media ⭑.ᐟ — mcu. star wars. dc comics. gilmore girls. brooklyn 99. umbrella academy. the boys. gen v. arcane. the good place. game of thrones. the bear. outer banks. percy jackson. supernatural. the pitt. resident evil. life is strange. f1. wnba.
Inspired by the fact I haven’t done anything but play Tomodachi recently… masterlist
You walked into the living room carrying two mugs of tea and immediately knew something was wrong.
Dick was slouched on the couch like someone had stolen his last cookie. The Switch was still on, paused on the bright, colorful Tomodachi Life screen. His Mii - the one with the perfectly styled black hair and the little mask accessory he’d insisted on - was standing sadly in the middle of the island plaza while your Mii (the one with the cheerleader outfit and the hair you’d spent way too long customizing) was happily chatting with a random islander.
Dick’s lower lip was actually jutting out in a pout.
You set the mugs down on the coffee table and raised an eyebrow. “Okay. What happened?”
He let out the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard from a grown man who regularly fought crime in spandex.
“She said no.”
You blinked. “Who said no?”
“My wife,” he muttered, pointing accusingly at the screen. “I finally got the proposal event to trigger after a week of feeding her favorite foods, buying her every gift, and making sure our compatibility was maxed out. I even followed what some losers said on Reddit. And she said no.”
You had to bite your lip hard to keep from laughing.
“Dick… it’s a Mii.”
“She’s not just a Mii,” he protested, sitting up straighter, eyes wide with betrayal. “That’s you. I made her look exactly like you - same smile, same little swing when she stands. I even gave her your favourite colour sweater. And she looked me dead in the eyes and said ‘I’m not ready’ with that sad little animation.”
He flopped back dramatically, throwing an arm over his face like a Victorian maiden who’d been scorned.
“I’m in my own game and I still got rejected. This is emotional warfare.”
You finally lost the battle and laughed, climbing onto the couch and crawling into his lap. He immediately wrapped both arms around you like a koala, burying his face in your neck with a pitiful whine.
“Baby,” you cooed, trying and failing to sound sympathetic, “it’s a video game. The Miis have weird algorithms. Sometimes they just say no for no reason.”
“But I worked so hard,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled. “I made sure we had all the same hobbies. I gave her a beach ball accessory because you like the ocean. I even made sure our apartment had the fancy red couch you always pick in real life. And she still said no.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp the way he liked. He melted instantly, a soft little hum vibrating against your collarbone.
“You’re pouting,” you teased.
“I’m not pouting,” he pouted harder. “I’m mourning the future I thought we had in Tomodachi Life. We were supposed to get married, have a little Mii baby with your eyes and my hair, maybe even a dog. Now I have to start the whole relationship over again. Do you know how long the dating phase takes when they keep saying ‘let’s just be friends’?”
You bit your lip again, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Dick Grayson, you fight actual supervillains on a weekly basis. You’ve been shot, stabbed, thrown off buildings - and you’re this upset because a cartoon version of me wouldn’t marry your cartoon self?”
He pulled back just enough to give you the most betrayed look you’d ever seen on his face. Those big blue eyes were actually glistening.
“Yes. Exactly. Because even pixel-you doesn’t want me. What does that say about real-you?”
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “It says that pixel-me has terrible taste and clearly needs better programming. Real-me thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to her.”
His expression softened, but the pout was still lingering at the edges. “Prove it.”
You leaned in and kissed him - slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that made his shoulders relax and his arms tighten around your waist. When you pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and warm.
“Better?” you asked.
“A little,” he mumbled, chasing your lips for another quick peck. “But I’m still emotionally scarred. I might need cuddles. And maybe you feeding me ice cream while I restart the whole relationship arc.”
You laughed, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re such a dramatic baby.”
“I’m your dramatic baby,” he corrected, grinning now. “Who spent a week trying to get you to marry him in a video game because the real version is still the best thing in his life.”
Your heart did a ridiculous little flip. You kissed him again, softer this time, then rested your head on his shoulder.
“Tell you what,” you said, voice warm with affection. “Tomorrow we’ll restart the game together. I’ll help you max out the compatibility. And when you propose again, I promise pixel-me will say yes this time.”
Dick’s arms squeezed you tighter, a happy little hum escaping him. “Deal. But only if you wear the cheerleader outfit in real life while we play.”
You lightly smacked his chest. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, “but I’m your impossible.”
Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, Dick Grayson - acrobat, hero, leader - pouted like a kicked puppy over a video game rejection while you curled in his lap and fed him ice cream straight from the tub.
And somehow, it was the most perfect night you’d had in weeks.
a/n : good fics r coming I promise I just need to do these exams tomorrow then I’m free forever 💔
summary dean is with you always. especially when you can't sleep after a hunt !
content gn!reader, fluff, quiet comfort, unestablished relationship but dean and reader are very in love, dean is yearning badly, use of sweetheart and angel !
masterlist ♡ requested
wc 469
⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Dean doesn't mean to wake you. He only wants to keep you warm, crouching low to the couch, admiring you in a way he hopes isn't creepy or unwanted. Eyes gentle, adjusting to the dark shroud of the room, he blinks and pulls a knit blanket over your body.
You're pretty in the dark. Pretty in the light.
He can barely see you. Soft puffs of your breath pillow the silence and turn it soothing. He could sleep on the floor. Stretch along the scratched, motel rug and ignore the dusty smell and ensure you're okay all night long.
"Dean," you murmur. He squints. You look dead asleep still.
"...How d'you know I'm here?"
You rustle, and tiny crescent gleams make up your eyes. His chest does something funny, patters light and sweet when you reach a hand out to his shoulder. Your thumb kisses his neck. He's glad the lights are out.
"You make noise," you whisper succinctly.
His lips tug and he smiles mild, fond, and brings your hand to slip down into his palm. He squeezes twice. Your voice snags on his ear, just subtly tense. Maybe he's imagining it, too attentive. But when has he ever let details fall to chance? He can handle being called annoying, overbearing. A small chip to take for worrying over you.
"Have you been sleeping at all?"
"...A little. My brain won't shut off."
He feels that like a velvet thud of knuckle to his heart. Familiar. You sit up and back against paled cushions, hand still caught in his.
"I'll listen, sweetheart. If you wanna talk."
You nod slow and look so far away. He'd like bring you back but feels a little out of his depth. What can he offer that isn't among the secret, tender things he wants so badly with you?
I love you. You can come to my bed and stay there forever and sink deep into the mattress springs with me.
"Wanna take a drive?" he asks instead.
Your hands together are melding heat. He watches as you lean close and his lungs hiccup when your forehead plants lightly to his. He doesn't know if he's allowed to move. Frozen as a statue, he thinks you'd be one of those smooth, marble ones in museums.
"That would be nice," you say. "Please. Thank you."
He's the only one in the world who can hear you right now. Sweetness fills every inch of his chest, it overflows in a big rise to his face, and stains your nose where the tip of his nudges.
"Yeah, angel. Anytime, c'mon."
There's a tingling to his lashes, eyelids leathery. Doesn't matter. He pulls you from the couch and isn't sure which fingers are his or yours anymore. He will drive on and on and ache.
Ryland is half asleep beside you on the couch with his glasses crooked on his face and one sock missing (he threw it away earlier, saying that one foot needed to breathe). You smile down at him from where his head rests against your chest. “You know,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his messy hair, “normal people usually sleep in beds.”
Ryland lets out a sleepy noise that might be a laugh. “Counterpoint,” he says without opening his eyes, voice rough with exhaustion, “beds don’t have you on them right now.”
“That’s the smoothest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m very charming when I’m sleepy.”
“You’re drooling on my shirt.” You voice back at him, tone amused and eyes sparkling at the slight damp patch on your shirt that he did create by being half-asleep. “I think we can call this intimacy.” You laugh quietly at the words leaving his mouth, careful not to jostle him too much.
The TV has long since stopped playing whatever documentary he insisted the two of you watch earlier, the screen now dark except for the reflection of the lamp beside the couch. Ryland had made it about fifteen minutes before he started drifting, his commentary getting slower and slower until eventually he’d just leaned against you and stopped talking altogether.
Now he’s warm and heavy against your side, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist like even asleep he wants to make sure you’re still there. You tilt your head down to kiss his forehead gently. His skin is warm beneath your lips, curls soft against your fingers. He immediately stirs at your touch. “There it is,” he mumbles, half-asleep voice soft. “There what is?”
“The nightly forehead kiss.” He cracks one eye open just enough to look at you lazily. “Thought you wouldn’t give it to me tonight.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me anyway.” Unfortunately for your dignity, he says it with complete confidence (and he’s right about it too). You sigh dramatically. “Yeah, I do.”
His expression softens instantly, that sleepy little smile appearing on his face that always makes your chest ache. Ryland has never been particularly good at hiding his emotions; everything he feels tends to show right across his face. Right now he looks so unbearably fond that you can’t help leaning down again.
This next kiss lands properly against his mouth; all sleepy and soft and exactly how he is used to. Your kisses are always so gentle and warm like the sun in summer.
Ryland hums into it immediately, one hand lifting to cup your jaw as he kisses you back with lazy affection. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing heated, just soft mouths and lingering touches and the comfortable familiarity of someone you could kiss a thousand times and still crave.
His thumb brushes across your cheek. “You taste like tea,” he whispers against your lips.
“Is it supposed to be romantic, now?” You almost laugh at him, but not in mockery, no. In awe at how his brain works. “It is romantic.” Another kiss and he adds. “Like I’m dating someone from a bookstore commercial.”
You snort into his mouth. “That’s such a weirdly specific compliment.”
“I’m a weirdly specific person, didn’t you know?”
“That’s true.”
Ryland smiles again, eyes still closed, and pulls you a little closer. His hair sticks up in every direction from your fingers messing with it earlier, and there are faint shadows under his eyes from too many late nights grading papers and getting distracted by research articles at two in the morning.
You hate how hard he works sometimes and not because he doesn’t love it. Ryland genuinely lights up when he talks about science, about his students, about discoveries and possibilities and all the things humanity still doesn’t know. But he forgets himself in it too easily; he forgets to sleep, forgets to eat proper meals and forgets to rest unless someone reminds him. Usually, that someone is you.
“You’re exhausted,” you murmur softly. “Mm... Little bit.” He replies to you. “A little bit?” You raise an eyebrow. “Ryland, you fell asleep watching a documentary. You love those so much, usually.”
“In my defense, I had already seen this one before.” You laugh quietly again, and he grins at the sound before burying his face against your shoulder. For a moment neither of you speaks. Ryland’s breathing slows against you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes against your side underneath your sweatshirt. You can feel sleep pulling at him again.
“You should come to bed,” you whisper eventually. “No.” He shakes his head at your words. “You literally are asleep.” You add to him, voice low.
“Nope.”
“You’re impossible to negotiate with.”
“I’m comfortable.” He squeezes you gently. “And if we move, the moment’s over.” Your expression softens instantly at that.
Sometimes Ryland says things that sound joking at first, but underneath them is startling sincerity. He loves moments, small ones especially. The all quiet ones. He notices them like treasures other people would walk right past. You brush your fingers along the back of his neck. “The moment won’t disappear just because we move to the bed.”
“You can’t prove that scientifically.”
“You’re a scientist, you prove it.” You express this to him to which he replies: “Too sleepy.” You shake your head and rolls your eyes fondly before shifting slightly beneath him. “C’mere.” Ryland opens his eyes blearily as you guide him upright just enough to stand. He immediately sways toward you like a plant trying to find sunlight. “You’re adorable right now,” you tell him.
“That’s humiliating, I’ll let you know.”
Still half asleep, he follows you down the hallway with one hand hooked loosely around yours. The bedroom is dim and cool compared to the warm living room, sheets tangled from this morning when the two of you left in a rush. The second Ryland collapses onto the mattress, he groans dramatically into the pillow. “Oh, this is nice.”
“Look at that,” you say while climbing in beside him. “The bed wins, uh?”
“Don’t get cocky, we both know you were right.”
He immediately reaches for you the moment you settle down, wrapping himself around you with sleepy determination. One arm drapes across your waist while his face tucks against your neck, curls tickling your skin. You run your fingers slowly through his hair again, earning a content little sigh from him. “There you are,” he murmurs.
“I was literally here the whole time.”
“Yeah, but now you’re properly here. Like… In bed with me. I think you’re right, the bed does win.” Your chest tightens painfully with affection. You tilt your head enough to press one more lingering kiss against his temple. Ryland smiles against your skin, eyes finally falling shut completely.
“I love you,” he says quietly, words already blurred by sleep. You hold him a little closer beneath the blankets before replying softly. “I love you too.”
Within minutes, he’s asleep in your arms, still clinging to you like he plans on staying there all night.
every sam ship with a man is yaoi and every sam ship with a woman is yuri. he is transmasc he is transfem he is a butch he is a they/them femme he is a doll he has had top surgery he takes estrogen daily and samwena no matter what is top quality doomed yuri AMEN.
could you do one where reader and dean argue like really baddd like even reader is yelling (can be something serious or stupid idk) and they eventually make up? angst with comfort👀👀
content gn!reader, established relationship, arguing, cause of argument is vague but implied, hurt/comfort though the comfort is very minimal, use of baby and sweetheart !
wc 447 ♡
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂
You don't realize you've been yelling until you're sucking in a sharp breath and hot in the face, and Dean is looking at you while his jaw works. Pink lips tight in a firm line, he huffs out a knotted breath from his nose.
Maybe you're being unfair, but his protectiveness has welled to the point of suffocation. It feels more exhausting than endearing, and so much has been shoved deep in the pit your chest; it clawed its way out, and you let it.
"I know it's... you care," you say at his silence, voice lowered. "But you have to understand that I'm more than capable on my own."
His boots shift and he brings a big palm up to smooth down his face before looking at you again. Reels himself in because he can't be loud anymore. It's too much. He doesn't want his words to leave marks.
"I understand that just fine," he retorts.
"Okay." You cross your arms below your chest. "Then back off."
He's tired. You feel it too, when you blink, a prickling sort of heaviness crowns your lashes. Under his eyes, a lay of thin purple. Today has stretched and stretched. His frustration wanes slow, down into nothing in the dusky room.
"Okay," he repeats. "...I'm not trying to be a dick, baby."
The heat of your cheeks abates, more so when he takes a careful step towards your stiff stance and curls his fingers gently over the inner dip of your elbow. He bends and blinks and loves you too much.
"I know," you whisper, arms falling away.
His touch petals down your arm to take your hand, he intertwines your fingers quick and lifts your joined fist to his chest. He's warm. Your knuckles smooth the soft fabric of his shirt and he sighs, wants to bring you closer.
"M'sorry," he admits.
A part of you throbs with a need to keep pushing back. But the windows are dark when you glance behind him, and the curtains sway with a chill breeze. You decide to let everything simmer for the night.
"Alright," you whisper. "Can we just go to bed?"
He's too heavy all over. Overbearing, like you'd said.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, let's... let's lay down, sweetheart."
⟡
When the lights have been flicked off and you're a still weight beside him in bed, his strong arm loops your waist to gather you onto his stretch of the mattress. He leans up on an elbow, and swallows a sticky thick ball.
You're an angel. Silver moonlight pressed to the planes of your face.
"I'm gonna try," he whispers, forehead on yours. "M'sorry, please. M'gonna try for you."
fluff & slice-of-life small blurb!!!! gn!reader. pre-project hail mary. established relationship. domestic fluff. hair playing. soft teasing. academic / research talk. gentle intimacy.
reblog is a creator’s best-friend, thank you!!
It’s somewhere past two in the morning when Ryland finally says, “Okay, no, listen—this is the part people keep misunderstanding.”
You’re not even sure how the conversation got here.
One minute the two of you had been brushing your teeth side by side, half asleep already, and the next Ryland was digging through stacks of papers in his apartment while explaining something so complicated it probably required three separate degrees to fully understand. Now he’s sitting cross-legged beside you on the couch in plaid pajama pants and an old MIT t-shirt with a hole near the collar, glasses slightly crooked on his face. His hair is sticking up everywhere, like he’s been running his hands through it for the last hour.
Which he probably has.
“And if the data is wrong here,” he continues, pointing vaguely at one of the pages spread across his lap, “then the entire model falls apart because it changes the energy output which changes literally everything after that, so—” You hum softly at his words, barely pretending to follow.
The apartment is dim except for the warm kitchen light and the desk lamp near the couch. Outside, rain taps steadily against the windows. Ryland’s voice has gone slightly raspy with exhaustion, but he keeps talking anyway, animated despite the sleepy look in his eyes. You’re curled against his side in mismatched pajamas and thick socks, fighting sleep while he rambles.
Then, absentmindedly, you lift a hand and slide your fingers into his hair.
Ryland pauses for exactly half a second. “Anyway,” he says, trying very hard to continue normally, “if you compare the projections from last month to the current estimates, there’s this huge statistical inconsistency—” Your fingers scratch lightly against his scalp and his voice falters again. You bite back a smile at that. He keeps going, determined now. “So the problem is that nobody’s accounting for… for…” He squints at his notes. “Hang on, I had this a second ago.”
“You got distracted,” you murmur at him. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Ryland turns to look at you with sleepy offense written all over his face. His glasses have slid crooked again, and there’s a crease on his cheek from where he’d apparently been lying against the couch cushion earlier. “I’m explaining very important science right now.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re mocking me.” You can’t help but smile softly at those words coming out of his mouth. “A little.” He sighs dramatically, but when your fingers move through his hair again, all the tension visibly melts out of his shoulders.
That’s the thing about Ryland: he’s always moving, always thinking. His brain runs at a speed most people can’t keep up with, and even now, exhausted at two in the morning, he’s still trying to solve problems bigger than himself but here, like this, he softens. His words slow and his head gradually tips closer to your hand. “You know,” he mutters after a moment, quieter now, “this is biologically unfair.”
“What is?”
“The hair thing.” You laugh softly. “The hair thing?”
“Yes. This.” He gestures vaguely while leaning further into your touch. “I’m trying to explain astrophysics and you’re out here weaponizing affection.”
“You make me sound evil.”
“You are evil,” he says immediately, eyes half closed now. “You’re using cozy tactics.”
“Cozy tactics?” He nods at your words. “Mismatched pajamas, warm socks, head scratches.” He points at you accusingly. “Psychological warfare.” You can’t help smiling at him then, at the sleepy seriousness in his expression.
“And yet,” you whisper, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead, “you’re still talking.” Ryland opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, then he stops. Because somewhere during his rambling, he’s shifted close enough that his shoulder is pressed fully against yours now, his papers abandoned in a messy pile beside him. His eyes drift shut for a brief second. “…I forgot what I was saying,” he admits quietly.
“That’s okay.”
“No, it was important.” He yawns immediately after saying it, ruining the effect completely. You laugh under your breath and keep playing with his hair, slower now and Ryland lets out a long sigh before finally giving in, leaning his head against your shoulder with sleepy reluctance. “Five minute break,” he mumbles.
“You said that half an hour ago.”
“Scientific break, then,” he corrects weakly.
His voice fades softer after that, words slurring together as exhaustion catches up to him. Still, he keeps trying to explain bits and pieces of his research between yawns while you card your fingers through his hair, both of you warm and sleepy beneath the dim apartment light. And honestly? You understand almost none of the science.
But you could listen to Ryland talk forever anyway.
