours, soft and shining with that quiet kind of affection that says you’re home.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, low and gentle. Like a secret just for you. Like he’s been waiting all day to say it.

You smile, nose brushing his temple as you murmur, “Missed you.”

“Yeah?” His hand tightens on your arm, thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “Was just sittin’ here hopin’ you’d find me.”

“I always do,” you whisper, leaning down to nuzzle your cheek against his.

And for a moment, there’s nothing else in the world but that—your arms around him, the soft creak of old wood, and the way his voice wraps around you like a warm blanket.

His hand slides from your arm down to your fingers, lacing them gently before he tugs.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

You don’t hesitate. You move around the chair and let him guide you, settling sideways across his lap, your legs draped over his and your arms instinctively circling his shoulders again. His hand finds your thigh, grounding and slow, and the other settles at the small of your back like he never wants to let go.

Dean leans back just a little, eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing every inch. “You okay?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your hip through the soft fabric of your tee.

“Yeah,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. “Better now.”

He smiles, that soft little grin that barely pulls at his mouth but lights up his whole face. “Been sittin’ in here tryin’ to focus, but… kept thinkin’ about you.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I always know where to find you, you know.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, eyes still locked on yours. “Guess part of me’s always waitin’ for your footsteps. It’s like I breathe easier when you walk in.”

Your heart clenches, and you lean in to kiss him—just a soft press to his mouth, slow and unrushed. He kisses you back with the same tenderness, fingers tightening on your waist like he needs to feel every inch of you.

When you pull back, he exhales against your lips and murmurs, “God, you’re somethin’ else.”

You curl against his chest, letting the weight of the world melt away as he holds you. His chin rests on your head, and his hand strokes slow, lazy circles over your back.

No monsters tonight. No hunts, no danger, no noise.

Just the soft hush of the bunker’s library and Dean Winchester whispering sweet nothings into your hair like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

You don’t realize you’ve started to drift until the pages of the open book blur behind your eyelids. Dean’s warmth, the rhythm of his hand on your back, the low hum of his voice when he mumbles something soft—all of it wraps around you like a lullaby.

You shift slightly in his lap, and he feels it immediately. His arm tightens around you, and he glances down, brushing his lips to your hair.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice a quiet murmur against your temple. “You fallin’ asleep on me, pretty girl?”

You hum, half-smiling as you tuck your face into the curve of his neck. “Mm… maybe a little.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, that sound deep in his chest, and it rumbles right through you. “Knew I was too damn comfy,” he teases softly. “You curled up on me like this, no wonder.”

He strokes your back one more time, then shifts—careful and gentle, like he doesn’t want to wake you fully. One arm hooks under your legs, the other steady around your shoulders.

You blink sleepily as he stands, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his flannel, and you whisper, “You don’t have to carry me…”

Dean presses a kiss to your forehead, already walking you out of the library. “Yeah, I do,” he murmurs. “You think I’m gonna let my girl stumble to bed half-asleep when I’ve got arms made for this?”

You smile against his collarbone, heart fluttering. “Your girl, huh?”

He glances down at you, eyes soft and green and glowing even in the dim light of the hallway. “Damn right. Been mine since the first day you walked into my life.”

You don’t say anything—don’t have to. You just hold him tighter, letting yourself melt into him as he carries you down the hallway. Every step is steady, protective. Every breath from him is calm and sure.

He nudges open the bedroom door with his foot and brings you to the bed, sitting down with you still in his arms before gently laying you back against the pillows. You reach for him as he moves to pull away, and he catches your hand immediately.

“I’m not goin’ far, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Just grabbin’ the blanket.”

You watch him in the low light, the strong line of his shoulders, the way his expression softens as he pulls the blanket up and tucks it around you. He climbs in beside you a second later, sliding in close and wrapping his arm around your waist like he’s afraid the night might take you from him.

You settle into his chest, his heart steady against your cheek.

Dean breathes in slow, kisses the top of your head, and murmurs against your hair, “Sleep, pretty girl. I got you.”

And you do. Wrapped in his arms, held safe in the bunker and safer still in his love… you let go of the day and fall asleep with Dean beside you, exactly where you’re meant to be.

You wake slowly, drifting up from sleep like surfacing through warmth. The room is dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp Dean must’ve left on. It’s quiet—no clanking pipes, no humming ventilation. Just the quiet, steady sound of breathing.

Dean’s breathing.

You’re wrapped in him—his arm heavy around your waist, legs tangled with yours, chest pressed to your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep. His hand is splayed just under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your bare skin, his thumb resting over your ribs like a promise.

You shift slightly, and he stirs.

A low, sleepy hum vibrates through his chest. He tightens his hold around you automatically, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His scruff grazes your skin, and you feel him breathe you in like he needs it just to stay grounded.

“Mm… what time is it?” you murmur, voice still scratchy from sleep.

Dean grunts softly, his lips brushing your skin. “Hell if I know,” he mumbles. “Too early for anything but this.”

You smile as you roll in his arms to face him. He adjusts without hesitation, pulling you even closer until your foreheads nearly touch. His eyes are barely open—green and heavy-lidded, his lashes still tangled from sleep.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispers, voice gravelly and low. “Mornin’.”

You tuck your hand under his jaw and kiss his cheek, just like last night, only slower now. Like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“Hey,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb over the edge of his stubble. “You sleep okay?”

“With you next to me?” He smirks, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Like a damn baby.”

You laugh softly, your nose bumping his. “You’re a sap in the mornings.”

Dean doesn’t even deny it. He leans in, lips brushing yours, lazy and unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just gives. Warmth. Affection. The quiet kind of love that doesn’t need words to be known.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close. “We don’t gotta get up yet,” he says, voice soft like a secret. “Just wanna hold you a little longer.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay.”

So he does. His hand runs slow down your back, your legs stay tangled, and the world outside stays forgotten for a while longer.

Wrapped up in Dean, the bunker quiet and still, it’s just you and him in the glow of the morning—no sun, no noise, just love.

You shift a little closer, your hand cupping Dean’s cheek as your thumb traces the faint line of stubble along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed under your touch, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. That look he gets when he’s letting himself feel safe. Letting himself be loved.

You lean in and press a kiss to his temple.

Then another, a little lower. His brow. His cheekbone. The tip of his nose. His other cheek. Each one light, slow, and full of everything in your chest.

“I love you,” you whisper, between kisses. “I love you so much, Dean.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tense or flinch, doesn’t shy away—but he doesn’t speak, either. You didn’t expect him to.

Dean’s always been more action than words. But you feel it in the way he exhales like he’s letting go of something heavy. In the way his hand slips up your back, fingers weaving into your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid if he lets go, he’ll lose the only good thing that’s ever felt real.

Your lips find his again, one more soft kiss to his mouth. Not asking, not taking. Just giving. Just being there.

His fingers press lightly against the back of your neck, holding you in place for a second longer as he kisses you back—deeper this time, still slow, but more certain. Like he needs you to feel it.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours again. Still silent.

But then he nudges his nose against yours, eyes locked on you, thumb brushing your cheek like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

He doesn’t say I love you.

But he doesn’t have to.

Because he’s looking at you like he’d burn down the world to keep you safe. Because his arms are wrapped around you like they’re built for it. Because the only thing he’s holding tighter than your body… is your heart.

And you know.

You’ve always known.

A/N: And with that, I bid you good night. Thanks for reading! 🥰

[violained]

summary: dean finally teaches you how to drive baby. he realizes that he might love you whilst doing so. content: gn!reader. fluff. requited feelings, no established relationship. use of pet names, (sweetheart, sweet thing, baby). one kiss on the cheek. light swearing.

requested.

“dean, come on. please?”

the room is silent for a moment, as dean’s gaze searches your expression. he’s screwed, really. and he sure as hell knows it. because you’ve resorted to pouting at him, lower lip jutted out subtly as your eyes glitter. it all makes his heart flip, and he really likes you, so he can’t refuse you any longer.

a deep, rumbly sigh bleeds from him and you take just a step closer, hands clasped together in front of you as you look up at him. he’s pretty when he’s annoyed, you think. his brows are furrowed just slightly and he presses his lips together as he mulls over your pleas, drawing this out. 

“fine.”

“fine?”

he narrows his eyes at you and hesitantly grabs baby’s keys out of his pocket. he trusts you, he does. but he doesn’t know how well you’re going to do, because he thinks he’s going to be a very bad teacher. you distract him, all the time. you’re bright and gorgeous and he can’t think all that straight when he’s around you. 

but you really want to learn this. so he’s got to at least try.

“yeah, fine. i’ll teach you.”

the corners of your lips quirk up to form a giddy smile, replacing the pout that nearly made dean keel down to his knees. you can’t help the small bout of quiet laughter that escapes you, and you press a quick kiss to his cheek to soothe the grumpiness on his features. you tell yourself that it’s just friendly.

and it works, like always. it’s hard not to dwell on that.

dean desperately tries and fails to stop a smirk from sneaking up on him, and so he turns with a quiet grumble under his breath and crosses the room quickly. he looks back at you over his shoulder as he opens the door, letting the cool breeze waft in. 

“we doin’ this or not?”

something warm and familiar blooms within your chest and you nod feverishly. your smile really might kill him, one day. he’s surprised it hasn’t already.

“we’re doing this.” you confirm, determined.

“then let’s go.”

the empty parking lot before you acts as your territory, but dean still manages to make the space feel cramped as he leans into you; hovering. though when you turn your head to look at him, all of your irritation almost fades. he looks lovely, with the afternoon sun illuminating his features as it beams in through the windows.

almost fades.

“dean,” you hum, faux sweetly. his eyes meet yours and you raise a brow. “can you back off?”

he promptly rolls his eyes and relents with caution, sitting back against the bench. but his green eyes continue to watch you much too closely. 

“this is my baby,” he huffs. “excuse me for fuckin’ caring about what happens to her-”

“i’m not gonna crash your baby, dean,” you insist. “just show me what to do.”

he takes his time, talking you through how his beloved baby works. his voice grows soft once he notices that you’re really listening, and his gaze lingers on you for several moments too long when your attention fixes on the clutch and he guides you through shifting the gears with surprising patience.

he's never so gentle with anyone else, he realizes.

he really likes the feeling of your hand under his, as he does this. he doesn’t do cheesy, or any tacky romantic bullshit, in his words. but he’d like to hold your hand, he decides. maybe even hold you, just you. if you’d let him. keep you against him and safe and warm.

a wide, winning grin adorns his face when you move the car forwards without stalling it, and he finds himself watching you, rather than whatever lies ahead.

he thinks he might have been doing that since he met you.

"dean," you exclaim, and he's pulled out of his thoughts as your face lights up so beautifully. "i'm- look!"

"i see, sweetheart," he laughs softly under his breath. "good job. you're a friggin' natural."

his hand settles on your shoulder, giving you a gentle squeeze as you navigate a little further. you could total this damn impala completely, and as long as you'd be okay, he wouldn't care. you could do anything and he'd let you.

he doesn't know what he was so scared of.

what he is so scared of.

"can we try the road tomorrow?" you ask softly, putting baby in park with low struggle before turning to watch him. "if it's not too busy."

"yeah, sweet thing," he murmurs. his eyes rove over you with so much care, because he really wants to remember this small moment forever. "we can."

you're quiet for seconds too long, everything is. because dean isn't making jokes, or grousing about how he doesn't want to do this. he's just looking at you, smiling so subtly. and there's something there that you can't place.

you swallow.

"thank you," you whisper, biting at your lip to soothe your growing nerves. "for taking me out here. letting me do this."

he doesn't speak. but he slowly reaches out with his hand and tugs your bottom lip out from between your teeth with his thumb, before drawing it away.

"'course," he breathes. "anytime, baby."

baby.

nothing else happens, as he drives you both back to the motel. but the world seems a little warmer, and the rapid flutter of your heart almost begins to concern you.

tomorrow, you can do this again. you get to.

and you really don't know if you can wait that long.

notes: pls just IGNORE the fact that baby is actually an automatic :p does this constitute as a cliffhanger?? i'm not sure. maybe a part two is in order.... hm... let me know. thank u for reading!!! <3

[french-vanilla-in-the-clouds]

That boy is corrupt.

Could you raise him to love me, maybe?

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]