Oh Love.

Writer. Artist. Other. Shop my Depop store for vintage jewelry & more: https://depop.com/modernmarket25

[kosmogrl]

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[perriaeyjeve]

[belmasworld]

[dafancyuhinspiration]

[javarisx-fightingthosedemons]

[unfxded]

⠀

[svdcvnt]

“I Can Fix It”

Artist: Justin Novak 🪡

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

gif @daryl-dixon-daydreams

Survivor about Y/N: Your wife’s a little high maintenance, isn’t she?

Daryl, bristling: She likes nice things.

Survivor: It’s the apocalypse. Nothing a person likes matters anymore.

Daryl: That right?

Daryl, leaning in while still keeping an eye on Y/N across the way: Y’like breathin’?

Survivor, gulping: Y-yeah.

Daryl: Then quit talkin’ ‘bout my wife.

[wendichester]

okay soooo i have a request in mind

i was thinking about reader and dean just being a couple, they complete each other so well — fighting side by side, casual banter in the middle of a fight, sparring each other to keep their skills sharp, both very stubborn but so in love with each other. Here on tumblr it’s very difficult to find fic or one shot where reader and dean are already in a relationship and they have that chemistry of those couple that are together since a lot

⋆｡ ˚ same frequency

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you and dean remind each other why you fit pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn ) wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 921 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ mild language, light bantering, established relationship

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ check out my new writing schedule

You’re parked on the shoulder of some forgotten backroad in Kansas, engine off, windows cracked just enough to let the cool night air slip in.

The Impala’s leather is warm from the drive, and Dean’s got one arm slung over the back of your seat, fingers playing absently with the ends of your hair. The radio hums low—some classic rock station neither of you are really listening to.

Your boots are kicked off, feet tucked under your thighs. His are planted firm on the floor like he’s still ready to hit the gas if trouble shows.

It’s been six months since you stopped pretending this was temporary. Or maybe eight. Time blurs when you’re bleeding together on hunts and laughing about it over cheap diner coffee the next morning.

Either way, you fit. Stupidly well. Like the universe finally got tired of throwing curveballs and decided to let two stubborn people stay in the same lane.

“Admit it,” you say, breaking the comfortable quiet. “I saved your ass back there with that ghoul. Clean headshot.”

Dean snorts, turning his head to look at you. Those green eyes catch the dashboard light just right, warm and amused. “Saved me? Sweetheart, I was reloading. Had it under control. You’re the one who jumped in like some kind of show-off.”

You grin, elbowing his side lightly. “Show-off? Says the guy who tried to wrestle it bare-handed first. Real smooth, De.”

He laughs—that low, rumbling one that always settles something deep in your chest. Then he reaches over, catches your hand, and laces his fingers through yours without even thinking. His palm is calloused, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It is.

“You know what I love about us?” he says suddenly, voice quieter now.

You tilt your head, waiting. The car smells like him—leather, gun oil, faint traces of the burger you split earlier.

“We don’t gotta talk everything to death,” he continues. “You just… get it. You see the thing coming before I do half the time. I got your back before you even ask. No big speeches. No drama. Just us.”

Your heart does that soft little flip it always does when he gets like this. Vulnerable in the small ways he saves for when it’s just the two of you and the open road. You squeeze his hand.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “We fight like we’ve been doing it our whole lives. Side by side. And then we spar in the motel parking lot at dawn because we’re both too damn competitive to let the other win.”

Dean’s grin turns crooked. “You still owe me a rematch from last Tuesday. I let you pin me.”

“You did not let me,” you shoot back, laughing. “I had your arm twisted so nice you tapped out in ten seconds. Don’t rewrite history, old man.”

“Old man?” He raises an eyebrow, mock-offended, but his eyes are sparkling. “That’s it. Next stop, we’re pulling over and I’m showing you exactly how young I still am.”

You lean across the bench seat, closing the space until your forehead rests against his. “Promises, promises.”

The banter fades into something warmer. His free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive spot just below your ear. You close your eyes and breathe him in—salt and skin and home.

He kisses you slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that says he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be. Lips soft but sure. A little stubble scrape that you’ve come to crave. When he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice is rougher. “You complete me, you know that?” The words come out a little awkward, like he’s still getting used to saying them out loud. “Not in some cheesy movie way. Just… you make the bad days bearable. The hunts where everything goes to shit? I look over and you’re there, cracking a joke or covering my six, and suddenly it’s not so heavy.”

You swallow, throat tight. There’s that internal tug—wanting to tease him for getting soft, but also wanting to crawl into his lap and never leave. “I used to think I could do this life alone. Then you showed up with your terrible music and your even worse pickup lines and… I don’t know. Everything clicked.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “My music is not terrible. You just have no taste.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dean.”

You stay like that for a while, tangled up in the front seat, the world outside reduced to crickets and distant headlights. His hand drifts down your arm, tracing an old scar from a hunt you barely remember. You trace one on his jaw with your fingertip. The silence feels full. Comfortable in the way only long-term love can be—easy, lived-in, still sparking with that low heat that never quite dies.

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he mutters eventually, lips brushing your temple.

“So are you,” you reply, smiling into his neck. “That’s why it works.”

“Yeah.” He exhales, long and content. “Guess it does.”

The radio switches to a slower song, something with a steady bass line that matches the rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm. You don’t move to change it. Neither does he.

You shift closer, leg draped over his, and let the quiet wrap around both of you. His arm tightens around your shoulders. No big declarations. No need. Just the two of you, fitting.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[mooredanxieties]

Apparently "walking on eggshells" around abusive parents doesn't just apply to parents who will yell and throw dishes when they're upset. Apparently it also applies to emotionally neglectful parents who will breakdown the moment you tell them how their behavior hurt you, and how you avoid sharing your own pain to spare them the emotional burden of acting like a parent. Who knew haha

[ch4nn3l4st4tic]

[deeeaahh]

[remanence-of-love]

[remanence-of-love]