baals

for my main interests

[artpepkin]

Hugs still help 🥀

[bejeweledinterludes]

hii massage anon here 🫶

i had some thoughts. this is loosely inspired by deans dream in s3 ep10 because it's honestly devastating, like can he be loved genuinely?

I would love to need to see dean with a partner who is just so undeniably sweet and loving.

caring for the people around her is like second nature.

making sure the brothers eat enough when they're hours into research, a simple head pat or a hug for a greeting, all those things come so easily to her, but they make his brain short circuit.

she's open and unwavering about her feelings, reminding him again and again how much she loves him. making sure he knows how easy it is for her to love him. making sure he knows that he matters.

dean probably wouldn't be able tp wrap his head around how he got so lucky, that she chose to be with him despite all the struggles and danger it involves.

she treats him with such genuine kindness and warmth, he still has a hard time accepting that this is actually his reality.

and despite still being unsure about whether or not he deserves this treatment, for once he is going to be selfish and let himself drown in the way her hands cradle his head, or the way her fingers trace the muscles and scars on his back, or her reassuring words lulling him to sleep

I tried organizing my thoughts as best as I could, basically I just want to see him happy and loved🫠 is that too much to ask

📨 oh hello my dear massage anon! apologies for the delay, i actually rewatched s3 ep10 for this. first off, thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, it was so beautiful to read. send your thoughts in any time or please tag me if you ever decide to expand on this <3 i also want to see dean happy and loved. like. it’s a necessity. dean get behind us so we can protect you from the writers of spn. augh just look at him :(

IN YOUR TIME KNOWING DEAN, IT WAS CLEAR THAT he thought very little about himself. almost nothing, actually. whether it was his own self-deprecation or a monster tossing his own thoughts back into his face, it was obvious—at least to you. so you made it your mission when you got together to try and convince dean otherwise, and love him as much as possible.

not like it was hard. dean was like a sponge: he soaked up all your love until he seemed to overflow, despite the fact that it felt like drowning sometimes. it wasn’t anything you did wrong, but it just felt overwhelming once in a while, being loved so fiercely and gently, when dean has experienced everything but that in his life.

you seemed to be very in-touch with your emotions and with your love. you cared deeply about sam and dean, and you showed it: in your actions, your words, your everything. but especially dean. you told him you loved him all the time—and you made sure he knows that he’s worth loving, too. that he means something not just to you, but to the world itself.

it might’ve started with you making a snack for the brothers. they were deep in research at bobby’s. you brought sam celery and dean a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and dean almost exploded when you set the plate down in front of him. but he couldn’t, since his brother was across the table from him, mowing down on the celery you brought him. you knew sam would want something healthy, but dean would want something comforting if he was going to eat. you just knew, without asking either of them.

dean opened his mouth, about to say that he wasn’t hungry—but upon a second of hesitation, he realized he was. so he closed his mouth, gave you a closed-lipped smile. you smiled back, ruffling his hair—and it was like the sun was shining on him. he damn near melted into the floor.

on the other hand, maybe it’s just the touching. you touch dean so often, like second nature, and he hopes he’ll never get used to it. he hopes he’ll cherish every head pat, hand on his shoulder, arm linked around his own, and kiss on his cheeks and on the top of his head like he has been since you walked into his life. it’s enough to drive him insane, but strangely, he’s alright with it.

you touch him all the time. dean loves laying on top of you, letting your hands wander all over his back. he’s even started sleeping shirtless again, something he never thought he’d do, just so your fingers and his skin aren’t separated anymore. the feel of your hands on him makes his brain fuzzy in the best possible way. especially when your hands find their way to his hair. you rake your fingers through it slowly, until dean’s a pile of mush against you. and you hold him close, even when you sleep. like you subconsciously wanted him there. like you actually loved him.

you love him like it’s easier than breathing. like you didn’t care about his fuckups, his worst mistakes and his deepest regrets. it was so freeing, but at the same time, dean feels like it’s a dream. like tomorrow when he wakes up, you’ll be gone. like he conjured you up himself in his mind, just for him, and the rug will be pulled out from under him.

it’s hard, because dean’s never had something to call his own. not really. his car was his dad’s before his, plus even his own thoughts might be mirrored to his dad, too. he shares everything else with his brother. not that he minds. it’s just the truth. plain facts. he’s never had something, someone all to himself, just for him—until you.

then you came along, and suddenly, everything made sense. you love him, more than anything. just for him. you don’t ask him to be anything else, other than who he is. and you always say how much you love him: a simple “love ya” before you go to the store, or a full-fledged “i love you so much, dean” on the hard days. you remind him, so he never forgets. he can’t say it as much as you do—and he’s not sure why. given time, he’ll get there, but not yet.

for now, he’ll take your love. even though deep down, he thinks he doesn’t deserve it, he’s going to take it. take something for himself for once, with no regrets. you love him for all this scars, all his mistakes—and dean knows that something like that cannot be taken lightly. he’s not sure any woman he’s been with has loved him. not as true and as strong as you do. so he doesn’t take you or your love for granted. not ever.

dean may not believe in himself just yet, but he believes in you, and in your idea of him. believes that one day, he’ll be the man you see looking back at you.

and dean believes that someday, he could be that man.

someday.

@ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @sophiaesthetic @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @tinas111 @0ccvltism @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @whimsyandfear @iknowyouknowimnottellingthetruth @anabellelycan @taecallsmenoona @s0ullesslullab1es @kiarasleeps

[bejeweledinterludes]

⧽ THINKING ABOUT DEAN’S HAPPY TRAIL & TUMMY. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꕀ

minors do not interact !

IT’S HONESTLY BARELY EVEN A TRAIL AT ALL, come to think of it. the first time you saw it was just a peek when his shirt rode up: it looked like just a little line of hair right above his belt. nothing crazy. it wasn’t that much hair, yet it seemed strange to see it, since you thought he didn’t have one at all. dean has no hair on his chest, so it seemed like a viable conclusion to make. but you were wrong. you dumbass, you think. of course dean’s got hair down there. you were just trying to keep your thoughts PG. but not anymore.

the next time you see it again, you feel a strange urge to touch it. to touch him. it was the first thought that came to mind, and it would not leave once it arrived. you wondered how it felt, if he’d get all shy about it when you touched him down there. you think he would—he seems to blush like a schoolgirl whenever you say anything remotely nice to him or smile at him.

now, dean wasn’t fat by any means, but he had the tiniest bit of tummy. you liked him that way. you imagine putting your mouth down there, along with your hands. maybe he’d get all flustered, try and hide away from your gaze. you find yourself wondering if he was insecure about it, like most things about himself. you’re sure that he is. maybe you could help him fix that. maybe you could tell him you like him no matter what. he’d probably make a joke about having a beer belly, but you’d just shake your head. you wouldn’t make fun of him. you’d love him just the way he is.

but it’s just a thought you have. just a dream. for now, at least.

@ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @sophiaesthetic @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @tinas111 @0ccvltism @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @whimsyandfear @iknowyouknowimnottellingthetruth @anabellelycan @taecallsmenoona @s0ullesslullab1es @kiarasleeps

[bejeweledinterludes]

⤷ 𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐊 ! 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒. ⊹ ࣪ ˖

part 9 of @bejeweledinterludes’ headcanons series.

📨 had to bring dork dean back. so many people (2) expressed their love for him. so i must oblige.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

hey so. breaking news here: the hunter, dean winchester? that one guy who looks evil in the eye daily, who has killed damn near every supernatural creature on the planet, drives a badass car and is a known player? yeah, he’s actually a big, fat dork.

first off, just stating the obvious: he seems to know every single movie, tv show, and pop culture reference in the entire history of television and media. it’s a little insane, how quick he can reference something—and do it correctly.

same with books. “hey, i read”, dean said, and he was not kidding. mostly because he stole read the classics sam had permanently stashed in the bottom of his backpack from the ages of 9 to 17 and paid attention in english class (when he actually went) and the assigned reading was actually good for once.

also, it’s not just anyone calling dean a dork. sam calls him a dork. and you call him a dork—because dean is one.

he was rambling on passionately about either a car show he went to back in the day or something about a slasher movie he just rewatched, and you said it: “you’re such a dork.”

dean wasn’t too sure how to react. he’s been called worse—much, much worse than that. and you sorta smiled when you said it, so it couldn’t be that bad. so dean took it as a compliment.

he gets excited over the little things. he gets mach-levels of elated over the most mediocre of events: a new beer at the liquor store, a stumping word search in the newspaper. he treats things like that as if it was gold. and maybe to him, it is.

maybe it’s his inner child he never got to be peeking out through him once in a while, or maybe it’s just because he’s comfortable around you—but more and more, you see a softer, sillier side come out of him.

it’s even worse when he’s drunk. he gets all dopey and happy under the influence sometimes instead of destroying a room like the tasmanian devil. he hangs off your shoulder, talking all sorts of nonsense: “hey, did y’know that bats have echolocation? i saw it on tv.”, and “ya think space smells weird? or does it jus’ smell like… nothin’?”. but you don’t make fun of him—at least, not too hard.

he laughs at the jokes in movies he’s seen over a hundred times. he reads graphic novels and has strong opinions on today’s horror genre compared to what it used to be. he grins when he gets a good message in the his fortune cookie and dresses as a cowboy almost every year for halloween. so yes. dean winchester is a major dork.

but you wouldn’t change it for anything.

@g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @sophiaesthetic @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @tinas111 @0ccvltism @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @defnot-svnshine @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @whimsyandfear @iknowyouknowimnottellingthetruth @anabellelycan @taecallsmenoona @s0ullesslullab1es @kiarasleeps

[wendichester]

⋆｡ ˚ war crimes in the name of pranks

summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after dean’s pranked you one too many times, you decide you’ve had enough and go all in. pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn ) ft. sammy wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 2094 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ deeply unserious warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ prank war, sam trying not to die laughing

notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ gif cred. to @/seriously-dude-what-the-hell

dean winchester is a dick.

that’s not an insult anymore. it’s a fact, filed neatly beside other undeniable truths, such as salt burns ghosts, vampires need their heads removed, and sam gets that tight little forehead wrinkle when he’s two seconds away from pretending he’s not judging everyone in the room.

dean being a dick is, unfortunately, also kind of your fault.

you worked hard to get him to trust you. months of hunts, patched-up injuries, late-night diner coffee, standing shoulder to shoulder in graveyards while ugly things crawled out of darker corners than neither of you wanted to talk about. you earned the version of him that doesn’t flinch when you reach across him for the weapons bag, the version that tosses you the impala keys without acting like he’s handing over his firstborn child, the version that grins too openly when you insult him back.

and what do you get for all that patience? intimacy? vulnerability? a tender breakthrough? no.

you get a plastic spider in your boot at six in the morning. you get a fake bloody hand in your duffel. you get your shampoo replaced with dish soap, your favorite jacket hung from the motel ceiling fan, and one deeply traumatic morning where every single pair of your socks had been dampened just enough to make you question the mercy of god.

dean thinks this is love language.

you think he needs consequences.

sam knows something is coming before dean does, because sam has survival instincts and dean has whatever the opposite of that is. he watches you from the motel table while dean’s in the shower, your expression calm as you hide the supplies back inside your bag: green food coloring, red hair dye, a bottle of body wash you found in a sad little drugstore clearance bin labeled classic musk, and one large box you have been guarding for three towns.

sam lowers his laptop screen by an inch. “should i ask?”

“no.”

“is anyone going to the hospital?”

“emotionally, maybe.”

he looks at the box. “is that for the car?”

you smile.

sam closes his eyes for a second. “i don’t want to know.”

“correct.”

the setup takes precision, spite, and the kind of quiet focus usually reserved for summoning rituals or assembling ikea furniture without crying. you’d inject the toothpaste with enough green coloring to make the inside of the tube look cursed, swap dean’s shampoo for a violent red rinse that promises temporary color in letters so cheerful they feel legally suspicious, and replaced his body wash with the elderly musk gel that carries the aggressive aura of mothballs, dusty church pews, and a man named eugene who owns three cardigans.

then comes baby.

you move fast in the parking lot, heart beating with the kind of joy that feels criminal. hello kitty steering wheel cover first. pink seat covers next. matching floor mats. a soft blanket stretched across the backseat. tiny headrest bows. one dangling charm from the rearview mirror that swings innocently in the dark, completely unaware it’s about to become the focal point of dean’s psychological collapse.

when you get back inside, sam is sitting exactly where you left him, hands folded beneath his chin.

“i’m not involved,” he says immediately.

“you’re a witness.”

“witnesses can be killed.”

“then maybe keep the poker face.”

he makes a strangled sound and goes back to pretending to read.

dean emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later with a towel around his waist, red hair, green teeth, and the full confidence of a man who hasn’t yet processed that he looks like christmas tree coming to life. the red is not subtle. it clings to the short spikes of his hair in damp, furious streaks, especially near his temples, where it has taken on a cherry-cough-syrup intensity that makes your soul leave your body for one beautiful second.

his teeth are worse.

bright green. radioactive. cartoon-villain green.

you stare.

sam makes one tiny noise from the table and immediately turns it into a cough so violent it almost deserves an emmy.

dean narrows his eyes at both of you. “what?”

your mouth trembles. “nothing.”

“why are you looking at me weird?”

“i’m just admiring,” you say, voice thin with restraint, “your commitment to personal grooming.”

dean points at you with the hand holding his shaving kit. “don’t start. i have a date.”

that nearly ends you.

sam’s shoulders start shaking.

dean looks at him. “you got a problem?”

sam presses his lips together so hard they almost disappear. “nope.”

dean accepts this too easily. he tosses the shaving kit onto his duffel and keeps moving around the room, utterly unaware that every step sends that tragic old-man body wash clouding behind him. he gets dressed anyway. jeans, boots, dark shirt, leather jacket. somehow, horribly, he still has the posture of a man who thinks he can pull this off.

you sit on the edge of your bed with both hands folded in your lap, nails digging into your palms.

“so,” you manage. “big night?”

“absolutely,” dean checks himself in the mirror, then stops. properly stops. his face goes still in that dangerous little way that means his brain has finally caught up to his reflection, and for one beautiful second, the whole motel room holds its breath.

sam sinks lower behind his laptop.

dean leans closer to the mirror, lips parting just enough to reveal the green. bright. wet. horrifying. his eyes move up to his hair next. red. aggressively red. not cute copper, not sexy auburn, not even passable under bad motel lighting. just red in the way emergency exits are red. in the way cough syrup stains your tongue red. in the way warnings are red.

you press your lips together so hard they hurt.

dean turns slowly. “you.”

you blink, angelic. “me?”

“don’t me me!” he points at his own mouth. “why do i look like i ate a glow stick?”

sam makes a noise so high and strangled that it barely sounds human.

dean whips his head toward him. “you knew?”

sam’s face is pure suffering. “i didn’t know about the teeth.”

“but you knew something.”

sam looks at you, then at dean, then back at his laptop with the dead-eyed survival instinct of a man who has spent his whole life between two disasters and learned to choose silence when necessary. “i wasn’t part of it.”

you finally lose the fight and smile. big. bright. no shame.

dean stares at you for another second, furious, hair red, teeth green, and somehow still carrying the wounded dignity of a man betrayed by his own kingdom.

“rookie work.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“rookie,” he says again, rummaging through a duffel with unnecessary aggression. “you think this is my first rodeo? food coloring in toothpaste? hair dye in shampoo? come on. i practically invented bathroom warfare.”

“you invented bathroom warfare?”

“ask sam about the nair incident.”

sam closes his eyes. “please don’t.”

dean disappears back into the bathroom with all the purpose of a man going to war. water starts running. drawers open and slam. something clatters into the sink. you hear him muttering to himself, low and offended, and then—“sammy! i’m using your toothpaste.”

“why mine?”

“because mine’s been violated.”

you snort so hard you nearly choke. you sit on the edge of the bed, swinging one foot lightly, joy humming through your whole body.

the bathroom door opens again ten minutes later, and the worst thing happens.

dean looks good. of course he does. idiot. absolute curse of a man. the green is gone from his teeth, scrubbed clean by sam’s betrayed toothpaste and probably half a bottle of mouthwash. his hair is still red, but damp and pushed back now, the color settling into something annoyingly intentional under the yellow motel light. it should look ridiculous. it sort of does. but dean has the unbearable confidence to make even bad decisions look styled.

he steps out, jacket on, boots tied, jaw tilted in that way that says he knows he has recovered far too well. “see?” he says, spreading his arms. “still hot.”

you hate that you agree. deeply. personally.

dean catches the tiny shift in your face and grins. “oh, don’t look so disappointed. you made me hotter.”

“your hair looks like a traffic cone.”

“a sexy traffic cone.”

“those don’t exist.”

“i’m making history.” he checks himself in the mirror one last time, turns his head left and right, then nods with disgusting self-satisfaction. “yeah. date’s still happening.”

you keep smiling too much.

dean notices.

his eyes narrow. “what?”

“nothing.”

“no.” he points at you. “that’s not nothing. that’s your evil face.”

you fold your hands in your lap, sweet as a hymn. “have fun tonight.”

dean studies you for another second, suspicion flickering over his face, but ego wins. he grabs his keys from the table, twirls them once around his finger, and heads for the door.

“don’t wait up,” he says.

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

he leaves. the door shuts.

for two seconds, there’s silence.

sam slowly looks at you.

you look back at him.

outside, dean’s boots crunch across the gravel parking lot. there’s the faint jingle of keys. a pause. another step. then—“SON OF A BITCH!”

you’re already laughing by the time the door flies open again.

dean storms in with the kind of rage usually reserved for demons, betrayal, and people who put dents in baby’s doors. his face is red now too, almost matching his hair, which feels thematically excellent. he points toward the parking lot with a shaking hand.

“m-my car.”

you gasp, delighted. “is something wrong with baby?”

“do not call her baby right now.”

“why? she’s dressed so cute.”

“she has bows on her headrests.”

“yes.”

“pink floor mats.”

“mhm.”

“a hello kitty steering wheel cover.”

“limited edition.”

dean stares at you as if you’ve personally rewritten the laws of nature just to hurt him. “my car looks like it got stolen by a twelve-year-old.”

sam makes the mistake of laughing. not much. just one sharp little burst he tries to smother immediately with a cough.

dean turns on him. “oh, you think this is funny?”

sam’s eyes are wet. “no.”

“you’re crying.”

you lose it again, falling back against the mattress while dean glares at both of you, his date forgotten, his dignity in ruins, his red hair glowing under the cheap motel light. for a second, he holds onto the anger. really tries. you can see him fighting for it, clinging to the righteous fury of a man whose soulmate-on-wheels has been degraded by pink polyester and cute cats.

then his mouth twitches. “i’m homicidal.”

“you’re smiling homicidally.”

that breaks him.

dean laughs, sudden and rough, one hand bracing against the doorframe like even he can’t believe how badly he’s been played. the green teeth are gone, which is a shame, but the red hair and the old-man body wash still do plenty of work. he laughs until sam finally gives up pretending to cough and just laughs too, shoulders shaking over the table.

“okay,” dean says eventually, pointing at you. “truce.”

“no.”

his smile drops. “no?”

“beg.”

“i will absolutely not beg.”

you lift your eyebrows. dean glances toward the parking lot. you can almost see him picturing baby sitting out there in all her hello kitty glory, exposed to the public, vulnerable to witnesses, one stray pedestrian away from permanent humiliation.

his jaw works. his pride takes a knee. “please,” he says tightly, “remove the tiny cat cult from my car.”

you beam. “and?”

“and…” he exhales through his nose, already planning murder behind his eyes. “i’ll stop pranking you.”

sam snorts again.

dean does not look away from you. “temporarily.”

“there it is.”

“i’m honest.”

“you’re a menace.”

“you started car crimes.”

“you put a rubber finger in my cereal.”

“that was funny.”

“so is baby’s soft era.”

his grin comes back slowly, dangerous and warm at the same time. “enjoy it while you can.”

you should be scared. honestly, you are a little. dean winchester with a wounded ego, and red hair is not a safe man. but he’s laughing, and sam’s still wiping at his eyes, and for once the motel room holds nothing sharp or haunted or waiting to kill you. *just this—*dean looking ridiculous and happy and too fond of you to hide it properly.

“worth it,” you say.

his eyes linger for half a second longer than the joke needs. “yeah,” he says, quieter under the laughter. “we’ll see.”

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.

[glacierclear]

heyyyyfysgsygsgysgysf

[glacierclear]

every time they make a new leon i need to relearn how to draw him all over again

[ajaxlogy]

his erectile dysfunction has NOTHING on me btw

[danytar]

— “Re9 Leon Headcanons”

— Old!Husband!Leon X Fem!Wife!Reader

A.N : Ignore the mistakes,i’m not native speaker :>, enjoy itt!

Somehow, you and Leon find yourselves living a peaceful life after retiring, even though you still take on some investigations since you’re no longer able to carry out deadly missions like you used to.

Aging together wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t like you once feared, that one day he would give up on you and the family you had created together for a younger, prettier face.

Leon respects the relationship and the life you share. He respects his lifelong partner and would never let you down or leave you for a younger woman. He appreciates the devotion and patience you’ve shown him throughout all those years—and still do.

In his eyes, you’re still the same young, pretty girl he met back in Raccoon City 30 years ago. That city was a real nightmare for him, but at least he didn’t leave it empty-handed.

At this point, your children—or “The Kids,” as he always called them—are adults now. But Leon doesn’t see them as grown-ups, and neither do you; to both of you, they are still your little, adorable babies—except for the youngest, who is only 10 years old and the most spoiled girl in the world, her daddy’s princess.

Leon is the perfect example of a classic gentleman husband—he takes you on dates even when you sometimes complain that you’re too old for that kind of thing. But he never listens in that department; he wants his full attention on you, and only you. He may have lost a lot of time in his 20s and 30s to his never-ending missions, but now he’s all yours, and he doesn’t want to waste a single second.

A very proud husband of his one and only Mrs. Kennedy, Leon finds himself struggling with modern technology, especially social media. But with his son’s help, he has learned how to do a few things, like updating an Instagram post or story.

It’s mostly the same thing he always posts: pictures of himself with you on expensive holidays, or driving his Porsche while listening to ’90s classic music—he’s never been a fan of modern music.

You and Leon mostly take your youngest daughter with you on holidays and trips, leaving a small note on the fridge for your 21-year-old sons. Of course, it’s always Leon’s idea—he loves teasing them mercilessly.

You always end up taking him to the mall to buy new coats or jackets. Leon trusts your sense of fashion—it’s amazing how you always find the perfect pieces for him to wear. Intelligent, dashing, and handsome.

He’s smug about the way you always look at him when he’s in his perfectly tailored suits, as if he just stepped out of a mafia novel. In return, he buys you matching coats.

If there’s one thing he loves most about you, it’s the way your cheeks turn red when he flirts with you. He never fails to make you blush, and he loves that you still get shy sometimes, even after all these time —it makes him feel young again.

[dollyzdaydreamz]

Okay hear me out, re9 leon with a reader with nighttime problems like insomnia or nightmares or just rolling around like a rotisserie chicken in the night and waking up repeatedly because I just KNOW that old man be taking his sleep seriously eyemask and white noise machine ON DECK

leon kennedy masterlist

Years of being awake for over 24 hours at a time and waking up in the dead of night in a cold sweat meant Leon takes sleep very seriously in his 50s.

He bought a top notch noise machine, a self cooling mattress, and actually had someone program all the lights in his so that they dim automatically in the evening to help his racing brain relax.

It was costly, but he never really knew what the hell to do with all his money besides spoil you anyway.

After the both of you finish showering, he dries his hair with a towel and you snicker at how wildly frayed the ash tinged strands become.

“Excuse me, Mr. Einstein,” you coo, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck ad you slip past him to grab something on the bathroom counter.

He huffs,“You were the one death gripping Mr. Einsteins hair earlier.”

You grimace, “Okay this Einstein-talk is getting weird.”

By the time you guys step into the bedroom, the lights are already dimmed to a warm amber.

On the nightstand you see Leon’s earplugs, the white noise machine set to a low rainfall. Beside it, a black sleep mask is folded neatly, a prescription bottle, and a tall glass of cold water.

They were meant for him, but he always ended up giving you one of the plethora of items to help you stop tossing and turning in your sleep.

You had always been a restless sleeper, if you weren’t moving around like a rotisserie chicken, you either couldn’t sleep at all or had nightmares so bad you woke up with a jolt and a racing heart.

A while ago, you could tell your tossing and turning was keeping Leon up. It was obvious in the way he was more sluggish in the mornings, and saw some HR emails on his computer. Apparently he got into trouble for having a bit of a short fuse.

You felt so guilty you started sleeping in the guest room to avoid disturbing Leon’s sleep. You said it helped you sleep better, but you lied for his sake.

Leon was not a fan of the sleep divorce. You woke up that morning confused as hell, apparently Leon had kidnapped you in the middle of the night. He said that something about you not being there with him put him on edge.

You suppose it was because Leon feared something would happen to you if he wasn’t there to protect you. Either that, or he was more of a cuddle bug than he cared to admit.

Leon clicks off the overhead light, and the bed dips when he lays down with a tired grunt.

After few moments he looks over to see you staring at the ceiling, feet already flexing and shifting around every so often.

“Feelin’ okay?” he asks, bringing the arm closest to you to gently rub your jittery legs.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

He hums softly and slides closer beside you to. For the first few minutes, it’s peaceful. But then you start moving again.

A leg jerks. The blanket twists around you weirdly so you turn over.

Leon stays still, eyes closed.

You flop onto your stomach with a frustrated groan.

He opens one eye, “You fighting someone in your head?”

“Mhmm,” You mumble in frustration.

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s hope they K.O you then, yeah?”

He can see you practically roll your eyes behind your eyelids, but theres a smile forming on your lips anyway.

He reaches over and drapes an arm across your waist.

You settle for a moment, then you roll again for a few more times, twisting Leon’s arm with you as you turn so your the little spoon.

Finally, under the weight of his limb, you fall under.

A few days later, there’s a new package on the bed.

You narrow your eyes, “What’s that?”

Leon shrugs as he cuts the plastic open, “Experimental therapy.”

He pulls out a weighted blanket, it’s thick, soft, and dark gray.

You blink. “A blanket?”

He smooths it out across the mattress. “Yeah, it’s weighted. You tend to move less when something’s holding you down.”

You arch a brow.

“Not like that,” he mutters, sensing your childish innuendo.

You snicker.

He gives you a flat look, before pointing at the bed.

You roll your eyes and flop onto your designated spot.

He spreads the blanket over you once you’re lying down, making sure it tuck the blanket the way you like.

To your surprise, it settles heavily across your body and weighs you down.

Your usually restless shifting softens to small adjustments and you can feel your eyelids grow heavier within minutes.

Leon sighs, feeling the tension leave his body, “Like puttin’ a baby to sleep.”

In your half asleep state, you tell yourself to tease him about his the one liner tomorrow morning.

The weighted blanket was nice and all, but sometimes it wasn’t just your body that needed to be held in place, it was your mind.

So if you’ve had a bad day, Leon adjusts the evening without mentioning it.

He keeps the TV volume softer than usual in the background and cooks something simple with you, making sure to keep the dad jokes at a maximum just to hear you giggle.

After dinner, when you both lie down, he tells you to start talking.

“It helps me sleep.” He yawned, one arm under his head as he holds you to his chest.

“Oh so I’m boring.”

Leon exhales, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” you mumble.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, nudging you closer, “whats going on in that head of yours?”

So you ramble about everything that comes to mind.

Something you read, something that annoyed you, then you bring up that 100 men vs 1 gorilla debate on tik tok a while ago.

“A hundred men…for one gorilla? ” he says, almost unimpressed.

You swat his chest. “You seriously think you can take down a gorilla?”

He opens his mouth and you can just sense his response

“—With your bare hands?”

He turns his head slightly toward you, “I’m seriously not allowed any weapons?”

The debate goes on for another 5 minutes, before you finally switch the topic.

As you ramble, Leon’s palm drifts to your hairline, and he brushes a few stray hairs back.

Then again.

Then again.

The motion is absentminded, but your talking slows and you start mixing up your words.

“And then I thought maybe if we moved the couch but then the—the…” You yawn mid-sentence.

Leon’s lips graze lightly at your temple.

“Go to sleep.”

You drift off, and the next morning you tell him he was boxing a gorilla in your sleep.

A week before his next mission, you can’t sleep. Something about him going to Wrenwood, so close to Raccoon city…it unsettled you.

You know how you get when you’re anxious. You’ll roll, wake up, probably drag him down with you, so you slip out of the room quietly.

The guest room is colder and smaller. You sit on the edge of the bed for a while before lying down, tucking an arm under the pillow.

A soft knock at the doorframe.

You look up.

Leon stands there, shirtless with his sweatpants hanging low, hair slightly mussed from sleep.

“Why’re you in here?”

You shrug.

“I’m gonna move around a lot. Didn’t wanna disturb you.”

Leon’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly. He crosses the room quietly and sits beside you.

“You won’t.”

He lies down behind you without asking, one arm slides around your waist.

His firm chest presses warm against your back and his breathing shifts to be slower, exaggerated slightly.

You think he might be doing it on purpose, but you match it without thinking.

After a few minutes, your body starts to relax.

Right before you drift off, you mumble:

“You should go back to our bed.”

A faint exhale of a laugh brushes your hair.

“Yes ma’m.”

But he stays anyway.

a/n: thank you for the request :p

low-key relatable, i think I have restless leg syndrome. like they will not stop moving unless I wear like 3 heavy blankets even though I get so hot at night lol.

also sorry if this was doodoo, I’m currently cramming for midterms hehe (kms)

[lilacgrayskies]

☁︎⋅ re9 leon as a husband (inspired by this lol)

∞︎︎ husband!leon who is loyal to the core. the day he met you was the day he knew he was going to devote his entire life to you. 

∞︎︎ husband!leon who still flirts with you even after 20, maybe even 30 years of being together. you could be watching a movie together and he’d just be staring at you, admiring you. when you asked if something was wrong, he’d respond with something like “just wondering how I ended up marrying someone so beautiful.” you’d giggle and remind him, “well, you’re the one who proposed.” he’d give you a soft smile, one only reserved for you. “best decision I ever made.”

∞︎︎ husband!leon who buys the most expensive version of the simplest things. t-shirt? $250. oh, but it’s 100% long staple cotton. kitchen knives? easily a few grand. because a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one. he even buys you organic, high end pads/tampons that don’t have any dyes or chemicals in them.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who’s quick to act when it comes to protecting you. when walking through a crowded street, he’ll hear a loud crash nearby. before you can react, he’s already gently guiding you behind him. his hand slides into yours, squeezing it softly as you keep walking.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who comes home late and meets you in the dark kitchen, only illuminated by the overhead light of the stove. his eyes are tired and shoulders heavy, exhausted by the things he saw. but just the sight of you makes everything feel a little lighter.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who pulls you in for a particularly tight hug before and after a mission. before, to remember you. the curves of your body, the smell of your skin, the warmth of you pressed against him, just in case it’s the last time. after, to ground himself. to remind himself who he’s truly fighting for.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who teaches you self defense. in an unfortunate scenario where there’s an outbreak and he’s not there, he wants you to be able to handle yourself. but not without a little fun, of course. you’ll be in the living room as he’s teaching you how to break out of a hold. clumsy and inexperienced, you end up on the floor with him above you. “if I was a zombie, I could eat your brains out right now,” he said, an unimpressed look on his face. “I got something else you could eat out,” you smiled.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who you never really argue with. he listens, he’s patient, and he’d never let you walk away angry. “I understand you’re upset and I’m sorry. You’re the most important thing to me, and I don’t want this hanging over us.”

∞︎︎ husband!leon who’s good with kids. whether they’re yours or a family members’, he’s always their favorite. the babies fall into a slumber easily in his strong arms. the toddlers who climb him like a jungle gym. the kids who beg to be swung around. the preteens who fail to conceal their smiles at his dry humor. even the teens, who think he’s so cool because of his weaponry.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who gets hit on at the grocery store. he chuckles, feeling flattered (but he’s a one lady type of guy). but he’ll let them down easy, casually saying “I’m getting these for my wife” or making sure his wedding ring is in view. if they’re really persistent, he’d shut it down respectfully.

∞︎︎ husband!leon who secretly loves being little spoon :3

masterlist

© lilacgrayskies on tumblr

{dividers from @/cursed-carmine}

[dollyzdaydreamz]

Okay hear me out, re9 leon with a reader with nighttime problems like insomnia or nightmares or just rolling around like a rotisserie chicken in the night and waking up repeatedly because I just KNOW that old man be taking his sleep seriously eyemask and white noise machine ON DECK

leon kennedy masterlist

Years of being awake for over 24 hours at a time and waking up in the dead of night in a cold sweat meant Leon takes sleep very seriously in his 50s.

He bought a top notch noise machine, a self cooling mattress, and actually had someone program all the lights in his so that they dim automatically in the evening to help his racing brain relax.

It was costly, but he never really knew what the hell to do with all his money besides spoil you anyway.

After the both of you finish showering, he dries his hair with a towel and you snicker at how wildly frayed the ash tinged strands become.

“Excuse me, Mr. Einstein,” you coo, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck ad you slip past him to grab something on the bathroom counter.

He huffs,“You were the one death gripping Mr. Einsteins hair earlier.”

You grimace, “Okay this Einstein-talk is getting weird.”

By the time you guys step into the bedroom, the lights are already dimmed to a warm amber.

On the nightstand you see Leon’s earplugs, the white noise machine set to a low rainfall. Beside it, a black sleep mask is folded neatly, a prescription bottle, and a tall glass of cold water.

They were meant for him, but he always ended up giving you one of the plethora of items to help you stop tossing and turning in your sleep.

You had always been a restless sleeper, if you weren’t moving around like a rotisserie chicken, you either couldn’t sleep at all or had nightmares so bad you woke up with a jolt and a racing heart.

A while ago, you could tell your tossing and turning was keeping Leon up. It was obvious in the way he was more sluggish in the mornings, and saw some HR emails on his computer. Apparently he got into trouble for having a bit of a short fuse.

You felt so guilty you started sleeping in the guest room to avoid disturbing Leon’s sleep. You said it helped you sleep better, but you lied for his sake.

Leon was not a fan of the sleep divorce. You woke up that morning confused as hell, apparently Leon had kidnapped you in the middle of the night. He said that something about you not being there with him put him on edge.

You suppose it was because Leon feared something would happen to you if he wasn’t there to protect you. Either that, or he was more of a cuddle bug than he cared to admit.

Leon clicks off the overhead light, and the bed dips when he lays down with a tired grunt.

After few moments he looks over to see you staring at the ceiling, feet already flexing and shifting around every so often.

“Feelin’ okay?” he asks, bringing the arm closest to you to gently rub your jittery legs.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

He hums softly and slides closer beside you to. For the first few minutes, it’s peaceful. But then you start moving again.

A leg jerks. The blanket twists around you weirdly so you turn over.

Leon stays still, eyes closed.

You flop onto your stomach with a frustrated groan.

He opens one eye, “You fighting someone in your head?”

“Mhmm,” You mumble in frustration.

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s hope they K.O you then, yeah?”

He can see you practically roll your eyes behind your eyelids, but theres a smile forming on your lips anyway.

He reaches over and drapes an arm across your waist.

You settle for a moment, then you roll again for a few more times, twisting Leon’s arm with you as you turn so your the little spoon.

Finally, under the weight of his limb, you fall under.

A few days later, there’s a new package on the bed.

You narrow your eyes, “What’s that?”

Leon shrugs as he cuts the plastic open, “Experimental therapy.”

He pulls out a weighted blanket, it’s thick, soft, and dark gray.

You blink. “A blanket?”

He smooths it out across the mattress. “Yeah, it’s weighted. You tend to move less when something’s holding you down.”

You arch a brow.

“Not like that,” he mutters, sensing your childish innuendo.

You snicker.

He gives you a flat look, before pointing at the bed.

You roll your eyes and flop onto your designated spot.

He spreads the blanket over you once you’re lying down, making sure it tuck the blanket the way you like.

To your surprise, it settles heavily across your body and weighs you down.

Your usually restless shifting softens to small adjustments and you can feel your eyelids grow heavier within minutes.

Leon sighs, feeling the tension leave his body, “Like puttin’ a baby to sleep.”

In your half asleep state, you tell yourself to tease him about his the one liner tomorrow morning.

The weighted blanket was nice and all, but sometimes it wasn’t just your body that needed to be held in place, it was your mind.

So if you’ve had a bad day, Leon adjusts the evening without mentioning it.

He keeps the TV volume softer than usual in the background and cooks something simple with you, making sure to keep the dad jokes at a maximum just to hear you giggle.

After dinner, when you both lie down, he tells you to start talking.

“It helps me sleep.” He yawned, one arm under his head as he holds you to his chest.

“Oh so I’m boring.”

Leon exhales, “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” you mumble.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, nudging you closer, “whats going on in that head of yours?”

So you ramble about everything that comes to mind.

Something you read, something that annoyed you, then you bring up that 100 men vs 1 gorilla debate on tik tok a while ago.

“A hundred men…for one gorilla? ” he says, almost unimpressed.

You swat his chest. “You seriously think you can take down a gorilla?”

He opens his mouth and you can just sense his response

“—With your bare hands?”

He turns his head slightly toward you, “I’m seriously not allowed any weapons?”

The debate goes on for another 5 minutes, before you finally switch the topic.

As you ramble, Leon’s palm drifts to your hairline, and he brushes a few stray hairs back.

Then again.

Then again.

The motion is absentminded, but your talking slows and you start mixing up your words.

“And then I thought maybe if we moved the couch but then the—the…” You yawn mid-sentence.

Leon’s lips graze lightly at your temple.

“Go to sleep.”

You drift off, and the next morning you tell him he was boxing a gorilla in your sleep.

A week before his next mission, you can’t sleep. Something about him going to Wrenwood, so close to Raccoon city…it unsettled you.

You know how you get when you’re anxious. You’ll roll, wake up, probably drag him down with you, so you slip out of the room quietly.

The guest room is colder and smaller. You sit on the edge of the bed for a while before lying down, tucking an arm under the pillow.

A soft knock at the doorframe.

You look up.

Leon stands there, shirtless with his sweatpants hanging low, hair slightly mussed from sleep.

“Why’re you in here?”

You shrug.

“I’m gonna move around a lot. Didn’t wanna disturb you.”

Leon’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly. He crosses the room quietly and sits beside you.

“You won’t.”

He lies down behind you without asking, one arm slides around your waist.

His firm chest presses warm against your back and his breathing shifts to be slower, exaggerated slightly.

You think he might be doing it on purpose, but you match it without thinking.

After a few minutes, your body starts to relax.

Right before you drift off, you mumble:

“You should go back to our bed.”

A faint exhale of a laugh brushes your hair.

“Yes ma’m.”

But he stays anyway.

a/n: thank you for the request :p

low-key relatable, i think I have restless leg syndrome. like they will not stop moving unless I wear like 3 heavy blankets even though I get so hot at night lol.

also sorry if this was doodoo, I’m currently cramming for midterms hehe (kms)

[pinkfairycake]

Hey! I love the way you describe Leon! If I may, I’d love to read an angsty/fluffy fic where Leon (r9) comes home after a mission—tired, hurt (not too badly, of course), and dirty. The reader helps him with a warm bath, cleans him up, shaves his stubble, takes care of his wounds, then makes him a proper meal (this man is big—he needs to eat a lot lol). After that, she massages his sore muscles and lulls him to sleep :3 He really needs to be pampered. Thank you in advance!

re9 leon kennedy x fem!reader fluff

1.3k words

c/w: mentions of blood and descriptions of injury

a/n: thank you for your lovely request! i hope you enjoy, this one really tugged at my heart. re9 leon deserves this kind of peace, and more! NOT FULLY EDITED

⊹˚. ♡

when leon gets home, the first thing he notices is that the house is quiet, and he couldn't be more glad.

it’s late, very late, and leon expects you to already be sleeping. the windows of your home are dark and reflective, the only light coming from the lamp you left on in the living room, and he catches a glimpse of his own wounded silhouette.

a few more steps forward, and he sees you.

you tried to stay awake on the couch, but the sound of the door unlocking and his heavy boots pulls you up before you even realize you’d drifted.

he steps closer slowly. he looks exhausted.

there’s a bit of dirt smeared along his jaw as if he tried to wipe it away in a rush. there's dried blood at his collar, which definitely isn’t all his. his shoulders are tense like they’ve forgotten that "calm" is an option. and when he sees you sitting there in your soft sleeping clothes, his whole expression shifts.

“hey,” he says, voice gravelly.

you leap from the couch, sighing in relief, “leon,”

you cross the room before he can take another step.

“oh honey, what a mess,” you chuckle in a whisper, hands hovering his arms like you’re afraid to break him.

he lets out a slow breath through his nose, breathing out a weak and sarcastic “thanks”, but his thoughts are louder than his voice.

'god, i missed you. i’m so damn tired.'

you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the side of his face. he leans into it without thinking. just a fraction. just enough that you notice.

“what hurts? besides everything,” you murmur.

“i'm fine. i've had it worse,” he says automatically. he always says that. you give him a look.

he huffs, “nothing serious. i promise.” but despite his words, he’s swaying a little, and he smells like smoke and metal and cold. just cold.

“i'll run you a bath,” you say softly. “come on.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

the bathroom is warm, heat curling in steam against the ceiling. you added epsom salts and a little bit of the oil he likes—it smells clean, woodsy, grounding. the kind of scent that makes leon feel safe. he sits on the edge of the tub, already peeling his shirt off while you help him out of the gear strapped onto his legs.

his movements have slowed down, the adrenaline nearly gone his system. it started to dwell the second you touched him. as you help him take his shirt off, his hands find your hips. you see the bruising blooming along his ribs, a shallow cut near his shoulder, scrapes along his arms, and a nasty, drying deep slice on his neck.

you wince, terrified by the sight, but you hide it, keeping your hands gentle. his thoughts, however, are not.

'she shouldn’t have to see this. i should’ve been more careful.'

but when your fingers brush the angry bruise along his side, you don’t flinch. you don’t even look scared. you just look focused.

“you did good,” you tell him quietly, like you can hear the guilt creeping in.

he looks up at you slowly. “you don’t even know what happened.”

“no, but...” you pause, “you came back.”

that shuts him up.

you help him ease into the bath, and the second the hot water reaches his shoulders, he exhales, long and trembling, like he’s been holding in his breath for days.

“feels good?” you tease softly.

“hey,” he mutters, eyes closed. “i'm trying to relax here.”

you kneel beside the tub and start washing the grime from his skin. the water darkens, but leon's heart and mind lighten immensely.

you move deliberately, careful around the cuts. he opens his eyes to watch you for a little. he sees the way your brows pinch when you see a deeper scrape, and guilt runs through his chest.

“i can do the rest myself,” he murmurs, but doesn't move.

“just shut up and let me.” you smile, reaching up and tilting his chin so you can clean the dirt along his jaw. “i want to.”

his body tenses in a way that has nothing to do with bruises.

when you reach for the shaving cream, he raises his brows in amusement. “seriously?”

“you’re scratchy.”

“it's 5 o'clock. at most.”

“right, well, you’re itchy.”

he scoffs, but he lets you.

you work slowly, one careful stroke at a time. you hardly ever do this for him, but he trusts you, keeping very still, eyes on your face instead of where you're putting the blade. when you’re done, you wipe the last of the foam away and smooth your thumb over his jaw.

“there,” you whisper. “much better.”

he catches your wrist gently before you pull away, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

“thank you,” he says simply.

you grin, pushing his hair back and pressing a kiss atop his eyebrow.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

after you dry him off and bandage what needs bandaging, you walk him to the kitchen. (well, you walk to the kitchen and he follows you like a clingy puppy).

he begins to protest weakly. “can i—”

“you can sit,” you interrupt, pointing him into a chair.

he doesn’t bother arguing. by now, he realizes he's not in charge tonight.

he doesn't really mind though. watching you cook is one of his favourite things. the way you move around the kitchen like it’s a choreography only you know. the warmth of the candles you light to hide the smell. the normalcy of it. it feels unreal after where he’s been.

you make him a hearty and filling meal, his favourite, breakfast for dinner. you pile his plate high with pancakes and eggs and sausages, sneaking in a few slices of tomato and cucumber.

he gives you a look.

“what?” you say.

“you feeding a small army?”

“you are a small army.”

that makes him laugh, low and warm. “thank you, honey.”

he eats like he hasn’t in days, because he probably hasn’t. you sit across from him, chin in your hand. every so often your knee “accidentally” brushes his under the table, just to remind him he’s here. he tells you about the mission, about grace, but he purposefully leaves out the scariest details. all the times he nearly didn't make it. he always does that—tries his best not to worry you.

by the end of the conversation, he finished everything.

“feel better?” you ask.

he leans back in his chair, studying you, a small satisfied smile painting his cheeks.

“yeah,” he admits. “i do.”

but it’s not just the food.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

later, in the bedroom, the lights are dimmed low. clean sheets, like you might've been anticipating his return.

leon lies on his stomach, shirtless, head to the side, while you straddle his hips gently—careful of his tender ribs—and start working your hands into his shoulders.

he groans before he can stop himself.

“that bad?” you murmur.

“you have no idea.”

your thumbs press into the tight knots near his spine, and he feels himself unraveling, inch by inch.

'so worth it if this is what i come home to,' he thinks.

but he doesn't just mean massages, he means you. everything you are, everything you do, your love. he feels so spoiled.

“i missed you a lot, leon,” you whisper.

that does something to him. he opens his eyes slightly, staring at the dark wall ahead.

“you too.”

your fingers slow, turning into gentle strokes instead of deep pressure. you trace along his spine, and his eyes grow heavier under your touch.

“so much.” he adds in a murmur, already half-asleep.

you shift beside him, letting him roll carefully onto his side. he pulls you in close, one big arm wrapping around you like it’s instinct. eyes still shut, his face tucks into your hair.

he smells more like himself now. soapy and something uniquely leon.

his breathing evens out within minutes, but just before sleep fully claims him, he mumbles, voice thick and soft and unguarded:

“what would i... do without you...”

you kiss his chest, right over his heart.

“i promise you'll never find out.”

[witchsamlizzie]

Leon Kennedy Fan Art

Credit : taekookie414

[overwhelmedandlonely]

It’s hilarious to me that the Drake’s live next door to Bruce. I haven’t read all of Tim’s backstory so maybe they moved him and his dad into a house next to the Wayne manor after his mom died but if not, can you imagine little Tim who knows Batman and Robin’s secret identities sitting in his room with a camera taking pictures into the Wayne manor.

Just.

There’s Bruce Wayne eating breakfast. Dick is currently throwing his homework in the trash out of frustration. Jason opening the door after a nightmare and asking Bruce to stay with him until he falls asleep again. Dick coming to visit and teasing his little brother over dinner. The everyday mundane things alongside the super.

And then after Jason dies, he watches constantly for life but there’s just… nothing. He occasionally spots Alfred meandering the halls, but otherwise the manor is dark where it was once so full of life.

And he realizes he can help not only Batman, but Bruce Wayne.

[merletka]

jason reading a book on a couch, cozy vibes. gun on a table next to the couch tho. he's ready 4 anything or dick doing his epic quadruple flip. or maybe tim holding a pic of dick doing that epic flip with realization dawning on his face. hope these give you some good vibes!! :3c i like ur art a lot

yes yes good vibes, thanks 🌹

I drew Dick as well but gonna post him separately later 😗

[fcthots]

rockstar jason todd who drags you to all of his shows. rockstar jason todd who can't help smiling at you every time he catches your eyes. rockstar jason todd who looks for you every time he sings a lyric inspired by you. rockstar jason todd who begs to make a picture of you the cover for his next album (like on his hands and knees begging). rockstar jason todd who purposefully starts rumors that he has a "property of [y/n]" tattoo bc he loves starting shit. rockstar jason todd who asks you to doodle on every piece of equipment he owns (his guitar is covered in hearts). rockstar jason todd who sends you all the thirst edits made of him he finds. rockstar jason todd who mentions you every chance he gets. what's the inspiration for his latest album? you. what is he most grateful for? you. to what does he attribute his success? you.

the paparazzi pictures would be unbearable.

[fcthots]

sometimes i'll remember how freaking beefy jason is and i'll behave like a rabid dog

He is built like a tank and I want him to manhandle me until I can't hold myself up.

[ajaxlogy]

in the red hood: outlaws, webtoon comic, jason is really beefy i love him sm