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[you may find levi ackerman and karma akabane content here from my previous hyper-fixations!]
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i enjoy your writing sooo much and am on a chibi brainrot rn. so like,, idk if this is gonna be a request or something but like—
reader finding a pocket/mini-me of their significant other (any if the batfam or all) and brings them home only for their original big version to see it being all lovely-dovy to reader and are now fighting (and threatening) to 💀 said small them
˖ ֹ੭୧ MINI ME? FUCK NO. ⊹ ࣪ ⑅
ˋ°•*⁀➷ bf/gf!batfam react to mini-them x reader !
ˋ°•*⁀➷ CHARACTERS: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown, Duke Thomas, Agedup!Damian Wayne
NOTES: THIS IS SO FUNNY LOL
BRUCE WAYNE:
It began with a soft thump in your purse.
You weren’t sure when you’d picked it up—maybe at that weird antique bookstore that smelled like cinnamon and existential dread—but nestled between your phone and chapstick was a… tiny man?
A very tiny, grumpy-looking man in a miniature black suit.
“Who authorized this?” he asked, voice no louder than a whisper, yet filled with the gravitas of a Batcave full of trauma.
You blinked. “I—what? Who are you?”
“I’m Bruce Wayne,” said Pocket Bruce, crossing his arms. “You brought me here. You’re responsible now.”
The moral implications of owning a tiny billionaire were lost to the part of your brain that immediately thought, He's kind of cute. Like a stern Funko Pop come to life.
Naturally, you brought him home.
You tucked him into a drawer-turned-bed, gave him a shirt scrap for a blanket, and when he said “thank you,” your heart did a tiny backflip. By day three, he was climbing your shoulder like a very serious parrot, advising you on investments, security systems, and emotional boundaries. It was… oddly therapeutic.
That is, until the original Bruce walked in on Pocket Bruce kissing your cheek.
“What,” growled Full-Sized Bruce, “the hell is that.”
“Oh, hey,” you said casually, holding up Pocket Bruce like a kitten. “Look what I found! He’s like you, but travel-sized!”
Full Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Put. Him. Down.”
Pocket Bruce smirked. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does dying,” Bruce shot back. “Which is exactly what’s going to happen if you don’t remove your tiny lips from their face.”
You watched as your very stoic, very mature boyfriend started threatening his miniature doppelgänger like it was a rival suitor from the League of Shadows.
“Bruce, he’s like four inches tall.”
“He’s making moves.”
“He gave me a flower made of lint.”
“He gave you his heart. I see it. I see the betrayal.”
Pocket Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m literally you.”
“I would never behave like that.”
“You absolutely would,” you and Pocket Bruce said in perfect unison.
Bruce glared. “That’s it. I’m building a terrarium prison. And he’s going in with a GPS tracker, a tiny treadmill, and no visiting hours.”
You cuddled Pocket Bruce closer. “You’re just mad he gives more compliments than you do.”
Bruce Wayne, billionaire, vigilante, and now insecure over his micro-self, crossed his arms. “I am not losing you to pocket-sized competition.”
“I mean… he did say I looked radiant this morning.”
“…You’re grounded.”
“Bruce, we don’t even—”
“Grounded. You and the tiny little shit.”
DICK GRAYSON:
It started as a normal afternoon stroll through Gotham’s market district.
You bought a caramel apple, admired a soap shaped like a raccoon, and picked up what you thought was a little plush keychain of Nightwing—until it squirmed in your hand and shouted in the most high-pitched but undeniably Dick Grayson voice:
“Hey, hey, hey! Hands off the butt!”
You screamed. Loudly.
By the time you’d stopped hyperventilating, Pocket Dick was sitting on your shoulder, legs dangling, grinning like he hadn’t just spoken full sentences with the voice of an action figure powered by charisma and abs.
“I’m Dick Grayson!” he said cheerfully. “You must’ve summoned me with love, justice, and good lighting.”
You blinked. “You’re what.”
“A pocket version of the best Grayson there is. Limited edition. And look at you—you’re gorgeous! Do you work out? Are you single? Wait—no, don't answer. Let’s just say I’m very emotionally available.”
You spent the entire afternoon with him doing flips off your coat buttons and reciting dramatic “Nightwing Facts” like a Wikipedia page in love. The man even offered to dance with you on your kitchen counter.
So obviously, you kept him.
You were lounging on the couch later that evening, Pocket Dick nestled in your hands and serenading you (very off-key) with “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” when your door clicked open.
“Hey babe—” Real Dick called out, “—I grabbed takeout. Hope you didn’t already eat—”
He froze.
You looked up, horrified, as Dick stared at his one-inch clone literally nuzzling against your thumb.
Real Dick’s entire brain blue-screened.
“Is… is that me?” he asked, blinking hard. “Am I—am I hallucinating? Did someone spike my smoothie?”
“Hello, handsome!” chirped Pocket Dick, waving like he was on a float in the Grayson Parade. “You must be me! Wow. We look amazing.”
Dick took a full step back, like the small version of himself had rabies and a taser.
“NOPE,” he said loudly. “I am not doing this. I am not competing with myself! That is a rabbit hole I am not emotionally prepared for.”
“He said I was ethereal,” you offered helpfully.
Dick wheezed. “He did WHAT.”
Pocket Dick flexed both arms (barely noticeable noodle biceps) and added, “I also told them they were the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen. Which is still true.”
“You told them that?!” Dick sputtered, setting the takeout down like it offended him. “I—wait, no, I told them that like… last week! Or was it last month? WHEN DID I LAST SAY SOMETHING NICE?!”
“You told me I was ‘pretty lethal with a fork’ two days ago,” you offered.
“That was romantic!” he shouted, pointing accusingly at his mini-me. “It was contextually romantic! There were dumplings involved!”
Pocket Dick leaned against your fingers like he was on a chaise lounge. “They deserve constant compliments. Honestly, I don’t know why they’re dating someone who won’t serenade them like I do.”
Real Dick’s jaw dropped. “Did he just out-boyfriend me?! That’s illegal!”
He marched over and snatched up Pocket Dick like an angry sibling. “Listen here, small me. You might be charming, you might have my hair—”
“Which looks great, by the way.”
“—but you better back off. This is MY person. Mine. Go find a dollhouse and reevaluate your life choices.”
Pocket Dick crossed his tiny arms. “Jealousy isn’t hot on us.”
Real Dick turned to you with the most betrayed expression imaginable. “You can’t keep him. I’m serious. You can’t let him stay. He’s too powerful. He’ll take my place in like, two days.”
You sighed dramatically, letting your head fall onto Dick’s shoulder.
“Fine. But only because you’re bigger.”
Dick paused.
“…You mean taller, right?”
Pocket Dick smirked. “Do they?”
BARBARA GORDON:
You found her in your hoodie pocket.
No explanation. One second you were putting on your hoodie to run errands, the next, you reached into the pouch and felt… a batarang? No, wait—a whole person.
Tiny, auburn-haired, with a laptop strapped to her back and the most intense little smirk you’d ever seen on something under four inches tall.
“Hey,” she said, casually leaning against your wrist. “You got good taste in sweatshirts. And faces. Are you single?”
You blinked. “Wha—”
“I’m Barbara,” she interrupted, brushing lint off her miniature cape. “Well, pocket-sized Barbara. Less trauma, same fire. I come with unlimited sass, mild trust issues, and an entire database of Gotham’s criminal underworld. Also, I think you’re hot.”
Your brain melted a little.
She was confident. Charismatic. Flirting like she’d been training for it. You were kind of obsessed.
By the time the real Barbara got home—tired, sore, a little grumpy after a patrol—you were curled up in bed, reading, while Pocket Babs lounged on your shoulder eating a crumb of cookie like it was a full meal.
Barbara tossed her gloves on the table. “Hey, babe, you home? You won’t believe what Joker tried tonight—”
She stopped. Froze. Blinked twice.
“Are you… cuddling with a mini version of me?”
Pocket Babs looked up with a devilish grin and waved. “Hi, gorgeous! You’ve got great hair. Wanna compare bat-gadgets sometime?”
Barbara squinted. “What the—what the actual hell is that?”
“Your pocket twin,” you said brightly, petting tiny Babs like a smug gremlin. “She was in my hoodie. I think I love her now.”
Real Babs walked over, hands on her hips. “She was in your—? Okay. First of all, that’s my hoodie. Second, why is she making eyes at you like she wants to steal you from me?”
Pocket Babs licked some cookie crumb off her finger. “Steal is a strong word. Reclaim, maybe. I mean, you’ve got a lot on your plate. Maybe I can be the emotionally available one.”
Barbara blinked. “Is she negging me right now?”
You choked back a laugh. “A little bit.”
“Oh my god.” Barbara leaned in, eye twitching. “I’m being out-sassed by myself.”
“She also said she could hack the Pentagon in a minute and compliment me at the same time.”
Real Barbara’s jaw dropped. “I have done that! That’s just my Tuesday!”
Pocket Babs waved a mini flash drive. “Wanna see what I pulled from GCPD’s servers? Also, you smell really good.”
Real Babs snapped her fingers. “Nope. This is not happening. You—small me—you need to stop flirting with my partner. You’re gonna short-circuit them. And I do not have the energy to fight myself tonight.”
“You’re just jealous,” said Pocket Babs, twirling a lock of her auburn hair. “I’m the cool version.”
Barbara crossed her arms. “I am the cool version! I literally jumped out a window on fire once!”
Pocket Babs shrugged. “Yeah, but did you do it in miniature and land in their hands all flirty and mysterious?”
Barbara blinked at you. “Tell me you’re not falling for her.”
“She has a grappling hook the size of a thumbtack,” you whispered reverently. “I’m kind of enchanted.”
Barbara flopped face-first onto the couch with a muffled groan. “I’m losing my girlfriend to… me.”
You looked down at Pocket Babs, who winked and blew you a kiss.
Yeah. This was going to be a problem.
JASON TODD:
It started with a crash in the alley behind your apartment.
Naturally, like the well-trained Gothamite you were, you peeked through the blinds with a broom in one hand and 911 pre-dialed on your phone.
But what you found wasn’t a mugger or a rogue Joker gang.
It was a pocket-sized man in a tiny red helmet, stomping through an empty takeout container like it insulted his mother.
“I said NO onions, you absolute shitheads!” he shouted, voice comically deep for his size. Then he kicked the container so hard he fell backward into a puddle.
You opened the window and stared.
He froze, looked up at you, and said, “...Sup. You look like someone with great taste in books and bad taste in men.”
You blinked. “Are you—”
“Red Hood. But, you know… travel-sized. You got snacks?”
You were way too curious (and a little entertained) to leave him in the alley, so you scooped him up with your hoodie sleeve and brought him inside.
Turns out: Pocket Jason is all bark, no bite, and 98% unresolved rage in a thimble-sized package. He curses like a sailor, refuses to take off his helmet (“It’s iconic, don’t touch it”), and uses a paperclip as a crowbar.
Also, he flirts like a menace.
“You dating anyone?” he asked, curled up in your hand like a brooding Funko Pop. “You should date someone with anger issues and a tragic backstory. I know a guy.”
You were half-laughing, half-dying when the front door opened.
“Hey, I got that wine you like,” Real Jason said, stepping into the apartment with that rare relaxed grin he only gave you. “Want me to—”
He stopped.
He blinked.
You slowly turned around, holding a swearing, helmet-wearing inch-tall gremlin.
“What,” Jason said flatly, “is that.”
“Oh hey,” Pocket Jason chirped. “Nice face. Your girlfriend is hot.”
The wine bottle hit the floor.
Real Jason stormed across the room in record time and plucked his pocket doppelgänger out of your hands like he was holding a cursed action figure.
“NOPE,” Jason barked, holding him at arm’s length like he might explode. “Absolutely the hell not.”
“Hey!” Pocket Jason squirmed. “Hands off! I'm limited edition! I cost a lot y'know?!”
Jason stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You are one sentence away from getting thrown into the microwave.”
You burst out laughing. “Jason!”
“He called you hot!” Jason shouted, gesturing wildly at you with one hand and holding his mini-me like a crab with the other. “You think I’m gonna let a Thumbelina version of myself hit on my girlfriend?!”
Pocket Jason gave a dramatic sigh. “You’re just mad I’m fun-sized and charming.”
“Jason, give him back.”
He yeeted Pocket Jason onto the couch. The little menace bounced, landed on a throw pillow, and gave you finger guns. “Still available, by the way.”
Real Jason stood over him, seething.
“You flirt with them again,” he growled, “I will vacuum you.”
Pocket Jason crossed his arms. “Try it, big boy.”
“Okay!” Jason snapped, turning to you. “That’s it. You are not keeping him.”
You smirked. “Even if he brings me a tiny cup full of coffee every morning and compliments my eyes?”
Jason blinked. “...I can do that.”
Pocket Jason whispered, “But will you?”
Jason lunged. You screamed. The couch got flipped.
Somewhere in the chaos, the wine bottle rolled under the table and Pocket Jason disappeared into a heating vent with a war cry of “I REGRET NOTHING!”
You didn’t see him again for three days.
(He returned with a tiny scarf and a bottle cap shield.)
CASSANDRA CAIN:
You found her in your sock drawer.
No joke. You opened it to grab your favorite fuzzy pair and instead found a perfectly balanced miniature ninja standing in a defensive stance atop your rolled-up socks.
She didn’t speak. She just stared at you with piercing, dark eyes like she could see into your soul.
You blinked.
She didn’t move.
You slowly reached for a sock.
She kicked it off the drawer and said, in the tiniest, softest voice:
“No.”
You whispered, “What the—”
She stepped forward. One sock-sized foot in front of the other. “You’re mine now.”
Oh. Okay.
So obviously you kept her.
You gave her a little tea saucer to sleep in and a thimble of honey and she immediately declared your desk drawer “hers.” She still hadn’t said much else, but she followed you everywhere like a stealthy bodyguard. You’d glance over and she’d be perched on your shoulder, silently munching a Cheerio with absolute menace.
You found it adorable. You told her so. She blinked once, nodded, then handed you a toothpick she’d sharpened into a sword.
“For you,” she said.
You might have cried a little.
Then one night, Real Cass got home from patrol. You were watching a show, sipping tea, and Pocket Cass was curled up in your hoodie pocket like a tiny assassin cat.
Cass froze in the doorway.
Stared.
Hard.
“…Is that me?”
You smiled. “Kinda. She’s smaller. But she protects me. And steals my snacks. You’d like her.”
Real Cass stepped closer. Pocket Cass stood up on your chest like she was ready to throw hands with her full-sized self.
Cass tilted her head. “She’s not… talking?”
“Nope,” you said, sipping your tea. “She just sits and judges people. Sometimes cuddles.”
“…Hm.”
Cass held out a hand. Pocket Cass studied it for five long seconds. Then jumped into it like a graceful little wolverine.
They locked eyes.
You held your breath.
Then Cass whispered, “She’s fast.”
“She stabbed a rat with a sewing needle this morning,” you said proudly.
Real Cass cracked a small, delighted grin. “Good.”
They sat together in silence for the next hour. Cass gave her a scrap of her cape as a cloak. Pocket Cass gave her a single sunflower seed. It was the most intense emotional bonding you’d ever witnessed from two people who said, collectively, three words.
Later, when you were brushing your teeth, you saw Pocket Cass curled up on the nightstand. Cass tucked her in with a tissue and whispered, “Mine.”
You blinked. “Wait—her? Or me?”
Cass kissed your cheek and said nothing.
You are now owned by both of them. Congratulations.
TIM DRAKE:
You found him curled up inside your empty coffee mug.
At first, you thought it was just a weird shadow. Then the mug moved.
“Shhh,” a tiny voice mumbled from inside, “I’m in a depressive nap cycle.”
You cautiously picked up the cup. Inside was a perfectly proportioned, fun-sized Tim Drake, wrapped in a corner of a tea bag like it was a depression blanket. His hair was messy, his eye bags were real, and his attitude was absolutely on-brand.
“…Are you okay?” you whispered.
He opened one eye. “Do I look okay?”
“…Fair.”
You offered him a tiny square of chocolate. He took it like you’d given him a reason to live.
Thus began your chaotic cohabitation with Pocket Tim: a miniature detective with too many feelings and not enough therapy. He lived in your cereal box, stole your pen caps to use as swords, and kept trying to hack into your router with a bent paperclip.
Also, he wouldn’t stop flirting with you.
“Statistically speaking,” he said one night, sprawled on your laptop keyboard, “you’re into emotionally repressed black haired men with guilt complexes.”
You squinted. “You mean my actual boyfriend?”
He gave finger guns. “Exactly. So, you’re welcome.”
That’s when Real Tim came home.
He dropped his backpack at the door and stepped inside, phone in one hand, talking mid-sentence. “Hey, did you see the GCPD file I—”
He stopped.
His eyes zeroed in on the mini-him doing a smug backstroke across your tea.
“…What the hell,” Real Tim said, voice flat. “Is that.”
Pocket Tim peeked up from the mug. “Sup, big me.”
You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
Real Tim walked over slowly, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “Why does he look like me during my second year with the Titans?”
Pocket Tim leaned dramatically on a sugar cube. “Because I am. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Underslept.”
Real Tim looked at you. “Why is he here?”
“He showed up in my cup,” you shrugged. “I figured you'd want to study him or whatever.”
Pocket Tim grinned. “I’ve already mapped out their favorite music playlists. And their zodiac chart. I’m the better boyfriend.”
Real Tim deadpanned, “You’re literally two inches tall.”
“And yet,” Pocket Tim purred, “I take up more emotional space.”
Tim inhaled deeply through his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”
“You’d be killing yourself,” Pocket Tim chirped.
“That’s not a deterrent!”
You were laughing way too hard at this point. Tim turned back to you, scandalized. “You’re encouraging him.”
You wiped tears from your eyes. “I can’t help it. He made a PowerPoint on why I deserve better lighting in my apartment.”
Tim blinked. “…He’s not wrong.”
Pocket Tim gave a tiny mic drop with a crumb.
Later that night, you found both Tims passed out on opposite ends of your keyboard, one curled up on the spacebar, the other drooling on a sticky note. They’d argued for three hours about Nightwing’s leadership style and which coffee beans had the best ROI.
You took a photo.
You were keeping it for blackmail.
STEPHANIE BROWN:
You were eating leftover waffles on the couch when a suspicious rustling came from your laundry hamper.
You stared. Silence.
Then—POOF!
A flash of lavender and a blur of blonde launched from the laundry like a glitter bomb with combat boots.
“Fear me, mortals!” a voice squeaked. “I’m the Spoiler, but bite-sized!”
You shrieked and nearly flung your waffle.
A tiny girl—complete with a minuscule domino mask, purple hoodie, and the most chaotic grin you’ve ever seen—stood proudly on your coffee table. She raised a sewing needle like a sword.
You blinked. “…Steph?”
“Steph 2.0,” she said dramatically. “Improved. Streamlined. Pocket-sized for vengeance and emotional support!”
You offered her a crumb of your waffle. She took it like a trophy and climbed onto your shoulder with the agility of a very tiny jungle cat.
And honestly? She was kind of amazing.
She made you laugh constantly. She would yell things like “Tiny Justice!” every time she knocked over a water bottle. She bullied your phone’s voice assistant. Once, she took down a cockroach using only a rubber band and your toothbrush.
You’d had her for five hours and would already die for her.
Which is exactly when Real Steph got home.
She walked in, swinging her duffel over her shoulder, mid-text. “Babe, have you seen—”
Her eyes locked onto the little menace standing on your shoulder with her hands on her hips like she was posing for the Batfamily Yearbook.
Steph stopped.
Squinted.
Looked at you.
Looked at Pocket Steph.
“…What the actual Gotham is going on here?”
Pocket Steph beamed. “You’re hot.”
Real Steph blinked. “Okay, I know I’ve said that to myself in the mirror, but this is weird.”
“She’s been vibing,” you offered. “Also she called herself the ‘snack-sized spoiler of my dreams.’”
Real Steph made a face like she’d just swallowed a lemon. “I would never say that.”
“You did. In high school. I saw it in your yearbook,” Pocket Steph said smugly.
Real Steph slowly walked over and squinted at her miniature twin. “Okay, look. You’re cute and annoying and remind me of me before caffeine. But you better not be replacing me.”
“Oh no no,” Pocket Steph said, smirking. “I’m just here to keep them entertained when you’re off ignoring her texts for eight hours.”
Steph gasped.
You sipped your drink.
“First of all, rude,” Steph huffed. “Second of all… okay maybe fair.”
Pocket Steph winked. “Also I told them we should get matching hoodies.”
“Oh my god,” Real Steph groaned. “She’s hijacking my entire personality.”
“You don’t own purple, Full-Sized Stephanie.”
“I WILL DROP-KICK YOU INTO THE BATCAVE.”
They bickered. You watched, grinning into your cup like a reality show contestant who’d just stirred the pot and sat back for the fallout.
Eventually, they fell asleep curled together in your lap: one snoring softly, the other tangled in the drawstring of your hoodie.
You weren’t sure who was the real chaos goblin anymore. But you were 100% keeping them both.
DUKE THOMAS:
You found him in a streetlamp.
No, really.
You were walking home after a late shift, phone flashlight guiding the sidewalk, when one of Gotham’s flickering streetlamps suddenly glowed bright gold. From that soft shimmer floated a tiny, perfect miniature of Duke Thomas—complete with curly hair, a yellow domino mask, and armor repurposed from gum wrappers and safety pins.
He hovered for a second, then dropped like a lightbulb into your jacket pocket.
“Oof—ten outta ten landing,” he said, peeking up with a smile. “Hi. I’m your Pocket Duke now.”
“…My what now?”
“Your emotional support vigilante.” He spread his arms. “Travel-sized for your convenience. Mood-brightening. Vitamin D-certified.”
That’s how it started.
In the following days, Pocket Duke became your favorite thing. He rode on your shoulder during work Zooms, insisted on helping you cross streets (“I’m the designated flashlight, okay?”), and gave you pep talks before interviews.
He was a mini motivational speaker with the sass of a bored honor student.
He also quoted Shakespeare during toast-making. No one asked him to. He just did.
He was good company while Duke was gone on another of his missions.
You were in the middle of brushing your teeth with him reading aloud from The Tempest when the door to your apartment creaked open—and Real Duke finally walked in, mid-yawn, hoodie up, duffle bag slung over one arm.
“Hey, babe,” he mumbled. “Im home—”
Then he froze.
Locked eyes with himself standing on your bathroom counter, reciting Caliban in a toothpaste cap helmet.
Real Duke’s eyes narrowed. “Is that… me?”
Pocket Duke stopped mid-soliloquy. “Oh cool, the big version’s home.”
Real Duke turned to you. “Please tell me that’s a very elaborate animatronic.”
You snorted. “He’s been sleeping in the sock drawer and quoting Dead Poets Society for three days.”
Pocket Duke gave a tiny bow. “I’m your better half. If your better half fit inside a teacup.”
Real Duke squinted. “How do I know you’re not a hallucination from my third all-nighter this week?”
“Because I moisturize,” Pocket Duke said smugly, “and your skin has been looking rough, my guy.”
You were crying laughing.
Real Duke rubbed his temple. “This is exactly why Damian calls me ‘Robin Lite.’ I don’t even get the normal clone trope. I get… this.”
Pocket Duke crossed his arms. “Hey! I am efficient. I am charming. And I got them to actually eat breakfast. What did you do? Ghost them fro three days without even sending a single message?”
Real Duke opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned to you.
“…Are you replacing me?”
You raised your hands. “He makes a good case.”
Duke squinted. “I swear to god, if he starts dancing to his own theme song—”
Too late.
Pocket Duke cranked up your phone’s Bluetooth speaker and began performing a self-choreographed interpretive dance to Childish Gambino.
Real Duke sat down on the floor, head in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m being upstaged by pocket-sized confidence.”
You patted his back. “He is kind of adorable.”
Real Duke sighed deeply. “I can’t fight him. He’s me. But fun-sized. He’s like if ego and therapy had a baby.”
Pocket Duke struck a pose. “You’re welcome.”
Later that night, Duke tucked the mini version of himself into a dish sponge fort and muttered, “If he starts narrating my patrol routes in slam poetry, I’m calling Zatanna.”
You didn’t tell him Pocket Duke already had a sonnet prepared for your grocery run.
AGED UP!DAMIAN WAYNE:
You found him meditating in your windowsill.
You’d come home from a long day at work, peeled off your jacket, and gone to close the curtains—and there he was. Cross-legged. Eyes closed. Arms tucked in a miniature version of a League cloak, swaying slightly in the breeze like a judgmental bonsai tree.
“You are late,” he said. “I waited 47 minutes and 13 seconds. I almost activated Plan B.”
“…What was Plan B?”
He gestured to a half-empty jar of peanut butter and your cat looking unusually satisfied.
You decided not to ask.
You named him “Lil D” in your phone and tried not to giggle when he gave you The Look™ for it.
In the days that followed, Pocket Damian became… a force.
He demanded daily fencing practice. With cocktail skewers.
He threatened your toaster for "mocking him with its insolent ticking."
He drew accurate crime scene sketches with a broken crayon and posted them on your fridge.
And the worst part?
You were obsessed with him.
He was adorable in the way that a saber-toothed tiger cub is adorable. Dangerous. Bitey. But your saber-toothed tiger cub.
And then Real Damian came over.
You were on the couch, hand-feeding Pocket Damian peeled grapes (he insisted on not touching "non-sterile civilian produce"), when the front door opened.
Real Damian stepped in. Jacket half-zipped. Hair slightly windblown. Eyes already narrowed in suspicion.
“Beloved,” he called, setting his keys down. “I could not find you at the training center—what are you—”
He froze.
Pocket Damian wiped his mouth delicately with a square of tissue and turned to face him.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Look what the camel dragged in.”
Real Damian stared.
You braced.
Then—
“What is that,” he said flatly, tone already descending into steel.
You smiled nervously. “He… kind of found me?”
“He is wearing my League insignia.”
“He said he earned it. With ‘blood and honor.’”
“He is three inches tall.”
“He threatened to duel me for my soul this morning. It was kinda cute.”
Real Damian marched over, leaned down, and squinted.
Pocket Damian met his gaze without flinching.
“You lack discipline,” Mini-Damian said bluntly. “Your posture is failing. Your blade hand is clumsy. You do not deserve them.”
You gasped.
Real Damian did not. Move.
His jaw ticked.
You could feel the murder energy radiating like a low hum through the room.
“Say that again,” Real Damian said coolly.
Pocket Damian leapt to the top of your ramen box stack, cloak fluttering behind him like an angry fruit bat.
“You. Do. Not. Deserve. Them.”
“…You’re going out the window,” Damian said.
You yelped. “Wait—!”
But it was too late. Pocket Damian took one look at his full-size counterpart lunging toward him and flung a mini smoke bomb from your salt shaker. The kitchen filled with paprika.
By the time the air cleared, Pocket Damian had vanished into your sock drawer.
Damian turned to you, betrayed. “You allowed that demon to insult me. In my presence.”
“You are that demon, Dami.”
“He implied you should be with him.”
“He said he’d ‘build me a nation from the bones of my enemies.’ Honestly, it was kind of flattering.”
Damian scowled.
“…You’re jealous of yourself.”
“I am not.” He crossed his arms. “I am jealous of the fact that he has clearly manipulated you using your fondness for the pathetic and the strange.”
“…So me, basically?”
He flushed. “You are not pathetic.”
You smirked. “But I am strange?”
“…Your continued tolerance of him proves it.”
Later, after much negotiation, Real Damian agreed not to “accidentally step” on Mini-Dami—under the condition that Pocket Damian slept in a shoebox lined with Kevlar and did not speak unless spoken to.
Pocket Damian agreed. For now.
You found them both meditating on your windowsill the next morning.
In matching poses.
Real Damian, eyes closed, muttered under his breath, “If he mimics my breathing one more time, I will sew his mouth shut.”
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The gym was quiet now, echoes of sparring long gone, sunlight slipping through the high windows and stretching across the floor like warm silk.
“Satoru, we have class,” you mumbled, not really trying to move as his arms stayed snug around your waist, his body comfortably sprawled half on top of yours.
“Nah,” he said, voice lazy and muffled against your shoulder. “This is class now. It’s called ‘horizontal recovery.’ I’m the teacher.”
“If Yaga caught us like this, he’d think we were—”
“—Having sex? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, you little freak?” he peaked over from your chest, chin snuggled in between.
You smacked his arm, hard. “You’re impossible.”
He only groaned in mock offense, holding you tighter.
A few minutes passed like that—just soft breaths and warmth, until your laughter from some dumb joke faded into quiet. That’s when you noticed it.
His grip had loosened, barely. His expression was distant. Unfocused.
“Hey,” you said softly, your hand coming up to brush white strands away from his face. “You okay?”
He blinked, once—slowly, like it took effort and then forced a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Just… processing. These lights are brutal, huh?”
Your brow furrowed. “Where are your glasses?”
“…Dead,” he said after a beat, with that same strained smile. “Tragic accident. May they rest in pieces.”
It took a second for it to click. The flicker of discomfort. The way his fingers had tensed earlier, just for a second. The slight wince he tried to hide every time the sunlight hit him just right.
You'd always known about Six Eyes, how they let him see everything, the flow of cursed energy, the layers of reality most sorcerers could only guess at. But you never really thought about what that meant for him.
“…You’re overloaded,” you murmured. “Aren’t you?”
His silence answered for him.
You sat up slightly, shifting so his head rested on your lap. “You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, brushing your thumb over his temple.
He just hummed, eyes falling shut. “Takes one to cuddle one.”
You let the silence stretch again, this time more carefully. His breathing evened out, but the tension in his shoulders never fully disappeared. The light overhead kept flickering—subtle, but probably glaring through his Six Eyes like a spotlight.
After a moment, you leaned down and whispered, “Wanna ditch?”
That got one eye open, glinting with something mischievous despite the obvious exhaustion. “You’re corrupting me.”
“I think we passed ‘corruption’ months ago.” You smiled and nudged his shoulder. “Come on. There’s a supply closet behind the old gym with blackout curtains and a floor that doesn’t squeak. You can nap like a normal human.”
He stared at you, a rare moment of quiet in his expression. Then—“Marry me.”
“Let’s start with standing up first,” you said, already pulling him to his feet.
He groaned dramatically, leaning on you like dead weight. “You sure you’re not trying to hide me from the teachers to commit a crime?”
You grinned. “Only the crime of letting get away with groping me”
He just let out an airy chuckle. "damn you caught me"
And with that, you snuck off together, his arm slung lazily over your shoulders, your pace slow, the sun behind you and the day still spinning. But for now, it could wait.
a/n- umm I actually got this idea from another fic but I lost it😥... so credit to that! (I'll try find I promise)
➺ teen dad!toru making snow angels with his kids!!
"you're beautiful" the words leave his lips floating like sea foam in the mornings cold air.
you look over, bundled up in various layers of clothing to keep warm as you lay in the fresh blanket snow together — arms and legs strewn out on the ground making snow angels in the soft unblemished surface.
"you're not even looking at me. your eyes are closed satoru" sitting up to get a good look at him over the little pile of frozen fluff between you both.
the tip of his nose has gotten pink with the cold, his hair is tucked into the crochet hat tsumiki had made him for his birthday, the few soft tuffs escaping seemingly invisible against the snow. shes a sharp girl, having picked up the skill only recently and yet shes learning it so quick.
"my eyes don't need to be open for me to say something so obvious" satoru turns on his side, leaving his head on his mitten covered hand (the pair matching his hat of course) flashing you a toothy smile, a little glint sound effect playing in your head when you see it.
"imagine there's a rose in my teeth" he wiggles is brows at you.
"pfft, sure toru. your snow angel looks like a large star fish.''
looking down at the outline in the snow and back up at you, entirely offended by the deadpanned 'you see?' expression on your lovely face. despite the sharp chilled air and the cool evident winter all around you, his cheeks heat up all the way to the tips of his ears.
"i-it doesn't!"
a little voice responds before you get the chance to, "a star fish is being very generous" megumi and tsumiki come out together, their little faces still puffy with sleep. the younger boy adjusts his hat before stepping into the knee deep snow, mittened hands struggling to wrap his scarf comfortably.
satoru sits up suddenly, utterly heartbroken, he turns to tsumiki like a final saving grace, wordlessly asking her opinion with a playful pleading glint in his eyes while waving megumi over, reaching to secure the scarf the way hes come to learn the boy likes satoru quietly asks, "too tight?" when he nods his head no, satoru pats his hat covered head with a gentle, proud smile before turning to tsumiki as megumi trudges over to you.
shes far too kind. too sweet for this world. sheepishly tsumiki shakes her head. she takes her place next to satoru, laying back in the snow with her limbs out. "its shaped like you"
children always seem to have the most biting responses.
flopping back down with a lighthearted huff and a little disgruntled pout on his lips — shining in the light despite the harsh cool air. "you're all so mean to me"
clouds float in the sky above. satoru watches them in silence for a few moments, listening to your conversation with megumi and tsumikis effort to make the best snow angel she could. hes about start chirping about his woes when you lean over him, blocking his view of the blue sky. replacing it with his whole world, your pretty face smiling down at him; not a fiber in satorus body is going to protest that.
"you're such a baby,"
you lean down to light kiss his forehead, then his nose, then a quick peck to his lips, retreating just as quick as you came. his attitude disappears, the warmth blooming under his cheeks overtaking the flush by the frosty air.
long limbs drag along the snow covered ground again, giddy at the thought that crosses his mind — making snow angels with my angels. a stifled laugh in his throat at your next words,
"and it is shaped like you."
a/n: thank you jiah babby for helping me with this ily :>
Just noticed that when sukuna met uraume for the first time uraume was surrounded by his own CT and element(snow and ice) and is feeling guilty for it even though he caused it accidentally .
But after reincarnation uraume is the first to meet sukuna and this time sukuna is surrounded by his own Carnage which he caused knowingly and is not regretting or feeling guilty for it.
changed my mind sukuna and uraume are my favorite dynamic ever. oh my god. sukuna who insists that power is worth the isolation because it was his power that isolated him - who took in uraume, someone whose power isolated them. and yet,
"why is it that, when sukuna-sama is near me, he doesn't get cold?"
"that goes for you as well, uraume - why you did not get cold being by my side."
uraume meant it literally, sukuna meant it figuratively - but both are asking the same question:
why are you not scared of me? why do you stay by my side.
and maybe the answer is as simple as that sukuna saw himself in uraume, taking them in in an act against his own ideology. because despite being alone for so long, you can still crave that connection that was repeatedly denied you. sukuna was human, is human, and therefore can never truly relinquish the humanity he claims to have abandoned.
or maybe sukuna and uraume are content to leave that question unanswered, as they walk into the gentle night - because after centuries of living, it doesn't really matter why someone stays by your side, does it?
it just matters that they stayed. it is devotion, plain devotion - your attachment to one another that makes you human. it is attachment that keeps sukuna's soul human, even after centuries of metamorphosis, that allows him to finally concede to yuji's ideals, that allows him to move forward while mahito cannot.
and uraume walks with him, as they always have, because -
despite everything, it's still you.
lies down and cries. goodbye you all this was really our sukuna kaisen
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 SUMMARY: you spot a new photobooth as you and Simon wander the city streets for something to eat. It’s begging to be used, to which you drag a begrudging Simon along to take some cute pictures.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: The thought of Simon Riley taking some photos in a photobooth with his lover makes me all giddy and blushy and happy. This was kinda rushed but what’s new :p
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff
Pairings: bf!Simon x gf!Reader
You and Simon had been walking around town for all of 10 minutes looking for a place to eat when your eyes landed on the photobooth. You had never seen it before having walked amongst these shops several times, its presence brash and new, begging to be used. Your eyes light up as you stop in your tracks, halting Simon in the process. His brows purse looking down at you before following your line of vision, his own also landing on the kiosk a mere few feet away.
Ah
You look up at him gleefully “can we?” You ask with a new found sense of joy. Shifting his glance back to you he saw no reason to snuff out the hope that had already begun to rise out of you — he nods “yeah alright” voice low as a subtle smile graces his lips. You beam at him, wrapping your arms around his bicep, dragging him over to the small kiosk.
Clambering into the cramped space, Simon pulls the curtain shut, settling himself beside you.
Snug would be an understatement of the century. The booth was already small as is but the mammoth of a man you’ve decided to spend the better half of your life with was taking up a considerable amount of the space. He curses under his breath “sit on my lap love” he grunts “S’fuckin’ small” You huff a laugh settling onto his lap
“You're just six foot” you say, draping your arm across his broad shoulders. He squeezes the apex of your thighs “M’taller than that” — ignoring his words you lean forward to insert a coin, and with a soft *click* the screen illuminates a grainy reflection of the two of you.
You bite back a laugh at the sight — the way in which a brute of a man such as Simon Riley, a man feared on the battlefield, a skulled masked myth amongst the enemy was gingerly sitting underneath you. In a photobooth. You had him wrapped around your little finger. And he loved it.
Counting down from five, numbers begin lighting up the screen “wait we don’t even know what poses we’re doing” you exclaim. Simon huffs a chuckle “C’mere” he murmurs, his hands greedily cupping your cheeks as he pulls the nape of your neck to his mouth, nipping at your skin teasingly. A quiet gasp slips past your lips as you squirm with a smile.
The camera flashes
Your lips stretch in a large grin while he soothes the bite with the flat of his tongue, pulling away “y’taste good lovie” he murmurs before drawing back for more “Si-” your palm cusps his cheek, halting his movements “focus” you protest as giggles threaten to escape your throat.
The next post consisted of you pinching both his cheeks with your hand, cupping his chin as your eyes lock on the camera — a low grunt leaves his lips as your heads press together. A wide smile breaching your lips while his broody gaze pierces the camera. And maybe to the naked eye he would look like he would rather be anywhere else, to you? You could see the amusement that lined his lips subtly and the sparkle that filtered his eyes. He lived for moments like this.
The camera flashes
Your eyes flutter at the bright light “What should be the last one?” you ask as you turn to look at him. His gaze briefly flickers towards your lips. You smile, an answer in itself — snaking your arms around his neck
“You're not very subtle” you coy teasingly, tilting your head.
Pink dusts his neck and cheeks but his tone stays steady “M’not trying to be” he retorts, gripping the flesh of your hips with his hands, you feign confidence “I thought that was your specialty” your peripheral vision noticing the camera counting down from five. Simon chuckles, a low — mhm — rumbling his chest as he pulls your chests flush together, drawing nearer “not with you dove” he murmurs before clashing his lips against yours, kissing you as though he’s been starved. All encompassing.
Time slows as the gentle *click* - *click* - *click* rings throughout the small space.
The camera flashes
Several seconds pass before you both pull away, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. You smile sheepishly at him before clambering out of the booth, desperate to see how your they turned out.
Grabbing the small files of film from the holder a smile breaches your lips as you gaze down at the photos in your hands.
Perfect you thought before showing Simon. So much happiness and love contained in such a small space Simon wondered how three simple photos could capture it all so perfectly. And although he wasn’t a man of many words he knew that the soft twitch of his lips told you everything — “I’m keeping these forever” you say, mostly to yourself as you glance down at them once again.
Simon drapes his arm across your lower back, pulling you into him — “you look so handsome Si” tone light as your gaze wafts up towards him. Red sprinkles his neck, the only way to avoid his flushed feelings was to begin walking you both along “S’only cause I’m looking at you lovie” he says and the casualness of his tone is almost jarring. The most blunt but striking words would leave his mouth sometimes and you can’t help but think he doesn’t even realise how they fall off his tongue, as though what he’s saying should be obvious.
A soft blush creeps along your cheeks as you shake your head, focusing on the pictures in your hand “the things you say sometimes” Simon pinches the flesh of your hip in response, gazing down at you with a gentle grin.
He was wrapped around your pinky finger and the proof was in your hands.
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Simon has a dry sense of humor. When you mention that you get startled seeing him in a balaclava in the living room — imagine walking into the room at night, everything dark, and seeing him sitting in the armchair in a skull balaclava — he probably lets out a nasal laugh, that muffled sound you feel more than you hear.
Knowing that the mask causes you this "startle", he starts making a conscious effort for you. As soon as the front door locks, the gloves come off, the heavy gear drops, and finally, the balaclava is pulled off. He does this thinking of you; if it were any other girl he wouldn't care, but you are different — he cares, and he cares a lot.
If you catch him off guard still masked — whether because he forgot or because he’s heading to the next mission — he would probably say something like:
"Still not used to it, dear? You think I’m the scary one because you’ve never seen yourself angry because I forgot to do the dishes."
The affection you give is almost a sensory short-circuit for Simon Riley. He is a man of contrasts: a mountain of muscle and scars who, deep down, is just Simon. For him, the daily kisses on the cheek and lips act as a reset button; he lives in a world of adrenaline and violence; coming home and being received with sweetness brings him back to earth, to what is worth it.
He is not much for initiating demonstrations, especially public ones, but when you kiss him when saying goodbye, or while relaxing on the sofa or at the coffee shop you like to go to, he leans into the touch. It’s automatic. If he is cleaning something or eating, he stops whatever he is doing.
Simon knows he is handsome — he is aware of his strong and attractive masculine features — but being appreciated by you validates him more than any rank. When you kiss his entire face, this is the moment when Lieutenant Riley’s armor truly crumbles.
The moment you start kissing him, usually on the forehead, he closes his eyes. His hands, huge and usually tense, relax on your hips or your knees. He lets out a long sigh, releasing all the weight from his shoulders.
Simon has scars, both the visible ones and those inside. When your lips touch his temples and move down his cheeks, he feels a tingling that leaves him almost vulnerable. Letting you "focus" on his face with such affection is the greatest proof of trust and comfort he can give.
When you kiss his chin and the jawline (which he keeps rigid out of pure soldier instinct), he finally "breaks." He might let out a low murmur, something that sounds like a raspy purr in the back of his throat. It is the sound of a man who feels completely loved and at ease near the person he loves.
And finally, it reaches the lips; the kiss is not urgent, it is deep and full of love. He will hold your face with a delicacy that seems impossible for someone his size, as if you were made of glass.
He can’t simply get up and act as if nothing happened after feeling so much love. He would probably pull you to his chest, hiding his face (now slightly flushed) in your neck.
"You’re going to end up making me too soft for work," he would whisper in that raspy voice, but with a smile you can feel against your skin. "But keep going. I wouldn't trade this for anything in the world."
I had these two thoughts about him this week, I so wanted to shower him with kisses, he deserves it. ANYWAY, it took me longer than usual, I found it difficult to write about him but I loved the result. I'm insecure about my writing so I'm always trying to improve, thank you for the likes and comments, I appreciate them all from the bottom of my heart! ❤️🩹
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ the way they love and the flowers they'd give to their partner.
ᯓ★ YEON SIEUN
sieun loves in ways that are almost invisible unless you’re paying attention. he's not someone who's overly expressive, but when he acts in your favor like protecting you, helping with something you struggle with, or just quietly being present it carries a lot of weight. love, to him, is making sure you're safe before you even realize there was danger. it's walking you home without mentioning it. fixing things silently. researching something that matters to you at 2 a.m. because he noticed you struggling once. he'll send you a simple message just to check in, or sit beside you in silence while you both do your own thing.
as for flowers, he'd choose baby's breath because it looks simple, almost forgettable at first glance just like the way he loves. but the longer you look, the more you realize how full and delicate it is. he wouldn't give flowers often. probably hands them to you awkwardly, saying something like, "they reminded me of you." or just leave them on your desk, letting you notice them in your own time. sometimes he presses flowers between book pages.
ᯓ★ AHN SUHO
suho loves loudly without even trying to. it's instinctive. an arm around your shoulders, playful shoves, leaning too close, ruffling your hair. touch is grounding for him. it's reassurance. it's how he says "you're real and you're here with me." but he also knows the value of telling someone you matter, even if it's a simple "i got you" or "you're okay." he's both protective and encouraging. he's always by your side, like the flower following the sun.
sunflowers fit suho perfectly. they symbolize loyalty, warmth, and unwavering support. they literally turn toward the sun, just like suho instinctively positions himself between you and harm.
he'd give them with a smile, maybe joking at first, but there's something earnest underneath. "they're bright. like you." and you'd realize later that he chose them because they don't wilt easily. suho believes in resilience and in standing tall even after everything.
ᯓ★ OH BEOMSEOK
beomseok's love is deeply tied to fear of loss. he gives because giving feels proof that he matters, that he's wanted, and that you won't disappear. his gifts are thoughtful, sometimes excessive, because he's terrified of being overlooked.
he craves reassurance more than he admits. when you stay, when you choose him, when you gently remind him he's enough. it calms something constantly shaking inside him. love, to beomseok, is safety. consistency. not being abandoned.
pink carnations symbolize gratitude and the fear of losing love, which aligns painfully well with beomseok. they're soft, emotional flowers. not dramatic, but sincere.
he'd give them nervously, overthinking whether they're too much or not enough. "i wasn't sure what you'd like," he'd say, even though he researched them carefully. these flowers are his way of saying, "please stay." not out loud but in pink petals.
ᯓ★ GO HYUNTAK
hyuntak's love comes in the form of protective actions and closeness. he's a "show, don't tell" kind of guy. helping you carry things, fixing problems you didn't even notice, and occasionally pulling you into a protective hug when he senses danger.
i think he's not great with emotional expression, but he's deeply attuned to practical needs. if you're tired, he'll walk slower. if you're cold, he'll hand you his jacket without comment. making your life easier without making it obvious is what love is to hyuntak.
chrysanthemums symbolize loyalty, endurance, and quiet strength. they're sturdy flowers, often overlooked because they're not flashy but they last.
hyuntak would choose them because they don't need constant care to survive. they're dependable. just like him. he might give them wrapped simply, saying almost nothing, but the meaning is clear: i'm here. i'll keep being here.
ᯓ★ KANG WOOYOUNG
wooyoung loves through presence but not heavy, intense presence. he prefers lightness. shared moments that don't feel forced. he wants love to feel like breathing and not like pressure.
he flirts, jokes, teases a lot but beneath that is someone who listens closely. remembers small details. notices your moods even when you try to hide them. i think love, to wooyoung, is enjoying life together.
daisies symbolize innocence, joy, and new beginnings. they're cheerful, uncomplicated flowers. exactly how wooyoung wants love to feel.
he'd give them casually, probably smiling, maybe pretending it's no big deal. "saw these and thought they'd make you smile." and they would because with wooyoung, love is about choosing happiness again and again and again.
That’s your first thought—the kind that doesn’t matter, the kind your brain clings to so it doesn’t have to face the one that does.
The test sits on the edge of the sink.
Two lines.
Positive.
Clear. Unmistakable. Life-changing.
Your hands won’t stop shaking.
Behind you, the door creaks open, slow and cautious, like he already knows something is wrong. Simon never startles you on purpose—never in this house. Not with you.
“Love?”
His voice is rough, still carrying sleep, still soft in a way only you ever hear.
You can’t answer.
You just step aside and let him see.
He doesn’t react at first.
Simon stares at the test like it’s a bomb he hasn’t decided how to disarm yet. His shoulders go rigid, breath slow and controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to move too fast.
“Right..” he finally mutters.
Not cold. Not distant.
Just… processing.
You nod, even though he didn’t ask a question.
“I—I checked twice.” you say, your voice already cracking. “I thought maybe the first one was wrong but—”
“I believe you.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off it.
Then, carefully—like everything about this moment is fragile—he reaches out and picks it up.
His hands are steady.
Yours aren’t.
You expect fear.
You expect him to shut down, to go quiet, to become that unreachable soldier who locks everything behind thick walls and doesn’t let anyone in.
But he doesn’t.
Simon exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face, and when he finally looks at you—
There’s something there.
Something soft.
Something terrified.
Something… hopeful.
“We could… make this work..” he says, like he’s testing the words. “Yeah?”
Your heart lurches.
Because you were thinking it too.
Against all logic.
Against everything you both know.
You step closer. “You mean that?”
He huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
A pause.
Then, quieter,
“I’d protect you both.”
And that’s when it hits you.
Not comfort.
Not relief.
Fear.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
Fear.. is a funny thing.
It festers.
It.. sticks.
It grows slowly over the next few days.
Like a crack in glass, spreading outward, impossible to stop once it starts.
At first, it’s small things.
Simon resting his hand on your stomach absentmindedly.
The way he starts checking the locks twice instead of once.
How he lingers a little longer before leaving for missions, like he’s memorizing you.
You should feel safe.
You should feel loved.
And you do… but beneath it, something else coils tighter and tighter in your chest.
A thought you can’t outrun.
A possibility you can’t ignore.
It happens when you’re alone.
You’re sitting on the couch, a blanket over your legs, staring at nothing while the TV drones on quietly. Your hand rests on your stomach, still flat, still unchanged.
Still yours.
For now.
Your mind drifts.
Not to baby names.
Not to nurseries.
But to a little girl.
Dark eyes, His.
Your smile.
Small hands gripping your fingers.
A soft laugh echoing through the house.
And then—
A shadow behind her.
A world that doesn’t care how small she is.
Men who don’t care how innocent she is.
A life where Simon’s enemies don’t stay neatly contained on battlefields.
A life where being his daughter makes her a target.
A life where you know—you know—what happens to girls who aren’t protected enough.
Your stomach turns and your chest tightens.
Your breath comes too fast.
Because Simon would protect her.
He would burn the world down for her.
But he can’t be everywhere.
He can’t stop everything.
And you know what the world is capable of.
You’ve seen it reflected in the nightmares he doesn’t talk about.
In the scars he won’t explain.
In the way he holds you just a little too tight when you flinch in your sleep.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
When he comes home that night, you’re sitting exactly where he left you.
You haven’t moved.
“..love?” he says softly, closing the door behind him.
You don’t answer.
He notices immediately.
Simon crosses the room in a few steps, crouching in front of you, his hands gentle but firm on your knees.
“Talk to me.”
Your throat closes.
You shake your head.
“I can’t.”
His grip tightens slightly. “You can.”
Tears spill over before you can stop them.
“I don’t think we should have it.”
Silence.
Heavy. Crushing.
Simon doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
Doesn’t even blink.
“…What?”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You’ve faced a lot of things in your life.
Hard conversations.
Painful truths.
But nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this.
Saying the words feels like tearing yourself open.
“I don’t think we should keep it..” you whisper.
His hands drop from your knees like you’ve burned him.
“Where’s this coming from?” His voice is controlled, but just barely. “You were— we both said—”
“I know what we said!”
Your voice breaks, rising too fast, too sharp.
You clamp a hand over your mouth, shaking.
“I know.” you repeat, softer now. “I know.”
He stands slowly, putting distance between you like he doesn’t trust himself to stay close.
“Then explain it to me.”
You wish you couldn’t.
God, you wish you were wrong.
But you’re not.
“What if it’s a girl?”
The words hang in the air.
Simon frowns. “So?”
Your chest caves in.
“So?” you echo, disbelief lacing every syllable. “Simon, do you—do you hear yourself?”
“I’m asking you a question.”
Your voice drops to a whisper.
“What if she grows up in a world that notices who her father is?”
He stiffens.
“What if someone wants to hurt you?” you continue, tears streaming freely now. “And.. what if they can’t get to you, so they go for her instead?”
“That wouldn’t happen.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I’d make sure—”
“You can’t be everywhere Simon!”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Because that’s the truth.
And he knows it.
He turns away, jaw tight, hands curling into fists at his sides.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”
His voice is quieter now.
Not defensive.
Desperate.
You stand on shaky legs.
“But you can’t promise that.”
He doesn’t answer.
Because he can’t.
You step closer, your hands trembling as you reach for him, gripping the fabric of his shirt like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.
“I won’t bring a daughter into a world where she might have to survive the things I’ve seen. The things you’ve seen.”
Your voice shatters completely.
“I won’t risk her becoming a target just because of who her father is.”
Simon’s head drops.
His shoulders rise and fall with a slow, controlled breath.
“You think this is protecting her.”
It’s not a question.
You nod anyway, even though he can’t see it.
“It is.”
He doesn’t fight you.
Which makes it worse. You’d prefer him scream, shout, try to convince you things would be okay.
But he doesn’t.
Simon doesn’t yell.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t try to convince you otherwise.
Because deep down he understands.
And that understanding breaks something in both of you.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The clinic is quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that feels wrong for a place where something so loud—so life-altering—is happening.
Simon sits beside you, his hand wrapped tightly around yours.
He hasn’t let go once.
Not since you made the appointment.
Not since you both silently agreed this was the only way.
“You don’t have to stay..” you whisper.
His grip tightens instantly.
“Not a chance I’m leavin’.”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I just… didn’t want you to feel like you had to—”
“I want to.”
His voice is firm.
Unyielding.
“I’m not leaving you alone for this.”
Afterward, you don’t remember much.
Just flashes.
The sterile smell.
The cold.
The… hollowness.
The way your body feels like it’s missing something it never got the chance to have.
At home, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands.
Simon stands in the doorway for a long time before finally stepping in.
He looks… lost.
You’ve never seen him like this.
Not even after missions.
Not even in his worst moments.
He doesn’t know where to stand.
What to say.
How to fix something that can’t be fixed.
“I keep thinking..” he says slowly, voice rough, “about what they would’ve looked like.”
“Yeah.” you whisper.
He swallows hard.
“A girl, you said.”
You nod.
He lets out a broken exhale, dragging a hand over his face.
“She would’ve had your eyes.”
That’s it. Thats all it takes to shatter you completely.
You break, sobs ripping through you as you lean over, your hands clutching your stomach like it might somehow undo what’s already been done.
Simon crosses the room in an instant.
He drops to his knees in front of you, pulling you into him, holding you so tight it almost hurts.
But you don’t pull away.
Because you need it.
Because he does too.
“I’m sorry.” you choke out. “I’m so sorry.”
He buries his face in your shoulder.
“Don’t.” he mutters, voice cracking for the first time. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
“I took her away from you.”
“You protected her.”
The words are firm.
Immediate.
“You protected her..” he repeats, quieter now.
You know it’s true. You protected a child who will never exist. You protected her from a world she’ll never have to face.
But.. that makes it hurt even worse.
That night, Simon doesn’t let go of you.
Not once.
Like if he does, you might disappear too. Because he’s grieving something he never got to meet. you both are.
But in the silence.
in the space where something could have been.
There’s love.
There’s loss.
And the kind of protection that costs more than either of you ever thought you could give.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧for this request!
simon riley when he has a crush on you is almost hilarious from a bystanders point of view.
the man from manchester first began crushing on you just by a mere interaction. you didnt even do anything extraordinary, the two of you met in a meeting room, John Price introducing you to the rest of the team, and amid your introductions with the all five men, you made brief eye contact with them all, including ghost.
during that brief moment of eye contact, lasting no more than three seconds— when your own shiny and curious eyes met his dead ones— simon quite literally felt like an arrow shot through his heart. to simon, you unintentionally imprinted on him.
from then on, the rest of the men have noticed a theme between the two of you.
whenever you walk into a room, ghost's hard-to-get-attention is suddenly fixated onto you. he goes quiet, quieter than usual, and stiffens up entirely. the man sometimes even shushes others when you are talking with a harsh glare or a sharp "shh" that is too quiet for you to notice but loud enough for others to hear.
in social events, the man follows you like a puppy. youre always wondering why men dont approach you anymore and youve yet to figure that maybe its because theres this 6'4" 250 lbs man looming behind you like a menance, but his eyes are quite literally shiny and alive just by being around you.
the best of all is the bold caring side of him that hes eager to share with you. whether itd be him insisting that he be the one to carry you when youre injured amid a mission. its him who takes all the heavy lifting and just looks at you with a deadpan stare when you complain.
its him who drives you late at night home when you suddenly want to leave the bar, its him who always answers your call at the wildest hours when you need someone to pick you up from whatever trouble you got yourself in. its him who listens intently to you yap off about your niche interests and concerns, and its even him when youre upset and crying and want a hug even though he hates physical contact.
and if someone dares to slander your name? well, if they are a man, simon just gets to add the guy to his list of people he scares out the country.
so if its clear simon adores you with every might of his being, then why hasnt he asked you out? even soap is scratching his head.
the answer? nerves. youre just too good for him. simon rather watch you from the sidelines, from the view of being three steps behind you, he'd eagerly wag his tail in secret at the sight of you, just to be able to appreciate your presence a minute longer without losing you like the rest of them.
content warning: gn!reader , fluff , written with re4 leon in mind but you can read it as anyone really , written in lower caps .
a/n: just needed some comfort and ended up with these headcanons 😭 re4 leon my beloved ): hope you guys are having a nice day !
leon would normally have trouble sleeping, be it because of nightmares ( and he has many given what he had to face ) or simply because he’s too restless to give in to sleep
with you laying next to him though, things get a bit easier
he would probably still have trouble fully falling asleep, but at least he’s more relaxed
makes sure to keep you close to his side
be it cold or warm you’re not escaping his embrace
his body has to physically feel you next to him, or else.
he would run his fingers through your hair, finding it incredibly soothing ( not only for you )
he’s definitely the big spoon
but might be the little spoon if you convince him, he ends up appreciating it and might ask you explicitly next time
he enjoys burying his face into your neck, just to feel your warmth or your scent
rests his hands either on your hip or your stomach, depending on your comfort level
if you’re the type to sleep with a plushie, he would make sure it doesn’t fall off the bed if you move often in your slumber
might even grow to like it
it ends up with his perfume on and it helps when leon is away ):
he tries to lay still as to not disturb your sleep
if you wake up needing a glass of water or an extra blanket he gets up and provides shortly
he kinda learns your habits and usually make sure you have a full glass on the nightstand
i’d genuinely need that lol
i believe he rarely gets cold, so he doesn’t mind you stealing the blanket
he’s the one who makes sure you get up at a certain time if there’s the need
when he happens to fall asleep too, he’s able to cling to you through sleep
need a glass of water? forget it
need the toilet? not happening
planning just to get out of bed? already know the answer
as soon as he wakes up he searches for you, always
when he’s on missions, he misses having you sleeping next to him
you calm him down and when you’re around he’s able to let the tragedies disappear from his mind, even if only for a short while
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content warning: gn!reader , fluff , written with re4 leon in mind but you can read it as anyone really , written in lower caps .
a/n: just needed some comfort and ended up with these headcanons 😭 re4 leon my beloved ): hope you guys are having a nice day !
leon would normally have trouble sleeping, be it because of nightmares ( and he has many given what he had to face ) or simply because he’s too restless to give in to sleep
with you laying next to him though, things get a bit easier
he would probably still have trouble fully falling asleep, but at least he’s more relaxed
makes sure to keep you close to his side
be it cold or warm you’re not escaping his embrace
his body has to physically feel you next to him, or else.
he would run his fingers through your hair, finding it incredibly soothing ( not only for you )
he’s definitely the big spoon
but might be the little spoon if you convince him, he ends up appreciating it and might ask you explicitly next time
he enjoys burying his face into your neck, just to feel your warmth or your scent
rests his hands either on your hip or your stomach, depending on your comfort level
if you’re the type to sleep with a plushie, he would make sure it doesn’t fall off the bed if you move often in your slumber
might even grow to like it
it ends up with his perfume on and it helps when leon is away ):
he tries to lay still as to not disturb your sleep
if you wake up needing a glass of water or an extra blanket he gets up and provides shortly
he kinda learns your habits and usually make sure you have a full glass on the nightstand
i’d genuinely need that lol
i believe he rarely gets cold, so he doesn’t mind you stealing the blanket
he’s the one who makes sure you get up at a certain time if there’s the need
when he happens to fall asleep too, he’s able to cling to you through sleep
need a glass of water? forget it
need the toilet? not happening
planning just to get out of bed? already know the answer
as soon as he wakes up he searches for you, always
when he’s on missions, he misses having you sleeping next to him
you calm him down and when you’re around he’s able to let the tragedies disappear from his mind, even if only for a short while
A/n: So I made this into two little sections, with one of them where he just thinks you are infected and the other where you actually are infected
When you aren't actually infected
The moment he notices something off about you (maybe you look pale or dizzy), his mood changes immediately
He tries to act calm, but inside he’s already panicking a little
“Hey… you feeling okay?”
He asks it casually, but he’s watching you really closely
If you mention a headache or feeling tired, his brain already thinks about the worst case scenario
Leon has seen infections spread too many times
He remembers Luis explaining symptoms before, and now he’s mentally checking them off
He’ll gently grab your arm or wrist to check you
Mostly pretending he’s just helping you walk, but really he’s checking your skin and temperature
If you ask why he’s staring, he’ll play it off “Just making sure you’re still with me.”
He keeps you very close to him after that
His protectiveness goes way up: walking slightly in front of you, checking every room twice, constantly asking if you feel different
If you cough once he immediately turns around like “You good??”
He quietly prepares himself for the worst though
Like mentally going over what he’d have to do if you turned
And that thought really messes with him
At one point he might ask you something like“If… something happened to you… you’d tell me, right?”
He tries to sound calm but his voice gives away that he’s seriously worried
When he finally realizes you're not infected the relief hits him hard
He might laugh a little at himself, but he also pulls you into a tight hug
“Don’t scare me like that again, alright?”
When you are infected
Leon notices the signs slowly, first the tiredness, then the headaches, then you start acting a little different
His stomach drops because he knows these signs
He doesn’t tell you immediately, instead he starts quietly looking for proof
Checking your eyes, asking small questions to see if you’re thinking clearly
When he finally realizes it’s real, he feels like the ground just disappeared under him
But Leon doesn’t panic outwardly, he fisrt turns to problem solving
He refuses to even talk about the possibility of losing you
He’ll start searching everywhere for a cure or suppressant
Like with the Las Plagas situation, he immediately thinks about how Ashley Graham was infected too, which means removal is a possibility
And that thought becomes his only focus
He stays right beside you the entire time, even if you start feeling worse
If you panic about turning, he grabs your shoulders and looks you straight in the eyes “Hey. Look at me. You’re not turning into one of them. Not on my watch.”
His voice is very firm, because if he lets himself sound scared, he knows you’ll notice
If the infection starts affecting your behavior, Leon gets even more protective
He doesn’t let anyone else point a weapon at you
Not even for “just in case”
And if someone suggests putting you down if things go bad…
