oceans-assorted-fic-recs

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dandadan (Anime), Dandadan (Manga) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ayase Momo/Takakura “Okarun” Ken Characters: Ayase Momo, Takakura “Okarun” Ken Additional Tags: Mokarun Week 2025, MokarunWeek2025, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Fluff, Ken Takakura-Centric, Drabble Summary:

Ken has been plagued by a timer counting down his whole life. If only he knew what it was ticking down to.

Mokarun Week - Day 7 - Bonus (Soulmate Marks)

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

So here is my gojohime request 💙

I got the idea from when nishimiya said in the anime "A scar on the face is a badge of honor for a man. Though it's only a flaw for a woman"

Its first time gojo sees Utahime after she got her scar. He teases her as usual but notices she is feeling self conscious. He tries to comfort her and accidentally calls her pretty (he knows it but never admits it out loud) to which Utahime blushes

okay so this has been collecting dust! i actually spent way too long on this but i thought it would be kind of cute. i've never written for this ship so sorry if the characterization is off. anyway, here you go! also sorry for typos lol.

When Gojo realizes how his relationship with Utahime remains his only constant from the good old days, he cleaves to it like a barnacle. No matter how much Utahime tries to scrape him off, his nails dig into her harder.

It's the one thing that keeps him sane these days.

It's a balmy spring day in 2009, when he returns from a mission. If there's something rarer than seeing Utahime, it's having an actual conversation with Shoko. But he can chat for a minute, can't he?

"Yeah I just came back from Kyoto. Utahime got seriously hurt on a mission and I was checking on her since she's taking time off."

"How bad?" he tries to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"She's going to have a scar," she answers, though she doesn't elaborate where that scar is going to be.

And once he's out of Shoko's sight, he's headed to Kyoto.

He's only been to Utahime's apartment once, back in high school. He can hardly remember why at this point but he knows where he's going. The sun is about to dip below the horizon as he contemplates whether to do the polite thing and knock or just break down her door.

He will never admit just how attached he's grown to this woman. Never, ever. Yet here he is.

He hears shuffling inside, so he knows she's in there. He knocks.

"I know you're in there, Hime~" he says in a sing-song way, keeping down whatever else is brewing behind the teasing.

No answer, "Either way, I'm coming in."

And he does. The door's not even locked so no property damage. She's sitting on the ground. Her back is to him. The whole apartment is dark. Okay, this is kind of sad.

"What do you want?" Her question comes with none of the fire.

He walks up to her, leaving the door ajar. Just enough light gets through for them to see each other, but nothing more.

"I was only gone a couple of weeks and you go and get yourself hurt? That's weak, even for you." There's a teasing edge to his voice as usual but he knows how to push her buttons and she spins around, furious.

"You ass—!" She starts but he's seen it and she realizes that too late. A wound traveling across her right cheek, across the bridge of her nose, onto her left cheek. She's definitely going to scar.

After a few seconds, he whistles, "Damn, it got you good. It looks like you got slapped in the face by a giant squid or something?"

He grins, biting back laughter. He doesn't know what he's hoping for. Maybe he wants to see some of that fire. Maybe he wants to see her chase him out of her apartment with a sandal so he knows that nothing's changed.

What he doesn't want to see is her face crumple for a brief second and he knows he's messed up.

Too far. Crap, that's too far.

"But so what? It's a badge of honor, yeah? Hey, you survived!"

She starts to gather her hair and brings it over, attempting to obscure her face from sight and he realizes that teasing her isn't going to help. As sorely tempted as he is to keep going, he doesn't.

Instead, his hand reaches out, pushing the hair out of her face to touch the wounded skin. She doesn't slap his hand away and she doesn't ask him what he's doing.

No, she's frozen.

"No need to do that. You're still pretty—" he blurts out that last part but closes his mouth too late because her eyes widen as a blush spreads across her cheek. Has she ever blushed in front of him before?

Oh, she's so cute.

"Thank…you…?" she chokes it out and it's funny. He doesn't know what to say either. The skin is somewhere between burned and cut, he doesn't know how to describe it. His poor, poor Hime. He caresses the scarring skin with the pad of his thumb.

And for some reason, she allows him to.

They'll never speak of this again, but for the time being he just continues to stay close. Because a second later, he's going to realize that something's changed between them. And that he can't have that so he'll go back to teasing her. She'll chase him out of her apartment, shoe in hand, and it'll be like the

But a second before he ruins it all, it's as tender as he's ever been with someone…

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

I shouldn't have gotten into Gojohime yalls. Hyperfixating on a new ship with lots of content is like snorting copious amounts of cocaine to me

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

no one speak to me at this time

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

Soft! Rhett thoughts:

Rhett has seen you around town a few times and thinks you’re beautiful, he bumps into you at the local diner and stutters his way through an introduction. Rhett feels so out of his element all the sudden ,he doesn’t know why he’s done things a lot scarier and stupider than asking a stranger out on a date but with sweaty palms and shaky hands he manages to ask you out (if mentioned later he’ll deny how he anxious he was). Since he doesn’t have much money it’s a picnic but since he burns anything he cooks he just prepares fruit, chips and sandwiches lol. You watch the sunset together and once night falls you ask him to name the stars and constellations for you, (at this point he’s pretty sure he’d do anything you ask). The two of you are laying in the bed of his truck with several blankets to lay on and to cover with, you fall asleep with your head on his chest as he quietly points out the stars whilst rubbing his hand against your back. (In the morning you’re both woken up by the sun and royal chews into rhett for being an hour late to work but rhett can’t seem to find it in himself to care)

Btw I am by no means a writer but I hope this thought made you feel better 🩷

Rhett being absolutely smitten and losing all of his usual confidence is so precious to me 😭 Why is hopping onto the back of a bull a million times easier than asking to get a coffee with you? Big dummy is so stressed about the question itself that he entirely forgets one crucial detail. The only place in town that serves coffee is closed due to a recent fire. Worse, you two are standing directly across the street from it, and the fire damage is ✨painfully obvious✨

"I! Uhm, sorry I forgot about...lunch? No—!" Because the coffee shop is also the only restaurant in town. Twenty something years in this town and he's blubbering like a damn tourist, ears red as can be, and heavily considering if he should just flee the country at this point. But then you suggest a late lunch in the park, and just like that, you've got him hook, line, and sinker. He's nodding his head without a second thought, like an obedient little puppy, entirely forgetting how far his wallet is stretched right now.

Rhett can make a decent sandwich, but he's fortunate enough that his amused mom hangs around in the kitchen to supervise and give him pointers, lest he drown that poor turkey sandwich in mayonnaise again. Perry makes like a vulture and lingers around for the inevitable mess-ups and extra fruits that are left over, and he's the only reason why Rhett doesn't walk out and forget the damn sandwiches on the counter 😭

Sitting on a blanket in the grass is cute for a little while, but the bugs arrive before the sandwich bags open. And somehow, you two find yourselves sitting on opposite sides of his truck bed, legs tangled and laughing about how Rhett nearly spilled the blueberries when a crane fly tried to land on him. Rhett's trying to save face, but it's hard to feel embarrassed when your laughter sounds like a melody sent straight from the heavens.

There's a selfish part of him that is absolutely thrilled when he realizes it's a chillier night than what he initially expected. You're scooting closer to him, muttering about the cold, and he's wrapping an arm around you, and you're cuddling into him like a cute little bug and, and

he's going to die.

The only thing that slows his racing heart is you asking about the constellations, and well, he can't help but tell you everything he knows. His deep voice is so soothing that at some point, he puts you to sleep, and :( he just melts. There's no way that he's comfortable in this truck bed, but somehow he falls asleep with his cheek resting against your forehead. You haven't the slightest clue about it, but come morning, you've got a cowboy wrapped around your finger 💕

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

midnight swim

sam winchester x fem!reader (ft. dean :)

summary ↬ you and dean decide to take a dip in the pool after a rough hunt, but sam takes a little convincing

notice ↬ super fluffy, the boys are actually happy for once, a lil suggestive, sam's just a shy boy in love and dean sees it but you don't (what else is new), first ever work for spn and i'm so excited to keep writing for them, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 1.8k

motel pools were always a disgusting concept to you. murky, unkempt water that was debatably properly chlorinated, bugs and dirty concrete. every time you saw one, it was always you shutting down dean’s feeble attempts at dragging you and sam in with him. 

but this one is different. 

it’s nothing five star, certainly no cleaner than what you’ve seen in the past, but after the grueling hunt—a couple of stubborn poltergeists and a bunch of flying knives—you’re in need of something to soothe your muscles. and a gross body of water certainly feels like the right thing to dip your aching feet into.

“i’m grabbing three towels from the lobby,” dean says, a childlike grin on his face. 

sam stops him, looking up from his computer, “just get two, i’m stayin’ in.” 

“what?” you and dean both say simultaneously. 

sam looks between the two of you with furrowed eyebrows, “is this a surprise to either of you?” 

you roll your eyes, “come onnnn, sam. we just got done with a case and you’re already looking for the next one.”

“that’s because i don’t wanna catch some disease just because i’m bored,” he bears that know-it-all grin that erupts butterflies in your stomach and twinges an incessant need to slap it off him at the same time. 

“just come outside and enjoy some—” dean glances at the window, “—moon—whatever—just don’t be a grouch and get out there!” he reaches for the doorknob, “i’ll meet you there. you, too, sammy!” 

when the door shuts you turn back around to sam and cross your arms over your chest, tapping your foot, “so, what’s it gonna be? coop up in here or hit a midnight swim?” 

 sam sighs, defeated, “fine, i’ll go out, but i’m not getting in.”

the moon glows full in the pitch black sky, blending with the gross neon motel sign, its flickering M and T painting the pool a vibrant blue. there are some questionable stains on the pavement, and one visible from the bottom of the deep end, but it looks swimmable enough. 

soft rock music plays from a speaker somewhere, wrapping you in an embrace of nostalgia and something so winchester. 

sam’s leaning back in one of the flimsy plastic pool chairs, kicking his feet up and placing his hands behind his head, “maybe you’re right, it is kinda nice out here.” 

“it’ll be even nicer if you get in,” you tease, fumbling with the button on your shorts. 

you swear sam’s eyes find their way to your figure, growing wider as you slide the denim down your legs, revealing the black panties you wear underneath. 

your cheeks tint crimson as you feel his warm gaze on you, and pretending not to notice, you pull your shirt over your head, now exposed from head to toe, your bra—which doesn’t match at all—suddenly feels too scandalous for a pool. and now your heart starts to beat quicker, and—

“got the towels!” dean calls from behind you, startling both you and sam. you turn around as sam clears his throat, shaking himself out of a trance, “swimming in jeans, sammy?” 

“very funny,” he responds, narrowing his eyes. 

when dean lays the towels down, he quickly strips into his boxers, not wasting a second before cannonballing into the still water. you follow shortly behind, your underwear clinging uncomfortably to your now wet skin. the pool's temperature is a relief from the muggy summer night air, goosebumps crawling up the parts of you not submerged. 

you can already feel your tight muscles loosening—and dean’s rough swimming pelting water at your back—so much so, you throw your head back in pure bliss. 

“feels nice, huh, sweetheart?” dean says, brushing up against your forearm.

you nod, shutting your eyes, “hmm… just what i needed.” 

suddenly, your head breaks the water’s surface, and you’re pushed under. your eyes snap open in shock, but all you can see is the blurry underwater. you can hear muffled shouting before your shoulders are free and you spring back up. you gasp, whipping your now drenched hair as you spin around to dean, laughing so hard his face is pink. 

“what the hell!” you yell, rubbing your burning eyes. 

he struggles through his laughter to get words out, “you were flailing around like a fish down there!” 

your mouth parts in annoyance, you want to be mad but can’t bring yourself to be. the sound of such rare happiness warms your insides, and you huff a laugh, “sam, tell your brother that he almost drowned me!” 

“i tried,” sam says, and that’s when you notice he’s now standing by the edge of the pool, a crease of concern lingering in his forehead, but the ghost of a smile on his lips. your stomach flips. “dean, you almost drowned her.”

 “maybe if you were in the pool, you could’ve saved her,” dean baits, and sam’s face flushes. 

he chokes on his words, “you’re ridiculous.”

“not as ridiculous as you’re about to look,” dean says, and before sam has time to question it, he’s being snatched into the water by the bottom hem of his ragged jeans. 

a wave of water crashes against your face, but you unshield yourself quickly to catch sam’s surprised expression as he’s drenched in wetness. his button down has turned a dark, damp blue, clinging to the outline of his pecks, and his perfect wisps of hair stick to his neck and cheeks. 

you can’t lie to yourself and say he doesn’t look so good dripping wet like that. 

“i swear to god, dean,” sam threatens, “i will drown you!” 

“try it, sammy!” dean swims to the other end of the pool to escape his brother’s wrath. you watch from the edge, leaning against the pool wall as sam attempts to speed up. his clothes are obviously weighing him down, so an idea sparks to you. 

you move through the thick water to sam, stopping him by reaching for the buttons on his shirt. as he opens his mouth to question you, you shush him, “you’ll be faster without these,” and try to put on a brave face as sam’s eyes bore into you so intensely you’re drawn to meet them. and when you do, it’s catatonic. breathless as your fingers idly pop each button loose, a shimmering glint of confusion glowing in his eyes.

he’s still panting aggressively from the shock of the water, his soft lips tinted blue. you try to avert your eyes to anything other than his, but staring at his mouth isn’t a good idea, either.

he keeps you looking at him, his brows ever so slightly furrowed in bewilderment at your sudden boldness, but once the last button threads through, you’re hastily shrugging his shirt off his shoulders. you want to get his jeans, but you can already hear dean treading closer. plus, you don’t know if you’re brave enough for all that.

“alright, go!” you shout, queuing dean to start swimming faster. 

it takes sam a minute to break out of whatever trance he was in—hell, you both were in—but eventually, he starts towards dean, grabbing him playfully by the shoulders and pinning him underneath, just like you were. 

lighthearted giggles escape you and sam as dean tries to lift his head up, “oh, what was that, dean? i can’t hear you under all that water.” he laughs.

sam catches your face from across the pool, matching your smile. something twinkles in his eye. you catch it before it fades when dean grabs sam from behind the neck, flipping him under, too. 

you swim closer, attempting to hold dean’s large frame while sam grapples under the weight of his brother’s strong hand. “let him go, you monster!” you yell playfully, jumping onto dean’s back to take him down. 

sam manages to pop up, gasping for breath but grabbing your slick arm to pull you off dean and into him. your cheek is squished against his broad chest, water clinging to your lashes. your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, the leather belt still worn rough on your legs, while your arms circle his dripping neck. you can feel sam’s adam's apple bob at the movement.

dean tries to get ahold of you, but sam keeps you tight, and to keep yourself from crumbling under the weight of your crush, you try to focus on dean’s feeble attempts at shoving you under again. 

“i call a truce!” you call out, twisting in sam’s grip, “my savior has come!” 

“oh, yeah, just climb him like a tree, why don’t you?” he pants, shaking his hair like a wet dog. 

“whatever works,” you giggle, and when you turn into sam’s face, he’s already looking at you, eyes hooded with something indescribable, scanning every inch of your face as rivulets of pool water run down your smooth skin. “right, sammy?” you try and say, but it comes out breathless. 

"yeah," he nods, and suddenly the feeling of his warm body on yours in the ever chilling water is too much to ignore, now that the playing’s died down, “whatever works.” 

after the three of you get out, you all shiver underneath the poor quality pool towels as you make your way back to the room. sam is dying to get his damp jeans off his legs, and you’re dying for one more second against him, to feel his heartbeat against yours. 

sam, insisting to shower first—”it wasn’t my choice to get wet,”—”whatever you say, sammy,”—leaves you and dean sitting your damp bodies on the floor against the far right bed. 

“i’m happy we got him out,” dean says after a moment of silence, save for the low hum of the AC and the shower running in the bathroom. 

“yeah,” you agree, leaning back tiredly against the mattress, “me, too.” 

“y’know,” he starts, sitting up further, “it’s been a long time since i’ve heard him laugh that much.” 

your eyes open to look at him, prompting him to continue. 

“he laughs that much when he’s with you,” he says, sending you a rare, genuine smile, “i see it.” 

your heart blooms in your chest, pulse loud in your ears, “dean—” 

the shower stops and the bathroom door swings open, startling the words right off your tongue, “what are you two talking about?” sam asks nonchalantly, rubbing a towel against his noodly hair, damp on his forehead. 

you open your mouth to answer, to say anything other than, ‘we were talking about you loving me, or, something’ but dean speaks before you can. 

“i was telling her not to forget getting your jeans off next time,” he says teasingly, and sam stops in his trek to grab pajamas. 

“fuck off, dean,” he mumbles, embarrassed, but you swear you see the corners of his lips turn upward, just slightly. 

dean winks at you, and before he gets up to steal the shower, whispers in your ear, “he’s so in love, it’s gross.” 

you believe him when you catch sam’s eye twinkling at you again as the bathroom door shuts.

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

night moves

dean winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ dean teaches you to play pool !

notice ↬ a lil suggestive but superrr fluffy, i want him to teach me pool, literally need this man so bad it's not even funny, i listened to night moves by bob seger while writing this, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 900

the crack of pool balls clinking rings through an old dive bar in indiana, old license plates and road signs littering the dimly lit walls. the place is loud, drunk people yelling and cheering and punching, classic rock echoing from a scratchy speaker.

but dean winchester is in heaven. 

he’s standing over a pool table, holding his pool cue up as he assesses where to make his next move. you’re leaning against the wall, nursing a beer, as you watch him set his eyes on one of the pool balls, which seemed way too off path to roll into any of the pockets. he lines up the cue and starts to lean over the table.

“there’s no way you’re hitting that in,” you say teasingly, taking a swig.

dean doesn’t even stir at your comment, and without fault, strikes the billiard ball right into the far right pocket. 

he straightens up and looks at you from across the table, giving you a shit-eating grin, “still think so, sweetheart?”

you’re still recovering from how he managed to make the shot, so all you can muster is a nod, “hmhm… yeah, totally can’t hit another ball in,” you say against the rim of your bottle.

he laughs, knowing there’s no way in hell you could. the deep rumble in his chest sends your knees buckling over themselves, “alright, lemme see what you got.” 

you almost choke on the alcohol sliding down your throat, “what?” 

“just try to hit a ball in,” he says, as if it’s the most straightforward task in the world. as he crosses over to you to hand you the cue, he gets close to your ear, “i promise, they don’t bite.” 

you avert your eyes away from his jawline as it grazes yours, only for a second before he pulls away, taking your half empty beer from you and stealing your spot on the wall. 

“alright, hit 7 into far left,” he instructs, pointing with the bottle, “yup, right there.” 

 you begin to sweat under the glowing white light above you—and because you can feel dean’s eyes watching you—almost knocking the ridiculously long stick into it as you orient yourself over the table. attempting to gauge a good spot for the cue to settle in your hands, you look to dean for help, “am i holding this right?” 

“i don’t know, are you?” he taunts, taking a sip through a smirk. 

you roll your eyes, huffing, before feebly trying to line the end of the cue up with the maroon ball staring at you dead in the face. you take a deep breath and slide the cue between your fingers before taking your shot. 

without surprise, you completely miss, sending the cue flying right out of your grip onto the table.

 and the ball? 

not even touched. 

“jesus, sweetheart, i think i’d hustle you,” dean jokes, shaking his head in contempt of your god awful performance. 

“shut up,” you choke out, pitifully reaching to hand him back the cue, “just take the damn stick.” 

but, he doesn’t. instead, he places your beer down on a nearby surface and signals for you to bend back over the table. with furrowed eyebrows, you listen, looking at him with confusion, “what are you doing?” 

“teaching you how to hit 7 into the far left,” he shrugs, moving to stand behind you. 

your face burns, eyes wide as you feel him pressed against your back, leaning on you as his hands reach around to adjust the stick in your grip. he skillfully places the end of the cue between your thumb and index finger—“there, keep it right there,”—resting it delicately in that spot. 

you swallow harshly as dean’s fingers trace up yours, his touch so soft; so different from his usual roughness. it sends your stomach plummeting to your feet, dragging your heart along with it. 

“alright, now, line it up—hmhm, but don’t move it from that spot—okay, you got that?” he mumbles as he adjusts. 

a lump forms in your throat. you nod. 

 “right, now shoot,” he helps you slide the cue through the web of your palm, before sending it into the side of the ball. 

it rolls straight into the far left pocket and relief spreads through you. 

“i did it!” you call out, twisting around without remembering your extremely compromising position.

you were suddenly pressed between dean and the pool table, your faces only mere inches away as he’s still somewhat hunched into you. every time you exhale, your chest touches his, heart beating so wildly, you’re sure he can hear it through the bob seger and drunk singing. 

“you did,” he says huskily, seemingly unbothered by your spot against him, but you swear his cheeks match yours in color, only a few shades lighter. he leans in slightly, eyes staring so intensely into yours, it’s impossible for you to look away, “think you can beat me in a match, now?” 

you lick your lips on instinct and try to muster a smirk, something to signal you aren’t melting into the floor, “absolutely.” 

dean’s gaze, hooded with something indescribable, flickers between your eyes, lips just brushing yours as he leans closer and closer before he abruptly stands up straight and shoves the pool cue back in your hands. 

the bar suddenly sounds a million decibels louder. you’re frozen in your spot. 

“show me what you got.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ tysm for so much love on the first spn fic, can’t wait to write more for ya’ll !!

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

backseat

sam winchester x fem!reader (ft. dean :)

summary ↬ you're in the backseat of the impala 'asleep', but really, you're just eavesdropping on sam & dean

notice ↬ pure fluff (i promise the angst is coming ya'll (and the smut ;)), dean is a shit as always but not really he's actually a good brother in this one, who else wants to fall asleep in the back of the impala like pleeaaaseee, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 1.4k

the rough leather backseat of the impala itches at your legs as they lay curled atop it, your head leaning on the window, foggy and freezing against your cheek as the chilly temperature of north dakota bleeds through. you try to catch up on some much needed shut-eye on the way to the motel. 

 which, unsurprisingly, is very hard to do when sam and dean winchester are in the front seat, fighting over the stereo.

“if i hear one more led zeppelin song, dean—” 

“woah, woah.” you peek your eyes open slightly to see dean’s finger pointed at sam, his face scrunched in a scowl, “there is no room for zep slander in this vehicle, sammy.” 

sam laughs sarcastically, shaking his head, his growing, soft wisps swaying in front of the headrest, “fine, then, i suggest you play something produced past 95’.” 

dean clicks his tongue in distaste and turns to look past the steering wheel again, “kids don’t know good music.” suddenly, just as you close your eyes, dean calls your name, looking at you through the rearview mirror, “what do you think we should play?” 

 “silence,” you grumble, trying to shield your vision from the bright street lamps as they flash orange light rhythmically past your closed eyelids. 

“alright, ac/dc it is then,” he says, sliding in a new tape—the one you recognize instantly from memory, marked with ‘ac/deanc’ scrawled in messy handwriting on a strip of tape slapped across the front.

as angus young’s guitar starts to echo from the stereo, you slowly melt back into the seat, adjusting until you’ve found a comfortable spot. 

you begin to drift off again, fading in and out of consciousness as the tapes change ever so often: metallica, black sabbath, and, when led zeppelin starts to play again, you can just envision sam’s beautiful eyes rolling.

eventually, you rouse awake to the low hum of some billy idol track, the volume way lower now that the car clock signals 3:31am. 

you can hear the crinkle of a bag of chips sam is snacking on, dean’s fingers tapping to the beat of the music, and the rumble of baby underneath you. 

you’re about to force yourself into more sleep, moving to cover your forearms with your hands to keep them warm, when sam’s soft voice lulls in the silence. 

“do you think she’s cold?” he mumbles quietly, and you see, from your low hooded eyes, his head moves just slightly behind the headrest to examine your figure.

he’s right to question it. the temperature is becoming more frigid as the night blooms darker, and you’re sure the goosebumps on your arms are visible if he looks hard enough. 

“it’s warm in the car,” dean responds, turning onto a backroad. the car is swallowed in darkness as the streetlamps fade into haunting trees stretching into miles of forest surrounding you. 

sam’s tongue pokes his cheek in thought, and without prompt, he’s shrugging the brown carhartt off his body, turning in his seat—you’ve told him to start wearing a seatbelt—and delicately draping the warm material across your shivering shoulders. 

a blanket of musk, campfire smoke, and something only described as sam winchester envelops you.

you shut your eyes quickly so he won't suspect you’re awake, but that means trying your damnedest to bite back the smile fighting its way onto your lips at the gesture. you snuggle deeper into the jacket to hide the bottom of your face while pretending to be asleep. 

peeking through your eyelashes, you see sam not bothering to hide his own smile at the sight of you nestled under his jacket. your heart picks up.  

he re-rights himself in his seat, clearing his throat as he focuses on the road ahead again. 

“real smooth, there, romeo.” dean smirks, giving him a knowing nod.  

“shut up,” sam shakes his head, picking nervously at a loose thread in his jeans, “she looked cold.” 

“oh, did she tell you that, huh?” dean teases again, shoving his shoulder playfully. 

sam moves away from his brother’s provoking hand, “eyes on the road, jerk.” 

“bitch,” dean scoffs, but you know the grin is there: real and genuine, “just tell her you love her so i can stop watching these mixed signals.” 

your stomach twists. 

“dean, i don’t—” sam trips over his words, bringing a hand down his blushing face, “i just gave her a jacket in under 30-degree weather—”

“—and patched her up for over an hour after that werewolf got its claws in her, and walked her back to room when she drank too much, and freaked out when that guy tried picking her up at that bar in minna—” 

“that’s called being a gentleman,” sam narrows his eyes, growing more defensive, “and we both freaked out, so don’t try to—” 

“i freaked out because the guy looked like a creep, you freaked out because somebody—anybody’s—hands were on her,” dean moves to take a sip of his melted slurpee from dinner, “there’s a difference, sammy.” 

the things dean mentions start flooding back into your memory, the gestures at the time seeming so innocent, no possible way for there to be any underlying connotation if you hadn’t thought about it hard enough.

until now, when you’re thinking about it hard enough. 

the way sam’s hands shook just slightly as they expertly stitched the gash on your leg, and how his eyes held something else under the concentrated look; a glimmer of worry, fear, even, at the idea that you were hurt. 

then, how those hands, no longer shaky, gripped your waist tight to keep you on your feet as you stumbled back to the motel room from the bar one night. you were trashed, the hunt a particularly hard one, yet, he didn’t let you fall. tucked you in and everything. 

you had no idea about the last one, of the gross drifter trying to get lucky with you. no clue that it’d bothered him—both of them—but, especially sam in that way. not until now. 

and suddenly, they all make sense. 

“whatever, dean,” sam says, his words lower than a whisper, like a child who's just been scolded, “it’s never been that way with us.” 

“it can be,” dean argues, “‘think i don’t notice the way she acts toward you, too?” 

 sam laughs mirthlessly, like a light breath escaping past his lips, “drop it, already.” 

“i’m being serious!” dean’s voice picks up just slightly, eliciting a “shhh!” from sam as he nods his head toward your ‘sleeping’ figure. 

he quiets, “i’m being serious, you’re both idiots.” 

well, he isn’t wrong about that. 

maybe you had been looking at sam a certain way. with a twinkle in your eye you can’t control. a giddiness you only show when he’s around. the laugh that bursts through your chest at his jokes.

the gentle hand you placed on his, shaky and tactful, as it took care of you that night. 

and the expression that met yours when you did so. 

you see it flash the back of your eyelids as they flutter against the moon’s glow through the window. you melt further into the smell of him at the memory, wishing it was his arms around you instead. that he wasn’t so far away in the front seat. 

“she’s good for you,” dean adds in the moment of silence, “and damn, is she beautiful.” 

sam lets the corner of his lips curl into a gentle smile, the thought of you filling his head, of every moment where maybe he didn’t think hard enough either, “yeah,” he whispers softly, “yeah, she is, isn’t she?”

he looks back to you, lets himself take in the image of you underneath something of his keeping you warm, safe. 

something in him bursts. 

fuck, he loves you. 

and, you think you love him, too.

dean’s music fades as you nod off for the last time till you make it to the motel. the impala shifts into park, and the engine growl is sharply cut. you groan as you’re awoken, stretching out your limbs as you yawn loudly. 

sam opens the door on your side, peeking his head under the hood, “good morning, sleepyhead.” 

you yawn a response, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. instantly, once your vision un-blurs, your chest clenches at the conversation overheard a mere few hours before. you can’t help the deer in headlights stare as you look up at sam’s gentle features, smiling softly at you. 

and he has no idea what you heard.

he sticks his large hand out for you to take as you step out on wobbly legs. you refuse to let go of his jacket as it stays hanging on your shoulders. 

yeah, you think, i love him.

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

i love you, stupid

sam winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ sam gets a bit too drunk after you get hurt and you're left to take care of him

notice ↬ she has finally posted!! a little angst if you squint, fluffy as always, sam being drunk, descriptions of injury nothing too crazy, writers block is a bitch (and so is finals week(but dean smut coming soon :)), no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 3.2k

the motel bathroom smells medicinal like antiseptic, burning your nose and causing tears to flood your waterline. 

well, you aren’t sure if it’s the rubbing alcohol or the stinging from your head wound that’s making you cry. probably both.

the hunt was a success; a few stubborn vampires taking teenage girls as their victims in a nowhere town in oaklahoma, nothing you and the boys couldn’t handle. except, when a vampire manages to get their hands on you, that’s a cause for disaster. 

“can you be any more rough?” you groan. you’re sitting on top of the sink, gripping hard around the porcelain under you as dean closes the nasty gash decorating your forehead, “you stitch yourself up like this?”

 he sticks his tongue out in concentration, not bothering to entertain your words laced with pain, “almost done.” 

“i can’t believe the thing managed to throw me down a flight of stairs,” you chuckle mirthlessly, the ache stemming from your back coursing through the rest of your body as you recall the incident, “couldn’t even do its job right and just bite me.” 

dean laughs. sam, who is leaning against the bathroom door frame, doesn’t.

instead, he scoffs, “did you want it to?” 

you furrow your eyebrows, “no, sam, i was kidding—” you hiss as dean threads the last needle through, “—fuck, that stings.” 

he still doesn’t appear amused. his eyes fall to his shoes, arms crossed over his broad chest as he avoids your confused gaze, looking like a kid whose just been scolded.

you know sam doesn’t take people close to him getting hurt lightly, especially you, for a reason you can’t pinpoint. but, nothing tragic happened. you’d just been shoved and knocked out; hit your head on the last step before tumbling all the way down. compared to what else the three of you have been put through, that seems miniscule. 

except, sam isn’t taking it like some tiny paper cut or bruise. and truthfully, you were trying to make yourself feel better about the situation. losing consciousness for an hour and waking up with a much too deep tear in your forehead was enough to spook even you. but, you were fine. alive and breathing. 

“well,” dean starts, noticing the awkward tension suffocating the room, “you probably still have a concussion, so i’d take it easy tonight, see how you feel in the morning.” 

“great,” you huff sarcastically, letting him help you off the counter, “i was planning on getting plastered.” 

sam scoffs again, his eyes, weighted by something, glaring at your figure as you move to sit on one of the motel beds, “you aren’t funny.” 

“alright, what’s your problem?” you ask, now slightly annoyed at the coldness bleeding from his tone. 

“nothing,” he brushes off, “just wish you’d take this more seriously.”

“more seriously?” you repeat, surprised, and now, completely frustrated, “what do you want me to do? sulk about a scratch on my forehead?” 

“it isn’t a scratch,” he retorts, voice picking up.

“well, it certainly isn’t fatal!” you argue louder. your head starts to spin. 

“could’ve been!” 

“could not!” spots dot your vision. 

suddenly, dean moves to step in between the two of you just before you can attempt to stand up and escalate the situation. 

“alright, alright, you two, will you both calm down,” dean intervenes, like a parent taking control of his two children, his hands stopped in front of both of your chests, “she’s fine, sammy, take it easy on her, alright?” 

sam bites the inside of his cheek, looking away and nodding angrily. it takes all but a minute of silence for him to break it, “i’m going out,” he announces, words thick with emotion. 

your expression softens slightly as you hear the slight shake in his voice and see the bob in his throat as he swallows whatever is lodged there. your mouth opens and closes like a fly trap, trying to muster something to say to diffuse whatever the hell that was before he walks out. 

you jump as the door slams shut, and suddenly, all the blood—red hot with frustration and confusion—rushes back to your wound as you begin to wobble on weak legs. dean grabs your arm to stabilize you— “woah, you’re okay,”—helping you sit back on the bed as you take your head in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut as your vision blurs and spins.

you muster a laugh, “guess it’s worse off than we thought.” 

“well, gettin’ yourself all worked up will do that,” dean says, his eyebrows now creased in newfound concern at your worsening state. your eyes start to become heavy. dean notices. 

he helps you lay back against the pillows, “try and get some rest.” 

you nestle your face into the floral fabric, trying to ignore the musty smell and the ache in your chest as you take a deep breath, flashes of sam’s face, so melted in emotion and anger, burn your eyelids, “is he alright, dean?” 

“he’s fine and so are you,” dean hushes quickly, bringing the covers up over your shoulder, “i’ll go talk to him; you don’t worry ‘bout a thing but gettin’ better.” 

 at his voice’s soft assuredness, you manage to sink yourself into your drowsiness, sleep overtaking your aching body. 

when you awake, you’re immediately drawn to the dull throbbing in your temple, traveling down your arms—bruises starting to form along your skin—all the way to the bottom of your back. you groan, bringing a hand to shield your sensitive eyes from the gross, yellow light emitting from the bedside lamp, bulb flickering shadows onto the dark walls. 

the ac is loud, too loud for the migraine you’re experiencing. and the disorientation that comes after a concussion-induced nap consumes you. 

as you try to adjust your eyes and ears, you begin to sit up, looking around the room. and that’s when you realize you’re alone. 

you sigh. at least with the room to yourself you could go back to sleep easier, no snoring or loud breathing to annoy you as you heal. but as you move to turn the lamp off, you notice a note scribbled in dean’s handwriting and another room key.  

found sam. he’s at the bar. got me and him the next room over to give you space. 

if you’re reading this, go back to bed. 

you want to smile at the thoughtfulness, but ‘found sam. he’s at the bar’ causes your insides to twist. 

your eyes glance at the old digital clock beside the note, the blinking red numbers reading 4:41. you assume dean managed to drag his ass back to the new room, both probably passed out asleep at this point. you’d slept for four hours. a lot could happen in four hours. 

just make sure he’s back home, you think to yourself as you make your weak legs get out of bed. another blood rush forces you to grip the nightstand, steadying yourself as much as possible as you blink away more spots. just make sure he’s alright. 

 you leave the room, chilly june wind swirling around you under the bright moonlight, which is peeking through tree silhouettes from the nearby woods. 

the dive bar across the parking lot catches your eye, but you force yourself into the next room. unlocking the door with the spare key next to the note, your heart sinks as you creak it open and see dean, sprawled on the far right bed, passed out and snoring in the dark room, with sam nowhere to be found. 

you curse to yourself, shutting the door gently so as not to wake him. you look over at the bar again and your stomach knots. god knows what sort of state he’s in; drunk out of his mind, maybe in the middle of a fistfight with a biker gang. it all seems so much more dean winchester, but the look in sam’s eye before he left told you he wasn’t in the right state of mind, wasn’t sam. 

the loud classic rock blasting through the jukebox in the dingy bar was enough to make your head spin again. you blink rapidly to keep your vision stable as you search each face for the hazel eyes you catch yourself staring into, for the soft hair you only wish you could run your fingers through, and the smile that amplifies your pulse. 

it takes a while to find him in the crowded, small room, but sudden shouting erupting from a pool table in the far corner perks your ears.

“you think you can hustle me?” a gruff voice shouts.  

“nooooo, i knowww i can hustle youuuu,” another slurs. you recognize that voice. 

pool cues clatter on the floor. loud boots stomp. a fist connects to a face. 

your heart drops as sam’s body stumbles back into the billiard table. without hesitation, you’re pushing through the bulky crowd with newfound adrenaline. before the large, tatted man can get another hit on sam, you stand between them, shielding his body with yours, broken and bruised. 

“stop!” you yell, digging your hand into sam’s chest to keep him against the table, “he’s leaving okay, he’s leaving.” 

you can’t look at sam’s face, but you feel his eyes, hooded with impairment, burning holes into your figure.

“look at this,” the man laughs grossly, “this one’s got a bitch saving his ass.” 

sam wrestles against your hold, “shut up!” 

“what was that boy?” the man takes another burley step toward you, but you hold your ground.

“get away from us,” you demand. the man’s face twists as your vision blurs again, “we’re leaving.” 

you grab sam’s shoulders firmly, forcing him out as he struggles to break free, “let go of me!” 

ignoring his feeble attempts at rushing back to the man—his body shaking with rage against you—you manage to make it out of the bar and into the brisk night air again. 

“sam, can you—” you grunt as you heave his arm higher around yours, struggling under the deadweight, “—can you help me out a little here?” 

his breath reeks of whiskey as it fans across your face, “that jackasssss—should’ve shown h-him who i—” he hiccups, “—ammm!” 

“god, how much did you drink?” you think aloud, the motel room getting closer. 

he giggles drunkenly, “not enough!” 

you roll your eyes, propping him up on the dirty brick as you unlock the door, sam instantly bursting inside. he stumbles into a dusty lamp, laughing to himself as he trips about the room. he eventually lands on the mattress, sprawling out and staring at the ceiling. 

you take a wobbly seat in the chair across the beds, rubbing a stressed hand across your forehead, careful not to graze over the fresh stitches in your skin. 

“this bed is comfortable!” he shouts, forcing you to shush him harshly. 

the small bit of relief you feel now that sam’s in your sights, alive and not getting his ass handed to him in some back alley behind the bar, fades quickly as he starts rambling, giggling, and  acting like dean after a rough bender. 

“sam, what the hell is wrong with you?” you ask exasperatedly. 

“what do you mean?” he asks, clueless, “i feel great!” 

your tongue pokes your cheek, “why did dean leave you in that bar?” 

sam smiles strangely, “he didn’t leaveeee, i made him.” 

“yeah, and how did you do that?” you ask, unbelieving. you know dean would never leave his brother in this state regardless of how hard sam tries to shoo him off. 

“well, i wasn’t like this,” he states, as if you should’ve known that already. he shrugs, “i just told him i’d be back in an hour… like three hours ago,” a giggle bursts past his whisky lips, “what an idiot!” 

“this isn’t like you,” you huff, standing up to help him sit upright; just in case he starts vomiting. 

 “why can’t it be like me?” he hiccups, “oh, so—dean’s the only one to have all the fun?” 

“no, i—” suddenly, waking dean and letting him handle whatever the hell is happening with his brother seems like your favorite way of dealing with this. “i just wanna know what’s wrong.” 

 under the dim light illuminating half of his face, reflecting off the green and yellow in his iris, you finally notice how tired he looks. and not so much physically. emotionally, it seems like he went through a trainwreck—baggy under eyes, flushed cheeks, waterline rimmed red. 

“you,” he whines, mind still in a brandy induced fog. 

you bite your lip, “you can hate me for dragging you out of there sam, but, i still need to know what’s—” 

“yeah, you!” his voice picks up again. 

you wonder if it’s your head trauma or the confusion causing your head to spin

“sam, i don’t—” 

“i couldn’t even stitch you up myself,” he mumbles, words dipped in delirium, “hands were shake—” he hiccups again, “—my hands were shaking and i knew i couldn’t so dean had to.” 

 you’re silent as he rambles and runs a stressed hand through his tousled brown hair, soft despite the sweat accumulating by his temple, “i wanted to do it but i couldn’t stop remembering you falling down those—” another hiccup, “—down those stairs.” 

without warning, sadness crashes over his face like a tidal wave, the giddy drunken smile morphing into a depressed frown, brows furrowed, eyes now heavy and teary-eyed, “i thought you were done; all the blood from your head and how many steps you fell down and then you didn’t wake up—” he cuts himself off with a choked sob, “and i was too late.” 

your ribs gripped your heart in a clenched fist, “what do you mean, ‘too late’, sam?” 

another pained gasp slips from his lips, “i saw it, saw you about to fall, saw that vamp put its hands on you and i froze.” 

in an instant, your mind flashes to right before you were shoved, and then you remember. sam’s broad figure looming down the hallway, watching with wide eyes, frozen in fear. realistically, there was no way he could make it to you in time regardless, but you felt the weight of his guilt. and then it all makes sense. 

“sam—” 

“don’t,” he interrupts, sniffling, and you can tell the rush of emotion forced him to sober up a bit, “it was my fault.” 

you purse your lips, swallowing down whatever multitude of protests are dying to be let out. you know that’s the last thing he needs, and the uneasy look on his face as he wobbles in his seat confirms that for you. 

he almost topples forward, reminiscent of how you were after dean had patched you up, but you catch his shoulders, easing him back down on the floral sheets and onto his side. 

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering as he fights sleep.

“nothing to be sorry for, sammy,” you say, trying to keep your composure.

he looks so soft and innocent, the way his eyelashes fan against his blushed cheek sending your brain scrambling again. you run a warm hand down his forearm, easing him into some kind of relaxation. 

sam tries to fight it, swallowing dryly as he looks at you through hooded lids, “i won’t freeze next time,” he exhales. 

as he drifts off to sleep under your steady hand, you pray your heart isn’t thumping loud enough for him to hear through your chest, because you certainly can.

your fingers move to trace the fresh, bumpy, and definitely uneven stitches along your forehead, and can’t help the bittersweet grin that forms on your face as his words settle.

the buzz of the dingy diner the next morning is not the wakeup call neither you or sam need, heads in a tizzy from the debilitating hangover and your little trip downstairs. you’re both squished in the red booth beside each other, twirling your fork in your eggs—a sickening yellow color that makes your guts twist—and sam, gulping down water like a starved man. 

not to mention, you were both running on four hours of sleep. 

dean looks between the two of you, “jesus, what the hell happened to you two last night?” 

you groan, sliding your head into your hands, “too much.” 

“way too much,” sam adds, voice muffled by the plastic cup. 

“i knew i shouldn’t have left you,” dean says, taking a hefty forkful of pancakes, “either of you because this—”  he points to the two of you with his utensil, “—this is what happens.”

the look on dean’s face when he walked into your room this morning, dumbfounded at the sight before him: you and sam sleeping beside each other, not touching but certainly close enough, might be ingrained in your memory forever. 

“i took care of it,” you assure. 

“only did so with a concussion,” he argues, stabbing his breakfast again, “what the hell happened?” 

you try to hide the pink arising on your cheeks, sinking into the ripped up booth, attempting to catch sam’s expression out of the corner of your eye. you can tell he’s trying to hide the fact that he remembers everything, the words he spoke bordering on some kind of confession still lingering on his tongue. you ache to hear them, to know why he lost himself last night because you were hurt. 

certainly, it wasn’t just because you were friends. and the rose color dusting over his nose confirms that for you. 

“nothing,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter, “just got him to bed and passed out again.” 

“yeah,” dean mumbles, unconvinced, “yeah, alright.” 

he gets a head start to the car as you and sam pay the bill at the front, anxiety crawling up your stomach and settling in your chest as you rack your brain on anything to say to him. 

“so,” you start, walking out of the diner, “don’t remember a thing, either?”

sam stops, grabbing your elbow softly to pull you out of dean’s view, shielding yourselves on the side of the building. you press up against the brick, watching as his tongue pokes at his cheek in thought. 

“you have no idea how sorry i am about last night,” he says quickly, face flushed, “you were hurt and you had to take care of me and listen to me spew all this self loathing crap, and—” 

“sam,” you stop him, bringing a hand to his solid chest, feeling the thump thump of his heart as it races under your palm, “was it all true?” 

his eyebrows furrow before falling softly in realization and remembrance. 

“about you freezing and caring and worrying,” you add, voice a note higher than a whisper, “was it true?” 

he looks away, then slowly begins to nod. 

all the blood in your body rushes to your feet, almost giving you a feeling of weightlessness, and before you can back down, you bring your lips up softly to his, pressing deep into his mouth as his part in shock. 

then, he melts, a large hand falling behind your head, fingers threaded through your hair. 

you feel him smile against your own, prompting you to bring a palm up to his jaw, the kiss deepening—

a loud honk blares through the chirping birds and rustling trees. you both jump apart, lips swollen and eyes bulged. 

dean pulls the car up, watching you through the impala windows as he honks again, beckoning you both. 

you swallow down the lump in your throat as everything dean winchester is going to say about what he’s seen rushes through your mind. 

yeah, you’re both done for.

but, it’s so worth it.

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

i don't usually love the "love at first sight" trope but it's just so bob-coded to me? like sweet bob who is typically pretty logical but sees/talks to you for the first time and is like "oh this is it for me". and when he ends up being right he's just so HAPPY bc you're his person!!! he gets to be yours!!! and you're his!!! and he's never been so thrilled his gut feeling was right

when he first meets you, he knows. it's there, in way his breath catches in his chest when natasha introduces you to him. she's known you since high school, and she believes you're perfect for bob. as it turns out, she's right. when he sees you, he's utterly taken with you. you're beautiful. you have a good sense of humor. you look at him and it feels like you see him. really see him, for who he is. you show genuine interest, you ask him good questions. and as he gets to know you over a bottle of root beer, there's something in the back of his mind, telling him that you're it for him.

he's always been logical. always been one to consider every outcome and angle. always been practical. he'd never believed it was possible to love someone after seeing them for the first time. but it's there, as you end up going for a walk along the beach after sunset, talking about any and everything. you're laughing at something he said, genuinely laughing, and it's the prettiest sound he's ever heard. and he's not one to rush into things, but god, does he want to kiss you right there, under the light of the moon, as the surf crashes around you.

but he doesn't, because he's going to take things slow. he's going to let this blossom and see where it goes. and as you spend more time around each other in the coming days and weeks, there's that little voice in the back of his mind again. telling him that it's you. that you're the one he's going to spend the rest of his life with. he falls fast and hard for you, but that's okay, because you do the same for him. being together just feels so natural and right, as if it was always meant to be. of course, natasha is over the moon that her matchmaking worked. she sees the way you and bob look at each other, with stars in your eyes, and she knows that you and him are going to live a beautiful, happy, fulfilling life together.

and she's right. it's no surprise when you announce your engagement some time later. jake and javy had a bet going on when bob would propose. jake wins, and is naturally smug about it. the squad throws you and bob an engagement party not long after. and when you get married, they're all in attendance. it's a joyous occasion. everyone is so very happy for you. and as you stand before bob that day, he looks into your eyes, like he did the first night you met when you walked on the beach, and he is overcome with emotion. that little voice in the back of his mind was right. and that's what he tells you in his vows.

"the first night i met you, a still small voice told me that you were it. you were my person. and i'm so glad i listened to it. because that's exactly what you are. you're the best thing that has ever happened to me, and i can't wait to spend the rest of my life loving you."

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

If I wrote a Danny Phantom x Supernatural crossover I’d have Sam meet Danny while Dean is dead so Danny can be the second opinion on the ‘did he come back wrong’ front. Danny starts with the same stuff they already did, holy water, salt, iron, silver, and gets to the stranger stuff, “cold or hot marbles in your chest?” (Core?)“Unusually strong urges to hunt things” (Obsession?) “can you do a handstand?” “No” “have you tried doing one since you were dead?” (Ok that one is just to mess with them)

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

The noise has everyone startled but none like Jason. It was just specific enough that it resembled a very distinct clang of metal that brought forth a memory that was the wrong kind of surreal. Jason jumps up from his seat, hands flying up in front of him. His breathing is heavy and his body is tense as he braces for pain.

Dick immediately jumps into big brother mode, though knowing he’s never had much success before with Jason. He holds his hands out in front of him on reflex, like he’s ready to restrain a frightened animal.

Jason shoves him out of the way (expected). Jason lumbers over to you and wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck (unexpected).

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Your voice has lowered significantly and Dick can barely make out your words. He guesses that was probably the point. He clocks that Jason's breathing is heavy and he’s trying desperately to nudge you out of the room, likely wanting to be out of sight of his brother. You hold him steady though, cupping his face in your hands. Jason's head drops into your shoulder, holding your forearms to keep him anchored. One of your hands wraps around the back of his neck, rubbing soothing patterns against his skin. His chest starts inhaling faster with very little exhale and his grip on you tightens.

“Breathe, Jay.”      

Oh don’t tell him that, he does not like hearing that. The last time Dick tried to comfort him with those words he ended up getting clocked in the face.

“Breathe. In…Out…” he does as instructed, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, repeating as told. It doesn’t take long at all for his breathing to revert back to its normal pace, posture relaxing.

…What?

Dick stands there dumbly, watching his little brother not only allow but embrace blatant affection. For once, he has nothing to say. He’s not even sure he can think right.

There hasn’t been a single moment since Jason returned that Dick had even had the chance to consider him being happy, in love. He’d come back so full of anger and resentment that it was borderline impossible to see through to any of who he used to be. A carefree, jovial kid. He’d hate to say it, but even after Jason came back to life, he thought that kid was still dead and gone. Everyone did, but…this is gentle and delicate. This is a side of Jason that he mourned and made his peace that he’d never see again.

But now Jason picks his head up and kisses your cheek, whispering something before pulling away. You murmur back to him softly, and Dick can only make out the word ‘water’ from his place across the room. Jason nods slowly, reluctantly releasing his hold on your wrists as you head out of the room.

He slumps into an armchair nearby and barely meets Dick’s stare before averting his gaze, muttering something like “Fuck off,” Dick just blinks, thoroughly thrown by the Jekyll-and-Hyde-like change in his brother’s attitude. He opens his mouth, though no noise comes out.

You return promptly, glass of water in hand. You give it to Jason, leaning lightly over the arm of his chair. He downs the water quickly, setting it on the coaster next to him and pulling your full weight onto the chair, holding you close. You look over at Dick, who’s still staring at you like he just saw the Easter Bunny walk into the room and steal a lamp. 

“What?” you ask him curiously, lacking all of the snap that he usually hears with the question from his brothers.

He stammers, “Uh…” Jason looks up at him, glaring. “Nothing.”

You tilt your head at him, silently inquiring about what he’s thinking. Dick ignores your gaze, turning back to his cards that had fallen somewhere in the course of the ado.

You furrow your brow and turn your attention back to Jason, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets his head lull to the side and rest against your shoulder.

You move your hand higher up in his hair, “Do you want to eat? Just a banana or something?”

He blinks, eyes heavy, “Yeah, I’ll—” he stops you from standing up again, rising to his feet himself. “I’ll go, it’s alright.”

He exits the room sluggishly and you redirect your gaze over to Dick who’s once again focused intently on the cards. You move over to where he’s sat on the ground, crouching on the opposite side of his pyramid-in-progress. “What was that look for?”

Dick blinks up at you, not sure that it’s in his best interest to answer that question. “Um…just surprised me.” he gets out, “How fast you got Jason to calm down.”

You sit back on your heels. “Oh. I guess so.”

Dick shakes his head quickly, “No, that was honestly like a magic trick. How did you do that?”

You gape at him, “What do you mean?”

“I mean one time he pulled a gun on me when I tried to hug him. More than one time, actually,” He grimaces. “So did you, like…brainwash him or something? It’s okay, I won’t tell him, it clearly worked.”

You laugh, not acknowledging the at least partial sincerity in the question. “He’s just difficult to warm up, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I could leave him in the toaster oven for ten years and he still wouldn’t warm up to me like that.”

Your smile is accompanied by the raise of an eyebrow, “Well I’m not his brother, so that would be part of it.” You pick up a fallen spade from the floor, setting it atop his scattered pile. “I mean we live together, I’d be pretty ill-suited at my job if I couldn’t at least get him back to baseline by now.”

He squints at you, “You live together?”

You waver awkwardly, “..He said he told you.”

He smiles at that, genuinely, “Anytime Jason says he told anyone in this family anything, he’s lying.”

The call of your name from the doorway has you turning around, smiling. Jason holds his hand out to you and you happily cross the room to take it. The second you’re by his side he picks up the armchair throw pillow with his free hand and chuck it at Dick, successfully knocking him in the face and knocking his half-remade tower to shambles.

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

professionally mrs. floyd

word count: 1.7k

pairing:

robert 'bob' floyd x f! reader

desc:

bob was no stranger when it came to days that were neverending. his job was stressful, his nerves shot by the end of every shift with the navy. so his home became his place of peace, perfect for a moment of solitude, thanks to the one person he always made sure to come home to-his wife.

when his wife has a less than satisfactory day at her own job, he makes sure to return the favor, and perhaps ensure that she never sees a day quite so bad again.

author's note:

none! more of a blurb than an imagine, just something short and sweet to get me back on my feet :)

for @fraaaaankiiiiieee

you know i love you and all your ideas, and your love for this bespectacled wso. thanks for being my forever cheerleader. <3

-

If there was anyone who was well accustomed to long days and short nights, it was Lieutenant Robert "Bob" Floyd. He woke early every morning, long, long before the sun would rise. He'd drearily shuffle into the bathroom and straighten his hair, brush his teeth, and don his khaki uniform. He'd kiss his still sleeping wife's forehead, grab the lunchbox she'd packed the night before off the counter, and be out the door before the first birds chirped in the morning.

His day at work would not be any less laid-back. He'd sweat through his flight suit in the backseat of a multi-million dollar aircraft, putting his trust entirely in the dark-haired pilot in front of him. (Not that he ever doubted Phoenix. Well, at least never to her face.) Bob had never had a weak stomach, it simply wouldn't fair well with the job he had, but sometimes his teammates maneuvers made his heart rate spike with stress. By the time he walked off the tarmac at the end of the day, he'd be thoroughly exhausted.

He'd arrive home in much the same fashion-the sun sinking steadily, soon to be replaced by the moon. He'd be well past worn out, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled in, but he'd still gather enough energy to greet his ever-doting wife, scarf down a warm dinner, scald himself in a hot shower, and fall asleep on the couch while attempting to catch up on the show he watched with his wife. Once she convinced him to finally come to bed, he'd hardly take the time to shove his glasses on his bedside table before crashing against his pillow for the short hours of rest allotted before he'd have to repeat the whole process over again.

It was safe to say that he was no stranger to a day that never seemed to end.

His wife, however, the eternal optimist she was, often found her days less harrowing than her husband's. Today, however, was not one of those days.

The day had started with asinine complaints-the bed had been a little too cold without Bob next to her, lacking the incinerator-level heat her husband's body always radiated. She'd groaned and hid her face back into his pillow, still smelling of his ridiculous 3-in-1 shampoo from the night before. How his hair was so incredibly soft despite the monstrosity that was that hygiene item was beyond her. The smell of his lingering body wash had lulled her back into sleep, the true source and start of her no good, very bad day.

She was so fast asleep she hadn't heard her alarm blaring, not until she was already ten minutes over the time she was supposed to be leaving the house. She'd panicked, racing through their bedroom in a flurry of already tangled nerves. Realizing quickly that Bob had forgotten to start the dryer the night before, all of her work clothes were still damp and unwearable. It was nothing to truly be angry about, they'd both been tired the night before, heading straight to bed without much care about anything else other than hitting the sheets. She'd trudged through with her less comfortable work clothes, the ones that itched if she moved a certain way, but it would be fine. It totally wouldn't become a minute thing that toppled her over the edge later in the day.

Right?

She thought little of it as she grabbed her water bottle and her lunch container off the counter, not even noticing the sweet note Bob had left her on top. In her rush to get out the door, she'd neglected her morning coffee, and, without meaning to, missing the other sweet post-it her husband had left on the machine next to her favorite mug. Bob was always leaving small actions of his love for her, something she adored about him. Unfortunately, her mind was more focused on the passive-aggressive comments her boss would give her for being late.

She'd already hit the rush hour traffic miles before her workplace, already ready to simply pull over on the shoulder and call it quits before she even gave her breakdown a moment to form. Swallowing down her already bubbling emotions, she pushes through and finally pulls into the parking lot of her workplace.

Naively, she had hoped things would start to look up from there.

She had, of course, been wrong.

Her boss' comments had indeed been backstabbingly biting, the coffee machine at work was out of order, her shoes had begun to rub blisters on her heels, her backup work clothes had become grating and her work was monotonous. By the time the clock hit five, she wasted no time in being the first to leave, responsibilities be damned.

She raced through the roads leading back to the home she shared with Bob, caring little about the possibility of a speeding ticket. She needed only one thing-her husband. She knew he likely wouldn't be home for another hour after her, but it would give her ample opportunity to have her dramatic breakdown before he came through the threshold of their front door.

To her surprise, however, her husband was already home. He'd already traded his stiff uniform for an old sweatshirt and some sweatpants, padding around barefoot in the kitchen. He was standing at their stove, the aroma of something savory filling their home.

"Hey, darlin'."

That accented voice she loved met her ears, already causing her bottom lip to wobble. She couldn't even respond with her usual sweet sentiment, too afraid she'd burst into a pile of tears.

"You're home early."

She redirects the conversation. She sees his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Uh, y-yeah, baby. I told you I was, left a note on the coffee pot this morning."

His wife's shoulders completely slump, bringing a hand to her eyes, furiously trying to avoid the tears that burn. She'd been in such a rush she'd neglected it completely. She felt guilty. He'd woken up early enough in his already incredibly early morning to write her little notes, to fill her water bottle with the fancy pebble ice she loved. Small actions to show he was thinking of her, that he cared.

"Bobby, m'sorry, I just-"

That was it, she was done for. One scalding hot tear falls down her cheek, and suddenly a tsunami of the others follows. Bob's eyes go wide, dropping the mixing spoon in his hand in favor of scooping her up in his arms.

"Hey, hey, shh, s'okay."

This wasn't the first time he'd ever had his wife sobbing into his shirt, and likely wouldn't be the last. Bob was an incredibly patient and understanding man, it wasn't something he'd hold against her. For some time, he just let her get her emotions out, let them fester forward to get that burdening feeling off her chest. He'd learned years ago that the method proved effective, she'd talk when she wanted to talk.

It only took a matter of minutes for her to do just that.

At most it was incoherent babbling over tears, but it was a language Bob had learned after several years of marriage. She just wanted to be held, to be listened to. So he did just that-his calloused hands caressing her sides as he listened to her incredibly distressing day. But Bob was also a man of action, always ready to fix a problem, and he instantly knew how to resolve this one. As his wife carries on about her 'asshole' boss, he stops her. Not meaning to interrupt, simply getting his thoughts out.

"So quit."

She looks up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, letting out a dry chuckle.

"Very funny, Floyd."

"M'not joking, Floyd," he retorts back, his voice entirely serious. He runs a hand across her cheek, pushing back a strand of hair from her face. "I make plenty for both of us. We've got everything we need on my pay alone. Got the insurance, the house...baby, the only reason you have to keep working is because you want to."

She simply looks at him as if he had sprouted an extra limb. Had it truly always been that simple?

"Plus," he raises an eyebrow under his thick lenses, that all-knowing smirk painted across his face. "If we decide to go through what we've been talking about, 'could work to our advantage, won't have to pay for daycare."

He gives a shrug, as if it was nothing. They'd been discussing the idea of kids for the past few weeks. For the first time in the entire day, his wife gives a genuine smile, a hint of a laugh crawling across her face. Always trust in Bob to see the bright side.

"Trying to get me as your housewife, Floyd?"

Bob feels a faint pink blush paint his cheeks, but grins.

"Is it working, Floyd?"

She can't help but erupt into a genuine laugh, falling against her husband's chest, finally content after a taxing day. She thinks for a moment-as if she even needed a moment to decide-before placing a soft kiss against his jaw.

"I think I can handle that, being professionally Mrs. Floyd."

Her comment makes Bob's own laughter fill the otherwise quiet air.

"Let me finish dinner and we'll write that two weeks notice together. But-"

He cuts himself off, lifting her with ease onto his shoulder and trekking her over to plop her onto the chair of their breakfast bar, pulling off his own hoodie so she can wear it instead of the uncomfortable looking work clothes that adorn her frame.

"-as your new boss, I'm ordering you-,"

He slips the itchy blouse off her arms, sliding the hoodie on in replacement.

"-ordering you to sit there and let me take care of the rest. And look, you're doing great already. Star employee."

He kisses her head, squeezing her side before going back to the stove. She felt her shoulders relax, that heavy weight on her chest eliminated. This she could get used to. No rushed mornings or hectic days, just leisure, soft days with a man who held her above anything else, as if she hung the moon and stars each night.

"I love you, Robert Floyd."

Bob smiles widely, crossing back over to her, hands on either side of her face.

"Going full legal now, are we? I love you more, Mrs. Robert Floyd."

-

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

Hey! New to the Rhett fandom (still working my way through Outer Range so haven't even finished the show yet) but I'm already falling in love with Rhett and so happy I found your blog with what appears to be lots of good Rhett content!

I can't help but feel like Rhett is such a softie for his partner? And he lets his guard down with her/them. Like he has a smirk sure, but genuine smiles? They're rare. But when he's around her they come pretty freely. Maybe it's when she/them is teasing him, dancing around like a goof around the house, or just looking at him in a way that makes his heart do something stupid. But she's the only one who gets to see that real, boyish grin and he'd do anything for her.

Like I kind of think in relation to Valentine's Day he thinks it's a little silly. But he sees her/them looking at the little displays at the store and even though he thinks its "dumb" he goes all out for Valentine's Day just to see that smile on her/their face.

welcome!!! we love rhett around these parts 🥰 you are spot on with this!

rhett is so used to having his guard up. though he is actually quite the tender soul, he adheres to a sense of cool stoicism, partly because he’s not one for shows of emotion, and partly because, from a young age, he was always made to feel as if being soft was “feminine”, and his dad didn’t have the patience or understanding to deal with rhett’s softness. and therefore, rhett decided to minimize himself by not showing displays of emotion that could be labeled as soft. at least not in front of his father or brother. anger, though? that’s one emotion he could show freely. so he decided to let everyone think he was that hard, tough as nails cowboy. but you saw right through it. beneath that rough exterior was a boy with a soft heart.

with you, he could be himself freely. there was no use in putting up a front, because you would always call him on his bullshit. he couldn’t pretend with you. and he didn’t want to. he let himself be soft. let himself giggle, and blush, and be…delicate, in a way. you made him laugh. and not just a hum of amusement here and there, but a full on belly laugh. and what a beautiful sound it was. if you got him going enough, you might even get a few snorts out of him. and of course, there was that smile. crooked, endearing, reaching his eyes in a way that made them sparkle. and oh, how freeing it was to genuinely be himself with you. there was no judgment from you. he could simply exist in peace and enjoy himself.

naturally he’d want to spoil you for valentine’s day. bringing you joy brings him joy. so when he saw you eyeing the cute little beanie baby cat with the nametag that read “hi, my name is: pickles” at the grocery store, he decided to get it (as well as several other beanie baby friends…they all looked lonely, he couldn’t resist buying them). and when he saw you considering a certain kind of candy when you passed the candy store on main street, he made sure to sneak in when you were at work and buy a bunch of it. rhett was more observant than people gave him credit for. sure, he could have his moments of aloofness, but when it counted, he paid attention to the little details.

he also wanted any excuse to make you smile, because you always made him feel that immense joy. why shouldn’t he want to make you feel it right back? his observance paid off, because sure enough, when you came downstairs on valentine’s morning and saw everything set up on the table, you lit up like the sun itself. it was a sight rhett committed to memory, unwilling to forget it as long as he lived. you, overflowing with joy because of shine thing he did. and then you wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed him and said, “happy valentine’s day, cowboy,” and he was so glad he’d allowed himself to embrace that tenderness within himself. that you brought it out of him. of course you deserved to feel special for that.

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

👉👈 so like, if you're still a big fan of burkhyde/zenmasters/J+H, I am hyperfixating on them and the show and would love to make some fandom friends if anyone wants to talk or ve mutuals, just sayin 👉👈

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

One thing I always I LOVE to think about is Rhett being married and (essentially) only calling you his wife. To you, to other people, the animals on his farm. And it’s not a misogynistic or demeaning thing, it’s like a thing of awe. Like he’s more so reminding himself. He holds that title so dearly, the fact that you chose him is the most important thing for him. And he takes the title of husband very seriously. I just love daydreaming about that.

rhett is just in awe that he gets to call you his wife. you bring out the best in him. you love him unconditionally. naturally, he's going to refer to you as his wife all the time. he greets you when he comes home from work with a kiss and a "how's m'beautiful wife?" and it always makes you smile. when he's talking about you to other people, it's "m'wife." when he's tending to the animals and you walk into the barn, he's like "look guys, here comes m'wife!" and all the animals look at you as if they understood what he said. it is the highest term of endearment in his mind, he loves you so much, and he loves that you chose to become his wife, out of all the other people you could have decided to marry. i truly believe that being married to you is his greatest joy in life. he is hopelessly in love with you.

[oceans-assorted-fic-recs]

I love your imagines/headcanons! Do you have any headcanons for what Rhett would be like dating someone who’s very different from him? Someone that worries a lot and is very cautious, i.e. someone who is used to following rules

aaaa thank you, nonnie! 🌼 I've been thinking about this ever since I watched it pop into my inbox 😭

He gets outed as the biggest hypocrite on earth

Okay, maybe not the biggest hypocrite, but he's up there. Rhett has always grumbled so much about his momma always worrying. It can be the littlest things, her telling him to be careful driving home, making him go upstairs and put on another layer of clothes because she's worried about frostbite. It can be the most reasonable concern known to man, and he's just '🙄'

But when you do it? It's cute.

There was a day when he took you out to the south pasture to feed the cows, and you started worrying about if the truck got stuck, what if the hay bounced off the trailer, what if he hadn't been so quick to dodge that momma cow when she charged him. And the whole time, he's just tilting his head to the side like a puppy and listening to you talk.

He has answers for all of it. He knows what to do when his truck has the misfortune of hitting a deceptive patch of mud. The hay is too heavy to bounce off, but even if it did, the cows would find it and a pissed-off cow isn't anywhere near as scary as a bull is. It's not that he likes seeing you worry; hell, he worries about you worrying sometimes, but he loves being able to explain these little mundane parts of his life to you.

Rhett isn't the greatest when it comes to you worrying about things he has no experience with, but that doesn't mean he won't hear you out and try to find something to ease your mind. Sometimes, that ends in him sitting in the corner of a doctor's office with you or at a work event that he clearly doesn't belong in. The whole time he'll be looking at you like "👁️👁️" the whole time, but he'd rather you be in this together than you have to front this all by yourself.

He does...really like to push you to break a rule or two. It's more him teasing you than anything else; he's never too serious about it. He asks if you wanna pirate that one movie that's not available in your country, or he'll try to sell you on jaywalking even though you don't even need to cross the damn street.

There was one night when things got heated in his truck just after a date, parked in the back of an empty restaurant parking lot. You're in his lap, his big hands are under your shirt, scruffy upper lip tickling you as he licks his way into your mouth when all of a sudden, he pulls back just long enough to, "You're sure y' don't wanna risk an indecency charge with me?"

Your response is...classified.

All of that being said, Rhett hates seeing you worry about him; little here and there's are fine, but rodeo season is a different monster. The worst part about it is that he can't just kiss you on the forehead and promise you that he'll be okay like he does with everything else. He doesn't know what'll happen; he might come out without a scratch, he might catch a horn the wrong way, or he might have to sit through a two-hour drive to the hospital.

Rhett gets into this little habit of coming straight to you after his rides. Technically, according to the Amelia County Rodeo rule book, he's supposed to stay with the other riders until the rodeo is over and the winners are called, but he doesn't give much of a damn. He's finding his way over to you regardless, wrapping you up in a hug, nuzzling the side of your head with his nose because he doesn't want his hands to get dirt all over your face.

You're the first person who gets to know that he's okay; it's the tradeoff for him worrying you sick. And you're very, very fortunate that Rhett, aside from a sprained wrist and a few cracked ribs every now and again, is practically indestructible.