I mostly write for my own enjoyment, but occasionally take requests. If there’s ever a fic name that doesn’t have a link on my master lists, that means it’s currently a WIP! Not all named WIPs will have emoji labels. “Coming soon” can sorta mean anything given my mental health and schedule, I’m sorry!!! Also, fuck AI!!
ao3: Sprinkles_of_Magic
Dni list: homophobes, racists, sexists, ableists, maga, pro AI
Divider made by sweet-to0th-graphix
Also, I’m sometimes shit at telling if a pic is AI cause I don’t like wearing my glasses and I like the dark. Please tell me if a pic I used is AI, I fucking hate that water-wasting, intellectually draining, trash slop. I will changed the pic asap!!!
“Elizabeth Swann found a portrait of a women in Jack’s quaters, she decided to ask about her, and curiosity peaked when she sees the shift in Jack’s behavior at her mention.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
𓍢ִ໋🌹͙֒ Jack Sparrow x Reader ┊ angst, no fluff, mention of death, grieving ┊ 2.3k words
The Black Pearl sliced through the Caribbean Sea, the moonlight glinting off its dark hull. Inside the captain’s quarters, the air was thick with the scent of rum, sea salt, and old parchment. Elizabeth Swann ran a finger along the spines of the leather-bound books that lined the shelves, a small, weary sigh escaping her lips. She had come to speak with Captain Jack Sparrow, though she wasn't entirely sure what there was to say. They had reached a fragile, almost tense, peace on this voyage, a truce born of necessity rather than friendship.
Jack, perched on the edge of his desk, was polishing a compass that hadn't pointed north in years. His eyes, though perpetually shadowed by kohl, were sharp as they watched her. "Lost, my dearie?" he asked, a playful lilt in his voice. "If it's me you're looking for, you've found me."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, her gaze catching on something half-hidden in the shadows of the room. It was a small, ornate portrait, propped against a stack of charts. She moved closer, drawn by the delicate brushstrokes. The subject was a woman, her hair the color of h/c and her eyes a vibrant, surprising e/c. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. She wore a simple dress, not the finery of a lady, but a practical outfit of a sailor or a rogue.
"Who is she, Jack?" Elizabeth asked, her voice quiet. The portrait held an undeniable power, a certain spark that reminded her of Jack himself.
He stopped polishing his compass, his hand still. The playful mask he wore so easily slipped away, replaced by a flicker of something she couldn't name—nostalgia, sorrow, a distant affection. "An old acquaintance," he mumbled, turning his back to her to place the compass on the desk.
"She's beautiful," Elizabeth said, reaching out to pick up the frame.
A sharp knock on the door made them both jump. Jack’s demeanor immediately shifted back to his familiar, theatrical self. "Enter!" he called out, his voice booming with practiced bravado.
The door swung open, and Will Turner stepped inside. "Jack," he said, his eyes going straight to Elizabeth's hand, which held the portrait. His brow furrowed in curiosity. "Just came to discuss some of the crew organizations. We're running low on hands for the night shift."
Jack's eyes flicked from Will's questioning look to Elizabeth's hand, still holding the portrait. For a moment, a storm of emotions seemed to pass over his face—concern about the ship, a flash of annoyance at the interruption, and something else, something hidden and private, that Elizabeth knew she had just glimpsed in the depths of his soul. He gave Will a lazy salute. "Right then, William. The crew's got a grand plan for us today, it seems. We can discuss my 'acquaintance' later, Elizabeth." He winked, but the light in his eyes had dimmed, and for the first time, Elizabeth saw a glimpse of the man beneath the pirate.
A silence, heavy and thick with unspoken questions, settled over the captain's quarters. Will's eyes, still fixed on the portrait in Elizabeth's hand, narrowed slightly. "You just went quiet, Jack. Who is she?"
Jack’s signature smirk had vanished, replaced by a quiet stillness that was far more unnerving than his usual theatrics. He turned from the desk, running a hand over his face. "Some things, Will, are best left to the tides and the wind," he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically low.
Elizabeth ignored him, stepping closer to Will. "He said she was an 'old acquaintance.' But look at him, Will. He hasn't looked this… sober since he lost his jar of dirt."
Will took the portrait from her, his gaze sweeping over the delicate features of the woman within the frame. "I've never seen her before," he said, turning it over and then back. "There's no name on it."
Jack let out a long, theatrical sigh, a poor attempt at a distraction. He walked to his cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of rum. "A man is allowed a bit of privacy, isn't he? It's not like I go asking about your little... knick-knacks."
Elizabeth crossed her arms, a determined glint in her eye. "Don't try to change the subject, Jack. You act like she's a ghost."
At the word 'ghost', Jack froze, his hand halfway to his mouth. The playful mask he wore so easily was gone. The shadows in his eyes deepened as he stared at the portrait, a flicker of something raw and private crossing his features. "Some ghosts," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "are more real than the living." He looked up, first at Will, then at Elizabeth, his gaze holding them both in a rare, genuine moment of vulnerability. "Her name is Y/n," he said, the name a soft, almost reverent sound on his lips. "And she was the best part of me."
A profound silence filled the room, broken only by the gentle creak of the ship. Will and Elizabeth exchanged a glance, their earlier curiosity now replaced by a deep and unexpected empathy. This wasn't the Jack they knew—the flamboyant, roguish pirate with a quip for every occasion. This was a man stripped bare, his vulnerability on full display.
Jack took a long pull from his bottle, his eyes fixed on some distant memory. "She was… a tempest, that one. More beautiful than any mermaid, with a spirit wilder than the sea itself. And those eyes of hers, e/c pools of mischief and kindness. She could out-sail, out-fight, and out-drink any man on the crew, myself included. I'd watch her from across the deck, laughing at some joke I’d made, and my chest… it felt like it was going to burst."
He spoke of her with a reverence that was both beautiful and heartbreaking. He told them how he'd chased her, a relentless pursuit across islands and oceans, just to catch a moment of her time. He told them of her favorite songs, the way her laughter sounded like bells, and how she'd always choose adventure over comfort.
"I fell in love with her the moment I saw her," Jack continued, his voice softer now. "But she… she was stubborn. Said she had no place for love in her life. Took me ages, but I won her over. Eventually, she agreed to be mine. We were wed on some forgotten shore, with the ocean as our witness. We were a team, a storm and its calm. We were perfect."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he described their life together, the easy companionship, the shared dreams. "We were even going to be three. She was going to have a child," he said, the words catching in his throat.
That's when they noticed it. The past tense. He spoke of her as if she were a memory, a chapter that had closed. The joy that had momentarily lit up his face was now extinguished, replaced by a shadow of unbearable pain.
Jack’s gaze shifted, no longer focused on them, but on something only he could see. His eyes were wide with the horror of a moment replayed a thousand times in his mind. "I saw it happen," he whispered, his voice a raw, jagged sound. "A raid on a port. I was too far away. Just a street's width between us. I was running to her, screaming her name, but the chaos… it was too much."
He stopped, his hand trembling as he brought the bottle to his lips. "I saw him. A rival pirate, a cur I'd crossed years ago. He had a sword, and she was fighting, oh, she was fighting so hard. But he was bigger, faster. I saw the flash of the steel. The sound it made as it went in… I can still hear it. The blade piercing her stomach."
His breath hitched, and a single tear, dark as kohl, traced a path down his cheek. "She stopped fighting. Her eyes found mine across the distance, and I saw her fall. He pulled the sword out of her, and she crumpled to the dirt like a broken doll."
Jack took another shaky swig of rum, the bottle now nearly empty. His hand trembled so violently that he had to set it down on the desk. Elizabeth, her own heart aching with a pain she hadn’t expected to feel for this man, finally broke the silence. "The child, Jack? Was the baby..." Her voice trailed off, unable to complete the dreadful question.
He didn't answer right away. He just stared at the portrait, a single, silent tear tracing a path through the grime and kohl on his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, a desolate ghost of his usual flamboyant tone. "The child was gone, Elizabeth. They both were. The sword... it went straight through her stomach. Her belly... it was already showing a little bit."
The words were like daggers, each one a testament to the agony he had carried for so long. Jack closed his eyes, a pained grimace twisting his features. He remembered the roundness of her belly, the way she would smile at him when she felt the baby kick. A small, perfect hand, a tiny foot, all gone in an instant.
He sank down onto his desk chair, the bravado completely gone, replaced by a profound and raw grief. The silence in the room was deafening, the only sound the gentle rocking of the ship on the waves and the ragged catch of Jack’s breath. Will and Elizabeth watched him, their own expressions a mixture of shock and profound sadness. They had seen Jack fight monsters, outsmart navies, and cheat death itself, but they had never seen him so utterly, completely broken. It was a side of the captain they never could have imagined, a heart shattered into a million pieces.
Will broke the heavy silence, his voice barely a whisper. "How long ago was this, Jack?"
Jack's eyes, red-rimmed and distant, finally focused on the question. He slowly lifted his left hand, the leather glove still covering it. He pulled it back, revealing a simple silver ring on his fourth finger, tarnished with age and sea salt. It was his wedding band.
"Fifteen years," he said, his voice flat, hollow. "Fifteen years, three months, and a handful of days."
He wasn't just counting the years; he was counting every moment that had passed without her. The grief was a physical weight on him, a silent, unseen burden that he carried beneath his layers of flamboyant scarves and bluster. The pirate captain who had defied Davy Jones and outwitted the British Navy was now just a man mourning the love he had lost.
Elizabeth watched him, her heart aching. The pieces of the puzzle were finally clicking into place. The reckless bravado, the constant running, the way he never stayed in one place for too long—it was all a desperate attempt to outrun a past that was forever nipping at his heels. He wasn't just a pirate searching for treasure; he was a man searching for a way to forget, a way to move on from a pain that had become his constant companion.
He looked at the portrait one last time, a small, sad smile on his lips. "We were supposed to have it all, you know," he said, his voice softer now. "A life on the sea, with a little crew of our own. But the sea... she can be a cruel mistress. She took my love, and she left me with nothing but ghosts."
Will, feeling the weight of the moment, reached out and placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but one of profound empathy. "I'm so sorry, Jack," he said, the words heavy with genuine sorrow. Elizabeth, too, stood silent, a lump forming in her throat. The man before them wasn't the swaggering pirate they knew, but a widower, a father who had lost his family before they had a chance to begin.
Jack didn't acknowledge Will's hand. He just continued to stare at the portrait, lost in a world of what-ifs. "She's in every sunrise, every storm," he murmured, more to himself than to them. "The way the light hits the water, the way the wind sings through the rigging... I can still feel her laugh in it."
He finally looked at them, and for the first time, Will and Elizabeth saw the depth of the loneliness that had been Jack's true companion all these years. It wasn't just the loss of a wife; it was the loss of his future, the life he had so carefully imagined and planned. The recklessness, the endless quest for the horizon, the flamboyant persona—it wasn't just a mask; it was a distraction, a desperate attempt to fill the gaping hole in his soul.
"I tried," he said, his voice cracking. "I tried to find him. The man who did it. I tore the seas apart. But he was a ghost, too. Just like her."
The silence that followed was different from the one before. It was no longer filled with questions, but with a quiet understanding. They had stumbled upon a part of Jack Sparrow that no one else had ever seen, a secret kept buried beneath layers of rum, sarcasm, and adventure. He had let them into his chamber, and into a chamber of his heart he had long kept locked. And in that moment, in the dim light of his cabin, they saw not just Captain Jack Sparrow, the legendary pirate, but a man who had loved and lost everything, and was still trying to find his way back to shore.
— 𝒞ontext; No matter how many seas the great Captain Jack travels, he always returns home.
— ℱandom; Pirates of The Caribbean
♡!! warnings: comfort, massage (non-sexual), fluff, Jack being Jack. And others.
__________________________________________
ps: I love me some horny chaotic man.
enjoy !! 𐙚
YOU HUMMED SOFTLY AS YOU MASSAGED HIS BROAD SHOULDERS.
Your delicate hands worked each knot with precision, relieving the pent-up pressure. His head rested lazily against your chest, and he sighed happily with each touch.
"You have fairy hands, darling," he says, eliciting a giggle from you. He always says the same thing, to which you give the same answer every time; "Just for you, Jacky."
Jack Sparrow is a pirate, a scoundrel, a soulless man, but with you? Ah, with you he could finally relax. You are his confidant, his lover, his muse, his peace. The seas know him, the pirates whisper his name, but only you possess him, body and heart.
"How was it this time?" You asked softly, not wanting to disturb him. He sighed as you squeezed a particularly deep knot. You whispered, soothing him, and he relaxed again against the chair.
"Wet. I almost died! I came home with treasure, Spanish rum, and a terrible headache." He dramatized, making you laugh softly. Despite his complaints, you could feel the explicit pleasure in his words, demonstrating how much he truly loved this life.
You kissed his temple, making him purr happily. Before you knew it, his quick hands had pulled you by the waist and you were sitting on his lap. You squealed, laughing. Jack was truly evil.
"But it was all worth it. I came home to you and got to see your beautiful smile again." He said, like a true poet, although his hand slid over your body and his eyes stared at something very different from your smile. You laughed, kissing him quickly, blushing at his words, no matter how cheesy they were.
"Don't make me blush now, Captain." You teased, winking at him. He chuckled at you, attacking your neck with kisses. You sighed, leaning in and exposing yourself more to him.
"Enough talking now, darling. I want to catch up on you." And with that, he lifted you up, carrying you to the bedroom. You laughed, swinging your legs in the air as you snuggled into him.
I've had a crush on him forever!! I had to write something.
ps: I apologize for any mistakes. English is not my first language, and I use Google Translate.
synopsis ⊹ ࣪ ˖ You desperately want to save Dean from himself, but he refuses to be saved.
warnings/tags ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Dean Winchester x Reader, angst, no comfort sorry, dean being emotionally unavailable, Sam being a tired mediator, let me know if I missed any!
word count ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 2.3k
notes ⊹ ࣪ ˖ this was a mashup of two requests by the lovely @sluvaffair!! I hope you enjoyed and I did your ask justice! I’m actively working on your other ones <3 we’ll get back to our scheduled fluffy programming soon! (dividers made by @lolitique)
You had one day left before you, Sam, and Dean went to kill this demon.
You guys typically formed a plan pretty smoothly without any mishaps, but tonight was different. In order to capture this particular demon, someone had to be possessed by it. And of course, in typical Dean fashion, he was the first one to say he was going to be the one to do it. You hated how often he sacrificed himself for others, just once, you wished he would be selfish and take something for himself. That he’d bail on you and Sam or run away. But you knew he’d never do that, not with him knowing so intimately the pain of being abandoned.
“Dean, let me do it.” You said firmly, attempting to enforce the fact that you weren’t going to budge on this.
“No. Absolutely not. I don’t want you anywhere near that thing.” Dean immediately objected.
“Yeah, I feel the same way for you.” You rebutted.
“Why don’t I do it?” Sam interjected, trying to calm the inevitable storm between you both.
“No. I’m the one who’s going in there. End of discussion.” Dean stated firmly, standing up to leave the dingy motel room you were in.
“Now where the hell do you think you’re going?” You asked, furious with him and his stubborn disposition.
“Out.” He bit out, not even bothering to look back at you chasing after him. You always felt like you were chasing after him, begging him not to go down the path of self sabotage over and over again. Like always, he never listened.
“Dean. Please.” You pleaded in a ragged voice, grabbing his wrist.
He stopped and tensed, then he turned towards you, taking a defensive stance with his arms crossed. “What?”
“Don’t play that game with me.” You huffed.
“What game? I’ve been pretty up front so far, sunshine.” He shrugged, his face a mask of no emotion, but you knew better than that.
“Don’t try to push me away. Please. We can figure out another way to kill this thing. It doesn’t have to be at your expense.” You said softly, deep in his eyes. There was no emotion in his eyes, just resignation.
He gave a self-deprecating laugh at your remark and said “Everything is at my expense.”
“Dean, come on! I can't keep doing this with you!” You threw up your hands.
“Then don’t! Don’t do this with me! Leave me!” He yelled, his face turning red. You heard the unsaid words spoken underneath what he said. I’m waiting for you to leave me. It’d be easier if you just did it now, it’d hurt less. Leave like everyone else has left me.
“I won’t! I won’t leave you Dean, not ever! But I won’t watch you kill yourself because you refuse to care about yourself!” Hot tears welled up in your eyes and you brushed them away with the back of your hand.
He didn’t respond at that. Instead he just stormed out and slammed the motel door, leaving you standing there and hopeless. Harsh sobs racked throughout your body and you collapsed on the floor, wailing loudly for the man you loved. If only you could get through to him somehow. But deep down you knew, there’s no saving the ones who don’t want to be saved.
“Hey hey hey, shhh. It’ll be alright.” Sam came to comfort you on the floor, holding you while you cried.
“No it won’t. He’s gonna kill himself Sam.” You sobbed.
“It’ll be alright.” He repeated, more firm this time. You knew that he didn’t have anything else to say in return because he knew what you were saying was true. He knew his brother just as well as you did, if not more so and he knew that he would end dead because of how recklessly selfless he was.
You sat there and cried until your voice was hoarse and Sam sat there, ever so patient, while stroking your hair and whispering “Everything will turn out okay.” over and over again. You both knew you were lying to yourselves. Nothing was ever okay when it came to Dean.
–
You woke up early the next morning with puffy eyes and a raging headache. You looked in the mirror and sighed, hating how miserable you looked. You figured a shower might help, no matter how miniscule the help might be. You stood in the shower, letting the steam surround you and you cried quietly, letting your tears mix with the water.
You mechanically got through the motions of getting dressed for the day and stepped out into the motel kitchen to make some shitty coffee. Sam gave a quiet “morning” and you responded with a noncommittal hum, not having it in you to talk at the moment. Suddenly, you heard the door open and you saw Dean looking just as wrecked as you felt. He barely even gave you a second glance before he went into the bathroom and turned the shower on.
You took a few deep breaths, willing yourself not to cry but it was no use. Sam silently passed you a tissue and you took it. Selfishly, you hoped Dean heard you crying and felt horrible for it. You hoped he hurt just as much as you did, and then you felt awful for wanting to hurt him.
A little while later you were all sitting down in the living room, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Dean still averted his eyes from you and it made you all the more furious.
Sam cleared his throat and tentatively said “So, the plan. Dean will go in and get possessed. We’ll exorcise it from him, trap the demon, and kill it. Thing’s dead, and afterwards we can celebrate with some pie.”
Dean didn’t even perk up at the sound of pie. He just stiffly nodded and got up to leave, and you couldn’t stand it.
“You know this is real low. Even for you Dean.” You grit out bitterly.
“Excuse me?” He doubled back, his defences rising.
“You heard me. You sure know how to avoid your problems huh?” You spit the words out, not even thinking about how sour they tasted on your tongue.
“I’m not avoiding anything! You’re the one here bitching about me helping us out here!” Dean yelled.
“Oh so me wanting you to not get hurt is me bitching now?” You asked incredulously.
“I’m not going to get hurt! I don’t know if it’s occurred to you before, but I’m a grown ass man. I can take care of myself.” He fumed.
“Really? I wouldn’t know from how much of a child you’re being right now.” You laughed in his face, which seemed to make Dean even angrier.
“I’m not listening to this. We can pick this up later.” He waved you off, going for the front door again.
“No we are not picking this up later, we’re having this out now.” You stepped in front of him.
“Move.” He said coldly, not even seeming to feel anything towards you at this point.
“No. You’re not leaving to go drink yourself stupid again because you’re too scared of facing your issues. We’re not doing that.” You crossed your arms, the fire between you two raging.
“We’ll go outside and get some fresh air. You can have the room Dean.” Sam huffed, pulling you out the door before you could argue against what he was saying.
As soon as the door shut behind you, you angrily asked “What the hell Sam?”
“You two are going to get nowhere if you continue to scream at each other. I understand you want to help him but you aren’t going to help him like this.” He gripped your shoulders while looking into your eyes, and you softened. You knew he was right, even though you hated it.
“Come on, let’s go get something to eat.” He said, even though he knew you weren’t hungry.
–
You came back to the motel room after an awkward hour and a half of you gingerly eating the breakfast platter that you ordered and Sam sitting there quietly reading through his notes about demons to prep for the day ahead.
You walked through the door and you saw Dean sitting on the couch, cleaning out his guns. You wanted to strangle him. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to not care for him completely. You chucked the to go box of apple pie you ordered for him and went off to go sharpen your knives. Much like Dean, you wanted to be prepared when you killed this thing off.
After you guys finished gathering everything you needed, you guys took off towards where the demon was located at some abandoned temple.
“No matter what, if things go south, run and don’t look back. I’ll find a way to get out.” Dean said gruffly, shutting the door of his impala.
“Dean.” You sighed in a begging tone, your vision turning glassy as you looked at his indifferent face.
“You know what we have to do.” He replied, stuck in his sick, sad tunnel vision of his savior complex. In that moment you wished desperately that you hated him. It would hurt less than this.
You didn’t respond, just followed Sam to where you both would hide while Dean got the demon’s attention. For a moment all was quiet, and then all hell broke loose. Literally. Dean was screaming in pain, the demon seeming to burn him up from the inside out, his skin slowly turning gray.
“Dean!” You screamed, running towards him, not even thinking twice about saving him.
You slashed at the demon but it was too late, it vanished into smoke, leaving you alone and panting. You cried out in frustration, throwing your daggers to the ground.
“What the hell was that?” Dean did his best to stand up, never one to admit when hurt.
“Me saving your ass that’s what!” You yelled back.
“What did I tell you? I told you if things go south, you run!”
“That thing was going to kill you Dean! What was I supposed to do, let you die?” You shouted, red hot anger flowing through your veins.
“Yes! You were! That’s why I told you not to look back!” He cried, something within him seeming defeated in his tone.
“How could you say that?” You asked quietly, heartbroken at the thought of him accepting himself dying so quickly.
“What? Who would care anyway?” Dean brushed your comment off, like he always did–always does.
“I care! I care so much about you Dean, don’t you get that? I care so much it hurts. I cry day after day for you because I know how much pain you’re going through and how you try to hide it from me, and it breaks my heart. I hate seeing you care for everybody else when I know for a fact you haven’t taken care of yourself at all.” Tears ran down your face and you let them fall. Let him see how deeply you feel for him.
“I love you Dean.” You sniffled, the admission echoing throughout the silent temple.
“No you don’t.” Dean’s voice broke and he turned his head away from you so you wouldn’t see the tears falling down his face.
“And how do you know that?” You asked, still not accepting the fact that he was kicking you to the curb once again.
He didn’t grace you with a response, just left again. “it was the one thing he was good at” he’d repeat in his head “one of the most important lessons dad taught him”. He hated seeing you cry, hated it even more that he was the reason for it. But he couldn’t fix what he was. He was no good. A sorry excuse of a person. Not good enough for someone as perfect as you, and he knew it.
All his life it was drilled into him that’d never draw up to the standards set for him. He was only good for one thing, and that was being at the service of others. Like a dog he’d obey orders diligently and paw and whine for even a scrap of approval. He shouldered every burden, every problem as if it was his own and he took care of everything. Deep down he wished someone would tell him he was proud of him or that they appreciated him, and then hated himself for being so stupid as to wish for something like that.
Who would thank him? This shitty screwup of a person?
It was even worse when he’d cry. He hated crying. He wished he couldn’t feel, wishes he could flip a switch and be numb and hollowed out. It was better to feel nothing than to feel so damn much all the time. It was eating him alive. When would it end? This endless torture of wishing and waiting for a love that would never come. Oh, he wanted so desperately to be loved.
But he knew not to get his hopes up because in the end, even if they do say they love him, they leave. They always did. Like his mother. Like his father. Like his brother. He was always the one left behind to pick up the pieces of his broken heart. So he tried his best to wash away the pain with alcohol and hooking up with people, trying his best to stave off the unrelenting want for connection by filling the void with sex.
It never worked. Just made him feel more empty in the end, as if the gaping hole in his chest grew bigger every time. He wanted to be wanted. More than that, he wanted to be needed, as much as he needed everyone who left him.
He couldn’t stand the thought of having to deal with another person leaving him behind. Especially not you. So he sits here and he brushes you off, hoping you’ll eventually hate him and stop trying so damn hard. Hoping that one day you’ll see how awful he is. He doesn’t know why he does this, when there’s the love he so desperately wants sitting right there for him to take. But he can’t accept it when he knows he isn’t worthy. He’ll forever bite at the hand that feeds him like a traumatized dog.
someone who is independent and capable of taking care of themselves.
can exist as their own person and will be fine when he disappears for days, weeks, or even months at a time.
prefers ‘imperfect’ looking people. people with scars, smile lines, calloused hands and asymmetrical faces. someone who doesn’t care to look 100% all the time.
loves people who smile with their whole face and laugh with their whole body
wants someone who likes simplicity and routine. he’s sick of the spontaneous life he lives, and he wouldn’t want someone who wants that.
doenst necessarily means he never wants to stray from routine, but if you need something different all the time, it would most likely lead to arguments
someone who portrays affection through actions more than words. anyone can say anything, but not anyone can, or even would, do anything, especially for him.
someone who’s patient and willing to put up with all the walls he’s built over god knows how many years.
would never make him feel childish, girly, or even gay, for liking the things that he likes the way he likes them.
would be most comparable with someone who doesn’t beat around the bush. no guilt tripping, silent treatment, or extreme jealousy. he doesn’t have time for mind games, after everything.
wants them to address the problem as it occurs. doesnt care that you're in public or 'in front of people.' if he said, or did, something that even upsets you a little bit, he wants you to tell him right away.
doesn’t really care for book smarts. it’s hot, sure, but what really gets him is someone who knows how to use their hands more than their head. turns him on when someone can think on the spot.
ideal love language of a partner would be acts of service and physical touch. a hand in his back pocket, wrapped around his arm. holding his hand while driving. all the small things.
his biggest dealbreaker is someone who is unnecessarily cruel or mean. he understands that he isn’t the nicest person in the world, but it really gets him if you’re mean to children, service workers, or animals.
summary: you and jack make a friendly wager as to whether you can fend for yourself at tortuga, and you would be damned before you let jack sparrow lighten your pockets.
contains: fem!reader, talk of sex and violence, alcohol, creepy men being creepy, an attempt of SA, weapons (fluffy ending though!)
a/n: had the time of my life writing this omg. she is everything i wanted her to be. gif by @moretolose
word count: 2.2k
Tortuga was no place for the faint of heart. From the moment you’d stepped off The Black Pearl onto the putrid dock, you sensed your stomach turn with disgust. Jack had warned you, had played with the delicate tendrils of your hair as he boyishly mimicked your gentle manner of speech and assured you a lovely thing like you wouldn’t last an hour on the island. His lack of faith had irked you so that you’d ended up wagering two shillings to the contrary. However, now that the stench of ale and rum and gratuitous debauchery had begun to cling to your waistcoat, your confidence was quickly wavering. You heard his graceless steps fall behind you before you saw him, felt the warmth of his dirty hand as it curled over your shoulder.
“How’s my bonnie lass? Goodness, you look awfully pale!” He frowned as if he were part of some cheap travelling theater company. You rolled your eyes, making quick work of removing his hand finger by finger.
“Don’t you have some tavern to drink yourself away in?” You suggested, a sarcastic grin plastered upon your face.
“Indeed I do, but I must admit the rum tastes better with a touch of feminine company.” Jack smiled, and for a moment, it almost seemed genuine.
“I’m sure you can get some harlot or other to oblige.” You offered gingerly, letting your hand come up to graze Jack’s chin. He wasted no time enveloping it with his own, and suddenly the grime that coated all pirates’ hands didn’t seem to bother you as much.
“Well, yes, but you’re much, much prettier to look at.” He jested, baring his teeth in what you could only suppose was a laughable attempt at seduction. You wouldn’t give yourself even a second to think about it, but something about the thought of Jack with one of those rouge-lipped harlots sent your hand flying back to your side.
“I suppose you’ll just have to make do.” You sneered at him as you walked off further into the belly of the beast. “Don’t drink away all your money, Sparrow! I’ll be expecting my pay the moment we get off this blasted island!”
His laugh followed you like the soft ring of a windchime. But charming as the scoundrel was, you would be damned before you let Jack Sparrow lighten your pockets.
The bar you stumbled into was brimming with drunken pirates and wenches, the air thick with the overwhelming scent of sweat and alcohol. You wove your way through the riotous crowd and promptly perched yourself on a seat by the bar. You ordered a cider as you seldom ever drank. Better to keep your wits about you, you’d always say. Jack often teased you for it, calling you a no-fun Puritan before staggering away in search of more rum. You quickly caught yourself, focusing your attention on the glass being slid to you across the mahogany counter. Why were you thinking of Jack again? You shook your head, slowly but surely sipping your drink as you took in the scene around you.
The barkeep was flushed, working as quick as he could to satiate the beasts howling at him, but no matter his efforts, it seemed by the time he was serving one drink about five more filthy pirates had ordered more. There was a bard in the far corner, his silky voice severely drowned out by the clamor. Harlots’ extravagant laughs rang like bells throughout the whole place as they danced and slid from lap to lap. You knew they were forced, though. You hadn’t met a single pirate whose jokes had ever made you laugh in earnest. Well, except for Jack.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing?” Slurred a gravelly voice that came from far too close. You swivelled in your seat to meet the man’s gaze. He was covered head to toe in grime, his clothes tattered and torn. He seemed to be a good twenty years your senior, and his hair had thinned with age and poor maintenance. He stunk of alcohol and if his sleazy smirk was any indication he had had far too much of it already. He disgusted you. “Far too pretty for this place, I’ll tell ya that much.”
You offered him a curt smile. “Thank you.” You looked away now, hoping he would note your disinterest and soon let up. But you only felt him grow closer.
“I ought to steal you away for meselves, don’t ya think?” A hand snaked around your waist and you felt your heart plummet to the pit of your stomach. Jack had taught you many things over the last few months; how to shoot, how to properly use a dagger and a sword, how to chart a course on a map based on nothing but the stars in the black night sky, but the one thing he hadn’t taught you was how to stare down the barrel of your worst fears and not cower before them.
Despite your silver tongue and training, you found yourself stiff as a statue. Entirely and utterly frozen. Not only that, but you suddenly felt dizzy, overwhelmingly so. Yes, the room was spinning. Your vision was tunnelling. “Thought that flat cider you asked for wouldn’t do the job, you see?” The wretch whispered in your ear. You could hear the wicked grin in his voice. “Couldn’t help myself from slipping a little somethin’ in there to loosen you up.”
And then it all went black.
“And very bad eggs!” You shouted the end of the drinking song, earning applause from the whole bar. The pirate whose lap you were currently sitting on, whose face did not ring one solitary bell, cheered you on as he took another swig of ale. His friends seemed to be in equally good spirits, ogling you as if you were precious treasure they simply needed to get their hands on. You weren’t sure how you’d ended up here but from the looks of it, night had fallen outside the mucky window panes. You also weren’t sure how long you’d been singing, though your throat had started to burn. The scotch the men kept handing you didn’t do much to help this last. You scanned the crowd. New faces from when you last remembered looking. But there by the bar, looking cross as he threw back a bottle of rum, you knew that face.
“Jack? His name left your lips of its own accord.
“Not my name, love, but I’ll let it slide this time!” The pirate holding you guffawed, and suddenly that giddy, floating-on-air feeling slowly began to wear off. The pirates’ faces became clearer, the intention behind their words as well. These were no friends of yours! What were you even doing here? Your eyes flew back to Jack, who kept an eye on you from a safe distance. His ring-adorned knuckles dug into the neck of the rum bottle with barely contained fury. His jaw was clenched, his teeth grinding. All the while he glared daggers at the man whose hand was still wrapped around your torso.
“Oi, what’re ya lookin’ at?” The man in question squeezed you tighter, pulling your attention away from Jack. He was clearly displeased, his sweaty brow furrowed as if your wandering eye had embarrassed him. “What, you’d rather run off with that fellow over there, would ya?”
You wanted nothing more than to escape his clutch, but you had to be smart about it. “No, of course not!” You offered him your most flirtatious smirk. “I was just looking to see where the ladies’ room was, is all.” At this, his eyes softened a tad, much to your relief. You needed to get out of here. You looked over to the bar once more, but this time Jack was gone.
“Ah, well, don’t take long, poppet!” He hollered as he released you at last and you were able to stand. “I ain’t done with you yet!” You offered him your best fake laugh, though you weren’t nearly as convincing as the harlots from earlier. You hovered a moment, making sure you got lost in the crowd and that the wretched pirate was out of sight before you ran for the door. Sure enough, outside the sky was nearly black, the clouds overhead lit by the moon. You had to get back to The Pearl. A brilliant plan except for the fact that it was dark, you were still in the process of sobering up and that you could barely remember your name, let alone how you got to this godforsaken tavern in the first place. Your chest was already heaving with anxiety by the time you heard the doors swing open and realized you were no longer alone.
“Going somewhere, poppet?” The grating voice sounded once again. “You’re a dirty little liar, aren’t ya? Said you was goin’ to the privy but you was just plannin’ to make a run for it.”
There it was again. That feeling of helplessness that you just couldn’t shake. Jack was right, you were stupid to even think you could face the dangers of a pirate’s world alone and make it out alive. You wondered if he was already on The Pearl, a bottle in one hand and a girl in the other as he left you for dead the way any sane pirate would. But you didn’t wonder long as his voice pierced the tension-thick air like it was nothing.
“She won’t have to be running anywhere, mate.” He cooed. “Matter of fact, she’ll have time to stroll at whichever pace she pleases given that you lot’ll wind up dead if you so much as try and stop her. Savvy?”
You turned in time with the men, behind whom stood Jack, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight and pistol in hand.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Jack Sparrow.” One of the pirates growled.
“Captain.” Both you and Jack corrected him in sync, and through the sea of strangers your eyes found each other. They wasted no time crowding him, and suddenly you had been conveniently forgotten. That was when he silently mouthed the word to you. “Run!” And for the first time since you’d met Jack Sparrow, you followed his order without question.
Shots fired as you ran, your feet kicking up sand with each frantic stride towards the sea. You didn’t look back and only could pray it was Jack’s pistol you heard growing fainter in the distance.
The sun had begun to rise, its rays dancing off the waves as it peered over the horizon. The starry night sky had become streaked with shades of pink and yellow. It would have been a lovely sight to behold if you weren’t worried sick over Jack. It hadn’t been long since you’d reached the shore, but you were sure he would’ve been here by now. That is, if he wasn’t…
“What are we looking at?” Jack asked over your shoulder as he came to stand by your side. You startled for a moment, a girlish shriek escaping you and earning a smug grin from Jack. “I know I don’t look my best, love, but surely I’m not that frightening, hm?”
“Oh, Jack!” You cried, throwing caution and appearances to the wind as you practically leapt into his arms. You could tell he was taken aback by your sudden display of affection, yet he was quick to catch you as your legs wrapped around him and your nose nuzzled fondly against his neck. “I thought you were dead!”
“No, very much alive, I think. Sorry to disappoint.” He stuttered as he reluctantly set you back down, your boots digging into the freshly wet sand. He combed a hand through a lock of your hair as he inspected you, as if searching for any sign of harm. “And thanks to me, so are you.”
“Jack, it was terrible!” You groaned, pressing a palm against your temple.
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself for the most part.” He muttered as he cast his gaze towards the horizon, suddenly becoming rather cold.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean you seemed to be having a good time dancing on tables and sitting in strangers’ laps is all.” He said, his words clipped with what you could clearly tell now was jealousy.
“I was drunk!” You defended yourself.
“Oh, you know you don’t drink!” Jack retorted, offended you’d taken him for a fool.
“They slipped something into my cider, Jack.” You admitted sheepishly. Some job you did at taking care of yourself. “It’s a miracle singing and dancing was all that happened before the effects wore off.”
Jack’s irritation suddenly melted away and he silently cursed himself for having been so blind. “It’s my own fault for letting you out of my sight for more than five minutes.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I guess you won that wager, didn’t you?”
“Aye, but at what cost?” He grinned, his gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. “Silver and gold isn’t worth much to me if something happens to you.”
“Oh?” You teased him, your bodies coming closer together as if tangled together by some invisible string. You’d never been this close to him before. He smelt of the salt spray of the sea, of rum and of dusty old treasure maps. “The mighty Captain Jack Sparrow hasn’t grown soft, now has he?”
“Only where you’re concerned.” He finally admitted. “Now shut up and kiss me.” And for the second time since you’d met Jack Sparrow, you followed his order without question.
Captain Hector Barbossa X GN!Reader (POC friendly)
Pronouns: You/Your
Summary: As dark thoughts about your cursed existence threaten to consume you, you find comfort in your captain.
Warnings: Depressive thoughts, canon typical body horror
Word Count: 1338
A/N: THIS GROSS OLD MAN IS MY ACTUAL WIFE!?!?!??!
It is a cold night on the Caribbean sea, or so you assume, it is not like you are capable of feeling it.
The crew is celebrating below deck, we found three pieces of the cursed of Aztec gold today. Three pieces closer to being human again. Only one of the eight hundred eighty two left, we are getting so close.
Despite this victory you cannot find it in yourself to celebrate. You climb up on deck and wander over to the Pearl's railing.
As you trace the grooves in the black wooden planks with the tips of your fingers you listen to the faint sounds of the crew celebrating, the waves of the sea gently beating against the hull, and the rigging knocking against the masts.
It is peaceful. And yet you feel anything but.
Before your depressing chain of thought can begin to spiral you feel a sudden, familiar weight on your shoulder.
"Heya, Jack." You scratch the capuchin’s head and he makes a small noise of content, closing his eyes for a moment before jumping down from your shoulder onto the railing next to your hand. You notice something shiny in his hands.
"Whatcha got there?" You questioned the monkey, already knowing the answer. He proudly holds up the golden coin to show you and confirms your suspicions.
You manage to fish a few non-cursed coins out of your pocket and hold them up to him. "Care to trade?"
Jack looks between you, the coins, and the golden piece for a second, torn between the options. You hold out your hand closer to him, shaking the coins, causing them to make a clinking sound.
"C'mon, when have you ever refused new shiny trinkets?" As if he could understand you he snatched up the coins and dropped the golden piece into your expecting hand and ran off, presumably to his owner.
You look at the coin in your hand, tracing the intricate markings with your thumb. The heavy gold pressing down into your palm, it is heavier than other gold coins you’ve handled, though you suppose that is because of the curse. You can’t tell whether the coin is warm or cold.
You let out a deep sigh. Your soul is full of longing for a state of being you haven’t experienced in too many years. You ache to taste again, to feel again, to be alive again.
The sound of heavy boots approaching catches interrupts your thoughts full of grief over your past life. You don’t need to look up to know who those boots belong to.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Turning around you face your captain, Jack is perched on his shoulder.
“If only it wasn’t. Would have saved us a whole lot of trouble…” You sigh out, handing him the coin and turning back to the railing, looking out over the dark sea, moon hidden behind the clouds.
Barbossa hands the coin to Jack an tells him to put it with the others. You hear the pitter patter of the monkey’s little feet on the deck as you feel your captain lean on the railing next to you.
“Why aren’t you celebratin' with the rest of the crew?” He questions, you can feel his eyes on you.
You start tracing the wood again. “Didn’t feel like celebrating.”
“Aye, I suppose I can understand that.” You hear a pain in his voice, a pain you share.
“I miss feeling the rain.” You lament. It has been so long.
“I miss feeling the sun.” He speaks, gaze upon the horizon. You look at him, the light of the lit lanterns framing his sorrowful face. You can see every detail of his face so clearly.
You catch yourself staring before he can and turn your gaze back to the sea. If you weren’t undead you would be able to feel warmth spreading over your cheeks by now.
“Do you believe we can actually do it, break the curse? I mean, we’ve lost the kid before.” The question falls from your lips before you could take the time to think the repercussions of such a question aimed at your captain through.
Luckily he doesn’t take it in a bad way and decides to tease you instead. “Not losing faith in me are ye?” You laugh at that, suddenly feeling more at ease.
“Please, I have been with you since the Cobra. I helped pull you from the wreck if you care to recall.”
Now he’s laughing as well, a barking sound you haven’t heard in ages. Both of you shift to face each other.
“Aye, ye have been loyal since the very beginning, that be true.” He closes moves closer to you as he speaks, shoulders bumping into one another. It feels good. Comforting.
“How could I not? You accepted me into your crew when no one else would. You took care of me, and still do. I thank you for that.” You speak softly and earnestly, causing the mood to switch to something more vulnerable. You have been wanting to get that off your chest for so long now.
He smiles softly at you. Well, as softly as an aged sea-hardened pirate like himself can manage. “It has been a genuine pleasure to have ye aboard.” He nods his head in a mock-bow.
You smile at that, staring into those piercing blue eyes of his, finding him to be staring back into yours.
You lose yourself for a moment. Your mind coming up with a whirlwind of what ifs about possible scenarios with him. In these fantasies you would be happy, alive, with him.
Your wishful thoughts were interrupted by the moon appearing from behind the clouds it was previously hidden. You watched as the moonlight revealed your true selves, flesh melting away to reveal the cursed undead skeleton appearance underneath.
You bring your hand up to inspect it. Even after so many years it was still a shock to see the withered bones.
“C’mon.” Barbossa takes your skeleton hand into his own and gently leads you toward his cabin.
Once inside, hidden from the moonlight, you don’t look dead anymore.
Barbossa sits you on a chair near his desk, still holding your hand, running his calloused fingers across the back of your hand in a soothing motion.
You close your eyes for a second, letting out a deep sigh while hiding your face in your free hand. You would be crying if you could.
Barbossa’s free hand reaches towards your chin and gently tilts your head to face him. “Now, none of that. No point in mopin’ around. We will get our lives back, I promise ye that.” He mumbles, your faces are but a few inches away.
“Swear to me.” The sentence came as a mere whisper.
He kneels down to your level, his lips almost touching yours as he whispers your name. “I swear to ye, upon the very stars guiding our way, under the watchful eye of any deity willing to bear witness.” The hand holding your chin drifts towards the point where your jaw meets your neck.
“Captain, I-”
“Hector.”
“Hector, I-”
Your eyes flit down towards his lips. They are chapped, but then again, yours are probably as well.
A pause. Then your lips finally meet.
You don’t feel the familiar warmth or contentment you have come to associate with kissing over the years, and yet it is the best kiss you believe you’ve ever had.
Hector parts from you for a moment, forehead resting against yours, eyes closed. “We will find Bootstrap’s little whelp, and the cursed final piece he sent away.” He presses his lips to yours again in a sweet peck. “If I have to sail to the very ends of the world to find them.”
His lips are on yours again before you can find the words to reply. The slightest flicker of comfort blooms inside of you.
You may be cursed, but right here, right now your existence doesn’t seem so hopeless as it did before.
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝒮caredy Cat ❞
────── · · Dean Winchester x fem ! reader
a / n : hehe.. scaredy cat Dean.. i loved this episode
character/s featured. dean winchester .ᐟ sam winchester .ᐟ
rating: fluff + crack .ᐟ
summary : when Dean gets infected with the ghostly disease of fear, not even Sam expected him to turn into such a scaredy cat searching protection from his hunter girlfriend.
The man who had once faced down demons, wrestled with werewolves, and stared into the abyss without flinching was currently hiding behind his girlfriend's leather-clad shoulder, peeking out at a small, fluffy Yorkie like it was the physical manifestation of all his darkest nightmares.
"You've got to be kidding me," Sam said, his voice trembling with barely contained laughter. His shoulders shook as he watched his older brother, the legendary Dean Winchester, scourge of the supernatural, cower behind you like a child hiding from the monster under his bed.
You bit your lip, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of composure. Your hand had instinctively come up to rest on Dean's arm where it was wrapped around your waist, his entire body pressed against your back as if he could somehow merge with you and become invisible.
"It's not funny, Sam!" Dean's voice cracked slightly—actually cracked—and you felt his grip tighten on your jacket. "That thing has teeth. I saw them. Little, pointy, demonic teeth!"
"It's a Yorkie, Dean. It weighs about four pounds."
"That's what they want you to think!"
You finally let out the laugh you'd been holding in, the sound muffled by your hand as Dean burrowed his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and you could feel the slight tremble running through his body. This was the same man who had once thrown himself in front of a demon's attack for you without a second thought.
Now he was shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm because of a dog smaller than his boot.
"Honey," you said softly, reaching back to card your fingers through his short hair. "I promise you, that dog is not going to hurt you."
"You don't know that!" Dean's voice was muffled against your neck. "It could be possessed! It could be a demon in disguise! It could be-"
"It's a dog, Dean."
"A hell dog."
"A Yorkie."
"Same thing!"
Sam had given up all pretense of trying to be professional. He was leaning against the Impala, tears streaming down his face as he laughed openly. "Oh my God. I am never going to let you live this down. The great Dean Winchester, terrified of a purse dog."
Dean's head snapped up, and you could see the indignant fire in his eyes, though it was quickly overshadowed by another wave of fear as the Yorkie yapped again. He flinched, ducking back behind you so fast you almost stumbled.
"Shut up, Sam! I'm not- I'm just being cautious! It's called being prepared."
"You literally just screamed like a little girl when that cat jumped out at the mill."
"That cat was huge!"
"It was a normal-sized cat."
"It was a not!"
You turned in Dean's arms, cupping his face in your hands. His eyes were wide, pupils contracted, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The ghost sickness was really doing a number on him, and despite the hilarity of the situation, your heart ached for him. Dean Winchester was many things—stubborn, cocky, infuriatingly handsome—but he was never afraid. Not like this.
"Hey," you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. "Look at me."
His eyes met yours, and you could see the panic swirling in them. This was the man who had once told you that fear was for people who had something to lose, and you'd laughed and told him that he had plenty to lose, he just didn't want to admit it. Now here he was, terrified of everything, and you couldn't help but find it endearing in the most ridiculous way.
"I've got you," you said. "Okay? I'm right here. Nothing's gonna hurt you."
"Promise?" His voice was so small, so vulnerable, that it made your heart clench.
"Promise."
Dean nodded, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and immediately went back to burying his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around you like you were his lifeline, and you could feel him trying to wriggle his way under your long black coat, seeking shelter like a child hiding from a storm.
"Dean, what are you doing?"
"Protecting myself," came his muffled reply. "Your coat is like a shield. I want to be under it."
"It's a coat, not a force field."
"It's a coat. same logic as blankets."
You couldn't help but laugh again, shaking your head as you opened your arms to let him burrow closer. This was the same man who had once spent an entire evening making fun of you for wearing such an "ostentatious" coat, calling you Van Helsing and asking if you were expecting to fight Dracula. Now he was trying to disappear into its folds.
"This is priceless," Sam wheezed, pulling out his phone. "I need to document this. For posterity."
"If you take a picture, Sam, I swear to God-"
"What are you gonna do, Dean? Scare me with your big scary voice? Oh no, I'm so scared."
"Sammy, come on." Your tone carried a warning, as amused as it was, and Sam ended up chosing to put his phone away, wise choice, though the smirk remained firmly plastered on his face.
"You're no fun." he muttered.
"I'm the only one keeping your brother from having a heart attack. Respect the coat."
Dean made a sound of agreement against your neck, and you felt him press a small kiss to your skin. Even terrified out of his mind, he was still trying to be affectionate. It was almost enough to make you forget that this was a supernatural illness that could kill him if you didn't figure out how to stop it.
Almost.
"We need to focus," you said, gently extracting yourself from Dean's clinging grip, which was easier said than done, considering he was practically Velcroed to your side. "We still need to figure out how to stop this ghost."
"I don't wanna focus," Dean whined, he actually whined. "I wanna go back to the hotel and hide under the covers with you."
"Dean."
"I'm serious! There's a scary ghost out there, and I don't wanna fight it. I wanna cuddle."
Sam snorted. "This is the best day of my life."
"Shut up, Sam!"
You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you tried to formulate a plan. This was going to be a long night.
Later that evening, you found yourself in the hotel room, Dean wrapped around you like a koala as you sat on the bed. He had refused to let go of you for even a second, following you around like a lost puppy (or rather, a frightened one) given his current fear of anything smaller than a breadbox.
"This is ridiculous," Sam said, pacing the room with a laptop in his hands. "I've never seen you like this, Dean. You're usually the one dragging us into danger, not hiding from it."
"Hiding is good," Dean mumbled into your shoulder. "Hiding is safe. Hiding is smart."
"Hiding is pathetic."
"Sam." You shot him a warning look. "He's literally sick. Cut him some slack."
"I'm just saying, this is a side of Dean I never thought I'd see. He's usually so…" Sam gestured vaguely. "..Dean-y."
"I'm right here, you know," Dean complained, his voice muffled. "I'm being… strategically cautious."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"It's what I'm calling it."
You pressed a kiss to the top of Dean's head, feeling him sigh contentedly against you. "Alright, let's focus. Sam, what did Bobby say about this ghost sickness again?"
Sam launched into an explanation, but Dean wasn't listening. He had started tracing patterns on your arm with his finger, his touch featherlight and somewhat hypnotic. His grip on you had loosened slightly, but he was still pressed against you like he was trying to become one with your body.
"You smell nice," he murmured, and you felt his nose nuzzle against your collarbone. "Like vanilla and something else. Something good."
"Dean, I'm trying to focus."
"Focusing is overrated. We should just stay here forever. Never leave this room. Just you and me and… and maybe Sam can get his own room."
"I can hear you!"
"I don't care!"
You sighed, but you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. Even in his fear-induced state, Dean was still Dean, still trying to charm his way through the situation, still trying to make you smile.
"How about this," you said, shifting slightly so you could look him in the eyes. "We go find this ghost, we burn its remains, and then we come back here and I'll let you hide under my coat for as long as you want. Deal?"
Dean considered this for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Can I also hold your hand?"
"Sure."
"Can I hold both your hands?"
You laughed, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "Fine. Both hands. Now let's go."
The drive to the location was… interesting. Dean had insisted on sitting in the backseat with you, pressed against your side like he was trying to merge with you. His hands were wrapped around one of yours, his grip almost painfully tight, and he kept looking over his shoulder as if expecting something to jump out at any moment.
"You know," Sam said from the front seat, his voice carefully neutral, "I never thought I'd see the day when Dean Winchester would be more scared of a ghost than I am."
"I'm not scared," Dean said, his voice wavering. "I'm… cautiously concerned."
"That's not a thing."
"It's a thing."
"Is it?"
"Yes, Sam, it's a thing. It's the thing I'm feeling right now. Which is caution. And concern."
"Uh-huh. And the fact that you're literally hiding behind your girlfriend?"
"My girlfriend's an excellent shield."
You snorted, squeezing Dean's hand. "Gee, thanks. I think."
"Any time, baby. Any time."
When you arrived at the location, Dean practically glued himself to your back, his hands gripping your shoulders as he peered over them. Sam had to physically stop himself from laughing when Dean jumped at a sudden gust of wind.
"This is really sweet," Sam said, grinning. "Really. I've never seen you two so… attached."
"Sam, I swear to God-"
"Don't worry, Dean. I'm sure if you scream loud enough, your hunter girlfriend will protect you."
"That's it, I'm going to punch you-" Dean started, but he was interrupted by a sudden noise from inside the building, and he immediately squeaked and pressed himself closer to you.
"Okay, okay, we're going." you said, patting his hand soothingly. "We're going. Stay close to me."
"I was planning on it."
The hunt was… eventful, to say the least. Dean spent most of it with his face buried in your back while you and Sam did the actual work. At one point, you had to physically drag him away from a corner he'd backed himself into, and he'd ended up so tangled in your coat that it had taken both you and Sam to extricate him.
By the time the ghost was dealt with and the sickness was cured, you were exhausted, covered in dirt and ready to collapse. Dean, on the other hand, was suddenly back to his old self—cocky, confident, and absolutely refusing to acknowledge that the past two days had ever happened.
"So," Sam said, leaning against the Impala with a smirk. "About that Yorkie…"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"And that cat…"
"My memory is fuzzy."
"And the fact that you literally hid under your darling's coat—"
"THAT WAS A STRATEGIC DECISION."
You laughed, wrapping your arms around Dean's waist from behind and pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. "It was adorable, Dean. You were adorable."
"I was not adorable. I was terrifying. I was a vision of masculine strength."
"You almost cried over a Yorkie."
"I did almost not!"
"Dean, it was just a Yorkie. With a bow."
"A VERY SCARY YORKIE."
Sam was practically wheezing with laughter, and even you couldn't keep a straight face. Dean's face had gone an interesting shade of red, and he was looking anywhere but at either of you.
"I hate you both." he muttered. "I hate you both so much."
"No, you don't," you said, pressing another kiss to his back. "You love us."
summary : you and dean are just as grumpy when it comes to waking up early.
warnings : just a fluffy blurb!
wc : 480.
notes : guys i’m taking requests for dean too from now on btw!! if you have any ideas pls lmk, i really wanna write more abt him but i just feel like i don’t really have original ideas, so help a girl out!!!
You firmly believed that there wasn’t a more excruciating sound in this world than the buzz of an alarm clock during an idyllic morning — such as that one.
A ray of sunshine attacked your tired eyes as soon as they fluttered open at the irritating ring. You rebelled against the brightness immediately, burying your face back into Dean’s shoulder.
“Oh, Jesus Christ…” a low grunt vibrated in his chest underneath you.
The digits on the clock announced it was 7 a.m. Yesterday, you and Dean had promised Sam it would be the last time you two turned up late to an investigation. Poor guy had been up on his feet doing research practically since sunrise, letting you night owls get your beauty sleep. Nights were getting shorter, and mornings had been growing colder since winter came around, and you both couldn’t help but let yourselves turn a bit lazy.
“Dean. It’s seven,” you groaned, accompanying the alarm, yet still not moving a muscle. “We promised Sam–“
“Sweetheart, please just smash that piece of trash,” his whine rumbled over your head, fed up with the noise. You felt him affectionately squeeze the soft back of your thigh between the grumpy hums that slipped past his lips. Clingy as he always was during such an hour.
Too sleepy to question the order you actually approved of, you leaned over to the nightstand. Dean’s hand crept up your waist and clutched at the curve, keeping you from falling off the bed as you reached out your arm. The chilly air of the motel room grazed your skin in places where the covers slipped off as you finally hit the device, turning it off.
“Oh, thank God,” he muttered in a hoarse tone followed by a pleased hum. “Now get back here.”
You felt Dean’s palm rubbing circles on your back, warming you up, making sure you’d crawl right back into his arms. With a deep sigh, you dropped back on the mattress.
You snuggled back into his hold. Your legs intertwined in a familiar way, his arms wrapped around your frame with a crushingly affectionate force. “‘S too damn cold...” you heard him mumble grumpily.
“Mhm. Let’s just…five more minutes,” you groaned and felt him tug you closer right away, burying his face in the softness of your hair.
“You read my mind baby.”
A nice shiver crossed your skin as his nose gently nudged the ticklish spot below your ear. He held onto you like he was afraid you would evaporate into thin air and deprive him of the softness of your body, the nice smell of your skin, the love of your touch.
Your eyelids fluttered shut immediately. How could they not when his body was like a damn heater? When his deep, steady breaths soothed your body and mind? There was no way in hell you’d deny yourself that.
Summary: You go out to a bar to decompress with Dean, but he can't handle what comes to the surface when a guy wants to bring you home.
Word Count: 1.7K+ <3
Content: Female reader, jealous/protective Dean, tipsy reader, reader is SASSY, yearning, first kiss, respectful Dean, so many emotions, suggestive language, little bit of angst (reader and Dean have a disagreement)
Note: Title from Crush by Ethel Cain (the entire song is Dean coded to be fair)
How is he supposed to breathe?
You stand across the room, your form leaning over the edge of a pool table as you line up your shot. The stranger playing with you glances at the wad of cash up for grabs, frowns, and says something that you laugh at. Your smile sends Dean's stomach spinning.
Dean takes a swig of his beer as you sink your third ball in a row. He knows that within the next five minutes, you’ll be pocketing the bets and patting your opponent on the back.
He’s the one who taught you how to play.
He’s the one who knows how it feels to have your body nestled against his while he shows you how to make a draw shot.
The men gathering around you are all trash talking your game, claiming that it's a stroke of beginner's luck.
But you win, just like Dean knew you would. The man and his no-good friends are all hollering and giving you fist bumps while you roll your eyes. Dean can read your lips from here.
“What, a woman can’t be good at pool?”
“How about I get you a drink?” The man is practically hovering over you, his eyes dark and glinting.
You tilt your head to the side. “Sure.”
The two of you make your way to the bar, and before you sit down on a stool three seats down the way, you look over at Dean and shrug.
His blood is thumping. He can’t even hear the jukebox anymore. Dean blinks, wanting to tell you everything and nothing, his lips opening and closing as no words come out.
Rum and coke, he guesses.
“Rum and coke,” you say to the bartender.
You did your hair tonight in nice curls, your eyelashes lengthened and dark. Dean notices how your jeans hug your hips, how tight your top is against your chest. Apparently, your friend sees the same, because his eyes are roaming your body as he gets himself a whiskey.
The man holds out his hand to you. He has brown hair and green eyes. “I’m Cal.”
God, even his name is obnoxious.
You reach out and shake it, laughing into the touch as you give him your name. “I thought we were past the honorifics,” you say.
“We can be.”
You and Cal make easy conversation—life, weather in town, work. Dean smirks when you say that you’re in the electrical contracting business, but it’s wiped off of his face when Cal takes an interest in everything that you say. Cal is leaning forward into your space, and you’re letting him in, smiling up at him and toying with strands of your hair. His friends are toward the back entertaining themselves with darts, but they nudge each other's shoulders every time they glance back at you.
Dean can’t talk to you like Cal can. He’s never given a damn about the rain. He’s never had a normal life to make small talk about, actually. You and Dean talk about cases, monsters, weapons, travel routes, movies, music, the next gas stop on the road.
Tonight is the first time that Dean has ever heard you mention that you love dogs.
Cal brings out his phone to show you a photo of his dog back at home, a handsome golden retriever with a tennis ball in his mouth. His name is Buddy.
“Original,” Dean says to himself.
But then you’re nearly cooing over the photo, insisting that Buddy must be the best boy in the whole world. Cal is as smug as it gets, smirking as he tells you that you can meet Buddy. Only if you want to, of course.
Dean has had enough, heard enough, seen enough. He slides a twenty across the bar to cover his tab and a tip as he makes his way over to you, placing a hand against the warmth of your bare shoulder.
You look back at him with a quick smile, and then toward Cal. “Dean! Cal, this is my—“
“Boyfriend,” Dean butts in. He looks at Cal with a squint. “Nice to meet ya.”
Cal’s eyebrows raise. “Boyfriend,” he repeats.
Your face is flushed as you try to put together an explanation. Dean’s hand on your shoulder squeezes once.
“I am so sorry about all of this, man,” Dean tells Cal. “She gets a little… you know… when she’s had too much to drink.”
“What?” You stammer. “Dean isn’t—he isn’t my—“
Cal is standing up from the stool with a blank expression, leaving his unfinished whiskey on the bar. “Nice talking to you,” he mutters as he walks away.
“Thank god,” Dean laughs. Cal is openly glaring at him now. “That guy was a total douche."
“Dean, what are you talking about?”
“Let’s go back, yeah?”
“What the fuck.”
“I just saved you a night of disappointment. I mean, c’mon, him?”
“I wasn’t going to go back to his place!”
“He was totally giving you fuck-me eyes, sweetheart.”
“Like you’d know!”
“I would know. I'm a guy."
“Right, because you’ve been with nearly every woman across the country.” You stand up and grab your bag. “Thanks, Dean.”
Dean follows you out the door, his hands ready to grab you in case you fall. You’re not completely drunk, though you have a decent buzz going. Even if you did stumble, he’s not sure you would let him help you. He can feel your anger pulsing off of you in waves, can feel it when you slam the door of the passenger side of the Impala and slide into the leather.
Typically you choose the CDs when he drives, turning on the radio and rolling down the windows. Some nights you’ll stick your hand out the window, letting the breeze coast through your splayed fingers.
Dean frowns when you stare out the window instead.
The roads back to the motel are quiet. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Want me to drive you back?”
“Drive me back where, Dean?”
“To the bar.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t want to fuck him.”
“I’m not allowed to talk to people?” You throw your hands up in the air. “Even if I wanted him, I'm really struggling to see the issue here."
“Just… if you want a guy, don't let it be him."
“Who then?”
Dean is silent.
He doesn’t want you with anyone, and he can’t stand the thought. They wouldn’t treat you right, at least not in the way Dean thinks you deserve.
“You better figure it out soon, Dean, because I haven’t…” You stop yourself.
“Haven’t what?”
“We’ve been on the road for months,” you laugh.
“Christ,” he breathes. His hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles briefly turning white before he releases them. “You seriously haven’t… y’know?”
“Let me know when you stop judging me.”
“I’m not.” Dean takes in a breath. “But those guys, sweetheart, they aren’t gonna give you what you need. I can read dudes like Cal for a living, and trust me, he’ll kick you out before the sun rises.”
“Takes one to know one, huh?”
“I wouldn’t kick you out. Not a chance in hell.”
“Tell me what you’d do.”
And if Dean thought he couldn’t breathe earlier, he certainly can’t now. Not with your eyes back on him.
“Get you out of that bar and take you to dinner, a real nice place downtown. Maybe I’d have you wear something nice. We could talk and I’d get you whatever you wanted off the menu. Talk to you about the weather. Rain and shit. Show you a dog, if I had one.”
“Dessert?”
“Of course. Tiramisu?”
“That’s my favorite.”
“I know,” Dean smiles.
He wishes that he could know everything about you, if you'd let him.
“You wouldn’t take me home?”
“No. Not if you didn’t want to.”
“So what kind of guy are you? Second-date, third-date?”
Dean is well aware of his reputation—meet a woman, go back to her place, grab his things and leave before she wakes. He never cared in the past that anyone knew he was a non-committal player, but it hurts him now.
“Doesn’t matter. Whenever you wanted.”
“Then it’s too bad you don’t want me.”
“Who said I didn’t want you, baby?”
“Pull over.”
Dean’s brows raise, but he turns right at the next stop, pulling the Impala into a desolate strip mall parking lot. His heart is racing helplessly.
You unclick your seatbelt when he parks and nearly crawl into his lap. “Tell me,” you say.
“Tell you what?"
“Why’d you tell him you were my boyfriend?”
“I can’t—I couldn’t let you. It would’ve killed me.”
“Do you want to be? My boyfriend?”
“Fuck, sugar. You can’t say things like that when you’re like this.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“But you’ve had a few drinks.”
“I’m still telling the truth.” You clamber over to his side, settling your thighs around him. Dean’s hands go to your waist. “Cal looked like you.”
“I noticed, baby.” His thumb reaches up to stroke your cheek. “Wanted me that bad?”
You hum, your head going to his neck, placing a delicate kiss there. Dean closes his eyes and lets out a low noise. He’s dreamt of this, dreamt only of you.
When you start to press down into his lap, Dean slowly pulls you off of him. “Sweetheart," he chokes.
You blink at him. “You don’t want it?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay.” You’re suddenly shy in his arms, leaning away from him and looking downward.
“I… you have no fucking idea. I want you to be sober, and I certainly won’t fuck you in this parking lot. I have to make it good for you, baby.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Dean places a hand on your chin and brings you in, his mouth moving slowly against yours. He’s reeling at the taste, the smell of you, and the small noise that comes from your throat when he brushes a hand through your hair.
But he pulls away, taking your face into his hands. “I want to take you to dinner.”
“When?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Tomorrow. Take me out tomorrow.”
“And take you back to the motel after?” Dean says with a twinge on his face.
“Get us a real hotel room.”
“Sammy said no big purchases on the credit card."
You reach into your bra and pull out the cash from your pool bet. "We don't have to use a credit card."
"That's my girl," Dean sighs.
He kisses your cheek and helps you back into the passenger seat, smiling in the darkness when your head rests on his shoulder for the drive back home.
Your boyfriend, Damian Wayne, is the best taste tester. Even if he refuses to admit that.
DC masterlist ◞ Based on this request.
a/n: Trixie vs writing anything other than dc..
The apartment smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and something that might have been slightly burnt sugar. You stood at the kitchen counter in one of Damian’s old Wayne Enterprises shirts, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting your cheek like war paint. Bowls, measuring cups, and various ingredients were scattered across every available surface. This was your happy place — experimenting with new recipes, tweaking old ones, turning the kitchen into a laboratory of flavor.
Damian Wayne — your boyfriend of two years, now a very serious college student who still somehow found time to patrol as Robin — sat at the small breakfast bar, arms crossed, watching you with a mix of amusement and mild suffering.
“You volunteered for this,” you reminded him sweetly, sliding a fresh batch of experimental lemon-blueberry muffins toward him. “Taste tester duties. Remember?”
“I was under the impression it would involve one or two items,” Damian said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Not an entire bakery’s worth of prototypes.”
You grinned, leaning across the counter to kiss his cheek, leaving a faint trace of flour there. “You love me. And you secretly love being the first to try my creations.”
He sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. At nineteen, Damian had grown into his sharp features and sharper tongue, but with you he was softer — still arrogant, still precise, but willing to sit through your chaotic kitchen experiments because they made you happy.
“Very well,” he said, picking up a muffin with the delicate care of someone handling evidence. He took a small, measured bite, chewing thoughtfully. His green eyes narrowed in concentration.
You bounced on your toes. “Well?”
“It is… okay,” he pronounced. “The lemon is bright. The blueberries give some god moisture. But, the crumb is slightly dense. Maybe.. less flour next time, or another egg.”
You scribbled notes on your recipe card, nodding. “Good catch. Okay, next one.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“Many more,” you said cheerfully, pulling a tray of chocolate-chili cookies from the oven. The scent was rich and a little spicy. “I’m trying to perfect a new line for the campus bake sale next week. You’re my official critic.”
He took a cookie when you offered it, breaking it in half to examine the texture before tasting. “The heat builds nicely at the end,” he said after a moment. “Surprising, but.. not unpleasant. The chocolate balances it. These may be your best yet.”
Your heart did a little flip at the rare praise. Damian wasn’t one for empty compliments — if he said something was good, he meant it.
The afternoon stretched on like that. You moved through recipes with focused energy — a rosemary olive oil cake that Damian deemed “elegant but perhaps too savory for dessert,” a batch of matcha white chocolate blondies that made him pause and actually take a second one (“These are… weirdly addictive”), and a disastrous attempt at lavender-honey macarons that ended up in the trash after one bite from both of you.
Damian never complained. He sat there in his comfy clothes, hair slightly messy from running his hands through it, offering thoughtful feedback between bites. Sometimes he’d stand up to help — steadying a mixer when it started to wobble, or reaching ingredients on the high shelf you couldn’t quite grab. Every so often he’d pull you away from the counter for a quick kiss, tasting whatever you’d just been sampling on your lips.
“You’re going to make me gain weight,” he muttered at one point, accepting a spoonful of experimental tiramisu mousse.
You laughed, wiping a bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “You burn it all off anyway with your… nighttime activities. Besides, I like cooking for you.”
His expression softened in that way it only did for you. “And I like that you do.”
As evening fell, the kitchen looked like a war zone but the counter was lined with successful creations. You finally collapsed onto the couch with Damian, legs draped over his lap, both of you pleasantly full and tired.
“You know,” you said, tracing patterns on his arm, “most people would have bailed after the third failed batch.”
Damian’s hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles. “Most people are not fortunate enough to have a partner whose passion produces such… interesting results.” He paused. “The matcha blondies were genuinely excellent. You should make those again.”
You beamed. “Noted.”
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you for including me in your process. Even if it means becoming your official guinea pig.”
“You’re the best taste tester I’ve ever had,” you murmured, snuggling into his chest. “Critical, honest, and very cute when you’re concentrating.”
Damian huffed, but his arms tightened around you. “I am not cute.”
“You’re adorable,” you countered, kissing his jaw. “Especially with flour on your nose.”
He wiped at his face, scowling when he found the evidence. You laughed, and he retaliated by tickling your sides until you were both breathless and tangled together on the couch.
Later, as you packed up the successful baked goods for the campus bake sale, Damian helped without being asked — labeling containers in his neat handwriting, making sure everything was stored properly. The apartment smelled like sugar and vanilla and home.
You watched him for a moment, heart full. College life with Damian Wayne wasn’t always easy — between his classes, your own, and his continued work as Robin — but moments like this made it perfect.
“Thank you,” you said softly as he closed the last container.
He looked up, green eyes warm. “Always.”
The kitchen might be a mess, but with Damian as your taste tester and partner in crime, every experiment felt like a success.
Even the ones that ended up in the trash.
a/n : this was so cute brah he’s so freaking awesome
Your boyfriend, Damian Wayne, is the best taste tester. Even if he refuses to admit that.
DC masterlist ◞ Based on this request.
a/n: Trixie vs writing anything other than dc..
The apartment smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and something that might have been slightly burnt sugar. You stood at the kitchen counter in one of Damian’s old Wayne Enterprises shirts, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting your cheek like war paint. Bowls, measuring cups, and various ingredients were scattered across every available surface. This was your happy place — experimenting with new recipes, tweaking old ones, turning the kitchen into a laboratory of flavor.
Damian Wayne — your boyfriend of two years, now a very serious college student who still somehow found time to patrol as Robin — sat at the small breakfast bar, arms crossed, watching you with a mix of amusement and mild suffering.
“You volunteered for this,” you reminded him sweetly, sliding a fresh batch of experimental lemon-blueberry muffins toward him. “Taste tester duties. Remember?”
“I was under the impression it would involve one or two items,” Damian said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Not an entire bakery’s worth of prototypes.”
You grinned, leaning across the counter to kiss his cheek, leaving a faint trace of flour there. “You love me. And you secretly love being the first to try my creations.”
He sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. At nineteen, Damian had grown into his sharp features and sharper tongue, but with you he was softer — still arrogant, still precise, but willing to sit through your chaotic kitchen experiments because they made you happy.
“Very well,” he said, picking up a muffin with the delicate care of someone handling evidence. He took a small, measured bite, chewing thoughtfully. His green eyes narrowed in concentration.
You bounced on your toes. “Well?”
“It is… okay,” he pronounced. “The lemon is bright. The blueberries give some god moisture. But, the crumb is slightly dense. Maybe.. less flour next time, or another egg.”
You scribbled notes on your recipe card, nodding. “Good catch. Okay, next one.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“Many more,” you said cheerfully, pulling a tray of chocolate-chili cookies from the oven. The scent was rich and a little spicy. “I’m trying to perfect a new line for the campus bake sale next week. You’re my official critic.”
He took a cookie when you offered it, breaking it in half to examine the texture before tasting. “The heat builds nicely at the end,” he said after a moment. “Surprising, but.. not unpleasant. The chocolate balances it. These may be your best yet.”
Your heart did a little flip at the rare praise. Damian wasn’t one for empty compliments — if he said something was good, he meant it.
The afternoon stretched on like that. You moved through recipes with focused energy — a rosemary olive oil cake that Damian deemed “elegant but perhaps too savory for dessert,” a batch of matcha white chocolate blondies that made him pause and actually take a second one (“These are… weirdly addictive”), and a disastrous attempt at lavender-honey macarons that ended up in the trash after one bite from both of you.
Damian never complained. He sat there in his comfy clothes, hair slightly messy from running his hands through it, offering thoughtful feedback between bites. Sometimes he’d stand up to help — steadying a mixer when it started to wobble, or reaching ingredients on the high shelf you couldn’t quite grab. Every so often he’d pull you away from the counter for a quick kiss, tasting whatever you’d just been sampling on your lips.
“You’re going to make me gain weight,” he muttered at one point, accepting a spoonful of experimental tiramisu mousse.
You laughed, wiping a bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “You burn it all off anyway with your… nighttime activities. Besides, I like cooking for you.”
His expression softened in that way it only did for you. “And I like that you do.”
As evening fell, the kitchen looked like a war zone but the counter was lined with successful creations. You finally collapsed onto the couch with Damian, legs draped over his lap, both of you pleasantly full and tired.
“You know,” you said, tracing patterns on his arm, “most people would have bailed after the third failed batch.”
Damian’s hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles. “Most people are not fortunate enough to have a partner whose passion produces such… interesting results.” He paused. “The matcha blondies were genuinely excellent. You should make those again.”
You beamed. “Noted.”
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you for including me in your process. Even if it means becoming your official guinea pig.”
“You’re the best taste tester I’ve ever had,” you murmured, snuggling into his chest. “Critical, honest, and very cute when you’re concentrating.”
Damian huffed, but his arms tightened around you. “I am not cute.”
“You’re adorable,” you countered, kissing his jaw. “Especially with flour on your nose.”
He wiped at his face, scowling when he found the evidence. You laughed, and he retaliated by tickling your sides until you were both breathless and tangled together on the couch.
Later, as you packed up the successful baked goods for the campus bake sale, Damian helped without being asked — labeling containers in his neat handwriting, making sure everything was stored properly. The apartment smelled like sugar and vanilla and home.
You watched him for a moment, heart full. College life with Damian Wayne wasn’t always easy — between his classes, your own, and his continued work as Robin — but moments like this made it perfect.
“Thank you,” you said softly as he closed the last container.
He looked up, green eyes warm. “Always.”
The kitchen might be a mess, but with Damian as your taste tester and partner in crime, every experiment felt like a success.
Even the ones that ended up in the trash.
a/n : this was so cute brah he’s so freaking awesome
summary: jack falls in love with the mayor's daughter
tags: forbidden relationship, fluff and angst, kissing, a little bit of aftercare/mention of sex, soft jack
a/n: love you all!!!
divider cred: me!
Warm arms come around your shoulders, rum on his breath against your cheek, clothes dappled with the smell of the sea. You roll your eyes before your hand drifts up to rest on his arm. “Jack.” He hums happily.
“Will you ever address me as captain?” He asks softly.
“Once you’ve earned it.” He snorts, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“When will that be?” He asks, sipping his rum. You pause for a long moment, finally turning to face him.
“I don’t know.” You grin, his expression matching before leaning forward to kiss you. You pull back to brush a stray hair from his eyes as he grins.
“How’d you get out this time?”
“Paid off one of my father’s guards.” His fingers trail under your skirt, tracing the soft skin.
“That’s my girl, hm?” He presses a few kisses to your lips with a proud grin.
“My father would have a heart attack knowing I snuck off for a pirate.” Jack kisses you again.
“You’d be better as a pirate compared to a prissy mayor’s daughter.” You smile lightly, letting him take your hand and lead you out of the bar. You follow his stumbling form with a flurry of giggles.
“I’d be a horrible pirate!” You laugh happily, making him raise a brow as he presses you against a wall.
“Why’s that, my dearest?” He hums, softly nipping at your jaw.
“I hate getting dirty! I hate sand!” You giggle, his fingers playing with the heavy fabric of your skirt. He kisses you again, making you laugh louder, his heart fluttering at the soft sound that he cherished coming back to after voyages.
“You’d be the most beautiful pirate.” He hums, cupping your cheek. He watches you for a long moment before you speak.
“I missed you, Jack.”
“I missed you more, my love.”
𔘓
The first time he’d seen you, it was across a street as he hid from the red coats. He’d caught a glimpse of a ribbon coming loose from your dress, watching it flow to his feet in the dirt. He’d picked it up and run it between his fingers, watching as you followed after your father.
He’d learnt, after he’d been caught, that your father was the mayor. You’d stopped by to find him, kissing the man on the cheek and glancing to meet Jack’s eyes for a fleeting moment. He was utterly infatuated. The ribbon stayed tucked in his hair on his next voyage until he’d docked again.
He’d watched you from afar again until he’d found a moment alone with you. Your fabric blew in the soft sea breeze as you looked over the dock, and Jack couldn’t help but feel flushed. He’d been with women here and there, but he’d never felt like this. For once, he couldn’t look at the sea, his eyes stuck on you.
You’d turned when he cleared his throat, a gasp of fear leaving your lips at the sight of the pirate. “Don’t be afraid, love… I’ve come to return something.”
“Return something?” Your head tilts in question as he pulls the ribbon from his hair, the fabric stained with dirt and sea.
“It drifted from your dress a few weeks ago.”
“A few weeks ago? When did you break from our prison?” He gives you a wide smile.
“Broke from? Love, I just got out. Don’t dramatise it.” He purrs, reaching out to touch the fabric of your skirt. You yank it from his grip, taking steps away from him.
“You’re a pirate.”
“A captain nonetheless.” He purrs happily.
“You hurt people!”
“Not without reason.”
“How do I know you won’t hurt me?”
“I kept a ribbon from your dress for weeks, and you think I’m going to hurt you?”
“You are a pirate.”
“Captain, my love. Captain.” He watches as you push past him, starting to tread away. “Lassie!” Against your better judgment, you turn to him. “Meet me at the fountain in the middle of the square.”
“What?”
“Tonight. After sundown.”
“Why should I do that?” He smiles, reaching out to grab your hand and kiss your knuckles.
“Just an offer. I’ll wait.” He winks gently, letting you go and watching you walk away.
You’d met him that night, the thrill of sneaking from your father’s clutches too strong a pull to deny the offer. He’d met you with a wide smile, taking both your hands and taking you to the docks, showing off his ship with a gloating smile. “That’s the black pearl?” You gasp softly, squeezing his hand tightly. He can’t help but admire the way you smile, reaching out to run your fingers along the dark wood.
“That it is, lass. And she’s mine.” You’d looked over at him in wonder, making his gaze soften. He’d watched in amazement as you tore a ribbon from your dress and gently tucked it into his hair. “What’s that for?”
“So you have a reason to come back to me.” You’d whisper softly, fingers lingering against his cheek.
“Quite scandalous for the mayor’s daughter, yes?” He teases, hands finding your waist and tugging you closer. You scan his face for a long moment, admiring his features.
“You give me something, Jack… something I never get to have.” His head tilts softly.
“And what is that?”
“Freedom.”
“That’s what I often say about the sea, my love.”
𔘓
Your hips had a pleasant ache as you slowly sat up, Jack’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. The ship swayed softly in its docking spot, lulling you into a calmer state. “Feeling alright?” He whispers against the warm skin of your leg before sitting up to decide you.
“Wonderful is more like it.” You grin, kissing him gently.
“Glad I could be of service, love.”
“I need to get back to the house.” You whisper reluctantly, making him pinch a frown.
“Must you?”
“Unless you want my father to have your head on a stake– and before you tell me you’d do anything for me, I don’t want to see your head on a stake.” He laughs lightly against your lips.
“I’ll walk you back.” You nod, letting him help you up and redress you, kissing along the plain of your shoulders. “Someday you won’t have to sneak out. You’ll be sailing at my side.”
“Someday.” You hum softly, kissing him again before he leads you off the boat. He walks you slowly to the edge of the gardens before pulling you to a stop and looking down at you.
“I hate leaving you.” Your chest kicks painfully at his words, the earnestness in his voice breaking you apart.
“As do I.” The urge to argue is strong beneath his skin. He wants you to leave your prim and proper life behind. To run away with him and never come back. But he loved you too much to do such a thing.
“I love you, lass.” Your gaze softens.
“I love you most.” You whisper, leaning up to kiss him. He pulls away, watching you rip a ribbon from your dress and tucking it beneath the fabric of his bandana.
“Be safe, my dearest.”
𔘓
“Have you heard about the mayor’s daughter in Port Dion? She’s said to be wed by the end of the year.” Jack’s whole body froze as he overheard the conversation in Tortuga. The noise of the bar drowned out around him, the rum in his veins suddenly going cold. He stood slowly, glancing around to find Gibbs.
“Gibbs.” The older man looks up, smile dropping at Jack’s tone.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Gather the crew. We need to be back in Port Dion as soon as possible.” The man nods.
𔘓
“Father, please. I cannot marry him!” You cry softly, kneeling at your father's feet as he skimmed through a book.
“Stop whining! You do as I say.”
“I don’t love him!”
“When has love mattered?” He scowls.
“It’s always mattered!”
“You’re marrying him! End of story!”
𔘓
“Jack!” You cry out, finding his ship on the docks that night and rushing into his arms.
“Tell me it’s not true… please…” He whispers, cradling your head.
“I’m trying to talk him out of it…” You whimper, making Jack pull away to wipe your tears. “I don’t love the man… I don’t even know him… my heart’s already taken.” You sniffle.
“I know, my love, I know.” He soothes, hating the sound of your cries.
“Unhand her!” The click of a gun makes you freeze against you, eyes clamping shut at your father's voice and the boots approaching.
“I don’t think I will,” Jack says protectively, pulling you closer.
“You will, pirate.”
“Father, stop… please.” You move from Jack’s arms, turning to face your father, eyes swollen from tears. “Don’t hurt him.”
“Get away from him!” You shake your head. “What on Earth has gotten into you?”
“He’d the man I love!” You blurt out, making your father scoff.
“You cannot love a pirate!”
“I’ve loved him for almost a year! I sneak off to see him when he docks! You know nothing about me! I will not marry Mr Jackson!”
“You cannot be serious–! Get away from him and stop talking nonsense.” You step back, your back hitting Jack’s chest, a protective arm coming around your middle.
“I have proof!”
“How?” Your father raises a brow as you turn to Gibbs.
“Grab the ribbons, please.” You ask softly, making the man nod and move to the captain’s quarters. His boots echo across the planks, dropping the bundle of ribbons into your hands. “Each of these, father, is a ribbon I gave Jack each time I saw him. A reason to come back.”
“I cannot believe my daughter is mad.” The man scoffs.
“I’m not mad! I’m just— I’m just in love!” You cry out, making Jack’s heart sore with pride.
“You are no daughter of mine.” Your father scowls, making you frown.
“Fine.” You spit out.
“Fine?” He raises a brow.
“You’ve raised a pirate. Not a daughter.” You step closer again to Jack, feeling his smile.
“I’m proud of you, lassie.” He purrs happily, your heart soaring with a newfound freedom.
𔘓
The ocean greeted you with open arms, as did Jack. The crew was already familiar with you, leaving you be and averting their eyes. Jack was extremely protective of you, locking you away in his cabin until he’d taught you how to fight. The crew also pretended to ignore the noises of your late nights in Jack’s quarters.
You gained a hat on a stop, and Jack had shown you how to expertly steer the ship when he needed you to. He’d found Will again in Port Royal, asking him to make you a sword. Jack had also let Will teach you how to use your eyes, watching the interaction with lingering jealousy.
He’d buy you dresses, blouses, and trousers, showing you off around the various towns and ports, keeping you close as he negotiated with other pirates, never letting any harm come to you.
Gibbs had married the two of you on a calm evening at sunset, the whole crew watching with gentle smiles. Cotton’s parrot has squawked out, and I do! Before you could say it, sending you into a fit of giggles, before Jack had dipped you and kissed you deeply as the crew erupted happily, starting a long night of love and partying.
summary; Capitan Jack Sparrow offers you a boat ride in exchange for his freedom
warnings; none
masterlist
english is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes
‘Are you a pirate?’ The underground cells reeked of mustiness, damp and something you preferred not even to guess at. The small openings in the walls overlooking the sea let in neither much air nor much light, and because of the lack of light, you could not make out the prisoner’s full figure.
The silence was broken only by a bored adjustment of his hat and the groans of the other prisoners. ‘Are you a pirate?’ you asked again, growing slightly annoyed at the lack of a reply.
'Does daddy know you're here?' a low, irritated voice came from the cell. 'I... you didn’t answer the question.' You stood there with your hands resting on the cell bars. How dare he ask such ambiguous, inappropriate questions? It wasn’t even that it was humiliating—though it was—but his irritated, mocking tone.
'Aye, Captain Jack Sparrow,' he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He raised his hand, and the hat that had been covering his face the whole time landed on the ground right next to him.
He looked you up and down, and a smirk crept onto his lips when he saw the light-coloured dress with its ornate, embroidered bodice. 'Do you know where the keys are?' You chuckled mockingly at his question. 'I won't let you out of here.' You felt more confident, sensing that you were starting to gain the upper hand over the pirate.
'So why are you here?' The question took you by surprise, as you couldn’t think of a single good—or at least plausible and appropriate—reason. He looked once more at the embroidered bodice and the silk fabric of the dress.
“Is your father the governor, lass?” His eyes fixed on you with that piercing gaze, as if he already knew everything about you and was simply testing whether you would succumb to his charms.
'He’s a lord,’ you replied, wondering whether you should be revealing such details at all.
'I see. Your father’s busy with important matters like signing useless bits of paper, and you’re bored with your life, so when he’s not keeping an eye on you, you do things you shouldn’t, like exploring the cells and talking to a pirate?’
You let go of the bars, feeling both surprised and humiliated at the same time. All the thoughts swirling round in your head—and all the things you could have said—seemed pointless, because you both knew he was right. So you turned away without a word and took a few steps, trying to get away from him as quickly as you could.
'If you let me go, I'll take you to my ship; we can sail around the island.'
At those words, you stopped in your tracks, torn between the chance to sail on a real ship and the fact that you shouldn’t trust a pirate.
And yet there you were, standing in front of him, holding the key to the cell he’d been so desperate to escape from. ‘I have to be home before sunset, and no one must find out that I let you out, do you understand?’ You kept glancing at him as he watched you open the door.
‘Aye, darling’
Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, I am still learning.
| Dean dating a reader who’s overly independent and used to doing everything alone, and him being determined to change that ⋆˙⟡
❀ You’re used to having to handle everything yourself, to be the one to make all the choices and to be the one to take care of yourself
❀ Dean takes notice of it and becomes determined to change it. To become someone you can lean on and let him take care of you
❀ In the beginning of your relationship it’s small things, like him telling you to just get ready for your date and taking you to some nice place, instead of asking you to choose where the two of you should go
❀ Dean knows you don’t need help and that you can handle your stuff yourself but he wants to help you, take some of the weight off your shoulders
❀ Dean learns your body language and he notices when everything’s just too much for you. He’ll pull you in for a hug and mutter sweet nothings. Not forcing you to open up but making sure you know you can always be open with him
❀ In the long run Dean makes you feel comfortable enough around him to just shut off your mind. When the two of you’re wandering around some local town you don’t have to worry about each every little thing because Dean got you, guiding you throughout the town with his hand on your back
❀ Needless to say Dean is protective. During a hunt his eyes will wander where you stand to make sure you’re unharmed, and he wouldn’t think twice risking himself to help you
❀ Dean will also always take care of you. Make sure you eat enough “come on sweetheart you’ve barely eaten anything’ today, now eat up”. making sure you’re warm, and he’ll offer you his jacket as soon as he sees you shiver even slightly
Tags: @userhotd @littlelovebiird @vlarrtrgryn {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged!}
