babybatreads

Latest Posts by babybatreads

Wrote this in one sitting lol

You always call Simon by a nickname. Your favorites are "hun", "bubba", and "love". He pretends to be exasperated with you using them, but he doesn't hide the tiny smile that creases his eyes.

"Hi bubba, how was your day at work?"

"Love, can you hand me the garlic powder from the shelf, please?"

"Looking so handsome today, hun."

Simon associates your nicknames with good things and loving emotions. He doesn't remember the last time he heard his name from you outside the bedroom.

"Simon, can you come here please?"

It's as if a cold bucket of ice water is dumped over his spine and he freezes. He's been sitting in his home office filling out reports and filing paperwork while you did your own thing to keep yourself busy. The pen in his hand almost bleeds ink onto the paper before he catches himself and lifts the tip up before shakily setting it down and off to the side. As he pushes himself out of his chair, Simon's brain is working overtime asking himself what he did to upset you. Did he forget an important date? Was he neglecting you and not caring for your needs? Did you just not love him anymore?

That last one carried his feet quicker into the living room where you sat watching TV, your back facing him. As soon as he makes his presence known though, you turn around in your seat and flash him that brilliant and heart-stopping smile of yours, no underlying emotions hidden underneath as far as Simon's aware.

"Come sit, hun! GBBO is showing the episode with Michael Sheen!" You softly pat his usual spot on the sofa right next to you. He searches your face for a beat with furrowed brows, clocking in on your use of a nickname this time. He doesn't make a sound as he practically glides over to plop down next to you, thoughts still swimming and hardly paying any attention to the screen in front of him.

"Si? You okay?" Your voice brings him back and he looks over to your confused face, eyebrows creased in slight worry. He huffs and debates letting it go as you've gone back to using your pet names, but he wants his communicating skills to be better for you, so he sucks in a shaky breath and let's it out in quiet admission.

"Are you upset with me?"

You tilt your head, brows furrowing even deeper as you immediately shake your head. "No? Why would I be, have you done anything that would make me upset?"

Simon in turn also shakes his head. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, but he can't go back to being quiet now that you know something is up. "I just... You- you used my name when y'called me. Y'never use my name, only those silly nicknames."

Your brows unfurl in understanding and he watches as your lips twitch upward in amusement. "Oh Si, is that what this is about? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

You gently take both his trembling hands in yours and squeeze them softly, not looking away as you continue. "I'm not upset with you, bubba. I didn't realize just how much I've been calling you anything other than your name and you got so used to it."

A huge boulder was lifted off his shoulders as he sighed in relief, then huffed in embarrassment. "Guess I overreacted a bit, yeah?"

You smirked, teasing. "A little, but I'm happy you told me. Feels nice to talk about things instead of bottling everything up, right?" You poke at his chest lightly and he chuckles with you, agreeing wholeheartedly.

posessive

just a fever ── simon 'ghost' riley

summary; he's not scared of a lot of things. except the first fever of his daughter.

wc; 0.4k

he has faced down barrels of guns with steely calm, walked through burning houses with his mask soaked in soot and blood. fear doesn't live in his bones anymore—at least, not the kind that comes from battlefields or the breath before a bullet flies.

but this... is new.

grace is burning up in his arms, small limbs restless and face flushed red with fever, and simon's chest feels like it's caving in. her breaths come fast and uneven, and her fingers, always clinging to his dog tags when she's sleepy, twitch like she’s too hot to hold onto anything.

she's just a baby. not even two.

he paces the living room barefoot, her little form tucked tight against his chest, his shirt damp where her forehead rests. you're on the phone with the pediatrician, voice calm but tight—trying not to let him hear the edge in it.

but he does. he hears everything at this point, every beat and every breath.

his hands are too rough for this. trained for holding guns, not tiny bodies burning with sickness. he keeps checking her temperature with a trembling hand against her neck, like it'll tell him something new. like anything will change.

watching grace whimper weakly in his arms, no strength to cry—he can’t protect her from this. and it unravels him.

you turn to him, finally off the call.

"they said it's common. her body's just learning how to fight things off. fever's a sign her immune system's working."

he nods slowly, but his eyes—those same eyes that have stared down warlords and monsters in masks— look hollow now.

"grace is strong," you add, gentler, placing a hand on his arm. "just like you".

but simon doesn’t feel strong. he feels helpless.

"she's never been this hot," he mutters, voice low, rough like gravel. "she looked at me like she didn't know who I was."

"she's tired, love. she knows who you are" you say softly, caressing his shoulder "you're her dad. of course she knows."

she stirs then, tiny fingers curling into his shirt again. her lips part and he hears the quietest murmur—“mgh…”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. cradles her closer. he doesn't even notice the wetness in his eyes until your hand brushes it away.

later, when grace is finally resting, fever breaking with a cool damp cloth and a lullaby that only you know how to hum right, simon stays by her crib. mask off. eyes open.

no guns. no enemies. just a man watching the smallest person he’s ever loved fight the first of life’s many battles.

he doesn’t flinch at gunfire.

but he’d rather take a bullet to the chest than watch his little girl suffer again.

a/n: making a series about simon being a dad !!! (probably a series of u meeting him too........ im down for it) (soon the masterlist)

Munch! Simon.

It’s not something he exactly hides.

Whether it’s passing little comments, or simply the way he could spend hours devouring your cunt.

Simon has never hidden the fact that he enjoys eating you out, almost to a sadistic level.

He was gentle at first, learning your body.

But eventually, he simply couldn’t get enough.

Not when you look so pretty riding his tongue, not when you taste so good that he can’t even help but moan against your slick cunt with every pass of his tongue.

Which was what led you to the first bout of overstimulation.

He’d been down there for nearly 10 minutes already, gentle, loving. Exploring your cunt like he’d never tasted it before.

And when you came, he kept going.

“Mm, sweet girl. Gimme more.”

His tongue would find your clit, lightly flicking over it again and again earning that addicting choked sound out of you that had him gripping your thighs a little tighter.

And when your second orgasm came, he groaned into your cunt. Lapping it up like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

“Another…c’mon baby…let me give you more.”

He’d let his tongue trail down, sinking into your clenching hole only to bring it back up to your overstimulated clit. Moaning when you bucked from the sensation.

“You can take it…I know you can…so good for me.”

Over and over, his tongue would flick your clit, briefly sucking on it which only served to make his eyes roll back downright pathetically when you pull his hair a little too tight. His hand trailing down, two thick digits breaching your sensitive hole and curling into that sweet spot that had you squirting before you could even realise.

His head would pop up, eyes as dark as the damp mud outside…that shit eating smirk on his face as he curled his fingers into that spot over and over. Release gushing out of you until you physically couldn’t take it.

“Alright…alright sweet girl…s’okay…I got ya.”

——————————-

@whore4romance this was the one I meant to tag you in 😭

those baby blues..

Ohhhhh you better write some Clark Kent smut in light of that new trailer

#BREAK ME IN HALF, CLARK

pairing — David Corenswet!Superman x f!Reader

tags : Cockwarming, size kink, rough manhandling, possessiveness, titfucking, facefucking, messy oral (f), begging, overstimulation, creampie, cumplay, aftercare pending

a/n : hi hi 🥺 this one got way filthier than I planned but… can you blame me?? David Corenswet’s Clark Kent is built for slow control that snaps—and I just KNOW he’d worship reader like she hung the damn sun in the sky. thank you for letting me write a Superman who’s both gentle and absolutely unhinged in bed 💙 hope you’re as wrecked as the sheets in this fic. pls hydrate. pls stretch. and pls let him carry you to the bath after 😌🫧 i hope you like it baby

The second the front door slammed shut behind him, you knew.

You knew by the way the air changed.

You knew by the heavy sound of his boots on the floor.

You knew by the look in his eyes—wild, lidded, hungry.

Clark Kent wasn’t here to play tonight.

He stalked toward you like he was on a mission. Not to save the world.

To ruin you.

“You think it’s cute,” he muttered, peeling off his shirt with one hand, the muscles in his chest flexing. “Walkin’ around in those little shorts. That fuckin’ tank top with your tits bouncing everywhere. You wanted this.”

He grabs you before you can speak—one big hand wrapping around your throat, tilting your head up.

“You want me to lose control, huh? You wanna know what it feels like to take all of me?”

He shoves two fingers into your mouth, pushing deep onto your tongue. “Suck.”

You moan and wrap your lips around them immediately, eyes wide. His pupils blow wide at the sight. “Good girl. Just like that.”

He drops you onto the bed and flips you over effortlessly—like you’re weightless. Yanks your shorts down. Rips your panties clean in half. No time. No prep.

And then—he spits on your pussy.

Not gentle. Not polite. A wet, filthy string that lands right on your clit, and he uses his thumb to rub it in as you squirm and whimper.

“Already so wet,” he groans, voice gravel and sex. “Look at this pretty little pussy just beggin’ to be stretched.”

And he stretches you. Slowly. Painfully. Like his cock is too big for a human body—and maybe it is.

You’re gasping, drooling into the sheets as he pushes deeper and deeper until you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Can’t even fuckin’ take it, huh?” His hand fists your hair and pulls your head back. “Look at you. Cryin’ over my cock and I’m barely movin’.”

He starts to thrust. Brutal. Relentless. The sound of your soaked pussy getting pounded fills the room. And your tits? They bounce wildly beneath you—so good he growls just watching them move.

He flips you onto your back mid-thrust—his strength effortless—and grabs your tits, squeezing them tight around his cock.

“I wanna fuck these,” he pants. “I’m gonna come all over your chest. Then I’m gonna shove it back inside you and fuck my cum deeper.”

He fucks your tits until his cock is shiny and soaked in your spit, then pushes the head past your lips, facefucking you like he needs to own every inch of you.

“You were made for this. For me. To take me. To come on my cock over and over and beg for more.”

He does everything he said he would. Fills your chest. Smears his cum on your nipples with his cock. Slides back inside your ruined pussy with a growl and keeps going.

You lose count of how many times you come. Of how many times he fills you.

And when he finally slows, panting, his entire chest heaving above you, he slides two fingers into your messy cunt and pushes his cum deeper.

“You’re gonna hold it, baby. I want you leaking for days.”

You’re shaking. Broken. Full of him.

And he presses a kiss to your forehead like he didn’t just fuck the soul out of your body.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he whispers. “Wanna take a bath? I’ll carry you.”

Not ever crying is POWERFUL. Healthy? No. But when you have a character who never cries who just fucking loses it?? Holy shit

All this to say, Batman's children are manipulative as hell when need be. Some of them definitely can cry on command, but if they do so too often, the effects lessen, so they choose wisely.

Who do they manipulate with these crocodile tears? Their overprotective, very intimidating, very no-nonsense father, of course.

Dick, age 11, accidentally flips into Superman, which is essentially like running into a wall and winds up faceplanting on the floor: Owww

Superman: oh sorry, buddy! But y'know this is why Batman told you not to do those flips in the halls-

Dick, embarrassed and afraid Batman is going to yell at him, immediately starts crying: B! B!

Superman, panicked: no, no, shh, hey, it's okay, I'm sorry, here let me help-

Dick, sobbing: no! You'll hurt me again!

Batman, appears out of nowhere: What. Did. You. Do.

Superman: he ran into me, I didn't-

Batman: is your name not "super" man? Could you not use your "super" hearing or "super" vision or "super" speed to get out of the way?

Superman: he's fine! It wasn't my-

Dick, bravely through his tears: my head hurts

Batman, gently: do u think u have a concussion, chum?

Dick: I d- don't know I just wanna go h-home

Batman: of course, we'll go home now and after dinner we'll get ice cream, just the two of us. How does that sound?

Dick, sniffing: okay

Batman, whispering to Superman: if u ever so much as touch a hair on my son's head again I will pour boiling liquid kryptonite in your ears while you sleep. From now on you are dead to me. I'll see you in hell, Clark Kent.

Superman: bruce that seems a little extreme-

Batman: another word and I'll guarantee after I'm done with you, your funeral will have to be closed casket

Superman:

Batman: okay, chum, let's get you home! *picks up his child*

Dick, peering over Bruce's shoulder at Clark with a small smile, mouthing: sorry, Uncle Clark, love you

Superman muttering to himself: heaven help us if he adopts more children

The Batcave has a “Do Not Talk To Me” couch. It’s sacred. It’s unspoken. It’s real.

okay so. picture this:

the batcave has one couch. it's in the corner. it’s hideous. it’s like beige or green or something equally offensive to every one of their aesthetics. no one likes the couch.

and that is exactly why it became sacred.

because one night jason just. drops onto it. full gear. bleeding. absolutely done with life. says nothing. doesn’t even take off the helmet. sits there in silence for 3 hours and then leaves.

next week tim uses it. sits there post-mission. face in hands. someone tries to ask if he’s okay and jason throws a batarang at them.

and thus it began.

Rules of the Do Not Talk To Me Couch:

You sit there? No one speaks to you.

You cry? No you didn’t.

You eat cold noodles off your chest at 4 a.m.? That’s sacred time.

If someone tries to comfort you? They are excommunicated for 12 hours.

Dick (sitting on the couch):

Damian: Grayson, are you—

Jason (from across the cave): HE’S ON THE COUCH.

Jason: I don’t make the rules.

Steph: You LITERALLY made the rules.

Jason: And I am the defender of the rules. There’s a difference.

one time damian storms in. covered in blood. absolutely furious. 10/10 rage goblin energy. throws his sword. marches to the couch. sits. arms crossed. steaming.

tim takes one look at him and goes: “i’m making tea.”

jason: “that’s acceptable. tea is allowed. talking is not.”

bonus:

once bruce sits on it.

and the ENTIRE CAVE goes silent.

tim literally freezes mid-typing. cass stops mid-flip. jason just mutters “oh shit.”

they all leave. immediately.

the couch is not ready for bruce.

extra bonus:

alfred vacuums around the couch. never says a word. leaves snacks in a silent offering. once placed a weighted blanket gently on jason’s shoulder. that’s different. he’s allowed.

Interviewer, catching Damian in costume: Robin! Can you explain the process of picking up Robin or passing on the mantle?

Damian, mildly annoyed at Bruce at the moment: It's quite simple. Batmam steals young children from their bed, usually nine or ten or so. Then he takes you to his lair and give you a deal.

Damian: If you can beat him in a game of your choosing, he will train you to be Robin. If you lose, you are eaten. I beat him in a classic fencing game. He's quite good with swords, but he wasn't very good with the sport itself.

Tim, standing next to him: Yeah, I beat him at a memory card game. I like totally cheated, but I'm too old for him to eat now, so ot doesn't matter.

Damian, nodding: Yes. The worst part of the job is disposing of failed Robins bones. He usually sucks them clean and leaves them all over the floor.

Tim: Yeah, its messy. But after you hit, like 15 he stops trying to eat you, so that's cool.

Damian: I have not yet reached 15. I'm still in danger. If you have more questions, ask Nightwing, as he was the first to avoid being eaten.

-

Same interviewer, at a different date: Mr. Nightwing. Is it true Batman tries to eat potential Robins?

Dick, who has no idea what she's taking about: Yeah, it's really scary. His jaw unhinges like a snake.

So this was the page art I did for the Sunshine Soap Zine. 🧡 Soap and Ghost taking advantage of some quiet downtime on a mission as they wait to head back out again...

what were meant to be stickers for the call of booty event </3 still love em tho

are you man enough?

Dick, running into the kitchen one morning: "Clark! Bruce! Look! The tooth fairy left me a hundred dollars last night!" Clark, barely containing his shock: "Wow, that is... Great! Isn't that great, Bruce?" Bruce, equally perturbed: "Yes... That is... Great." Dick, running back out: "This is awesome! My mouth is full of the things!"

Clark, turning to Bruce once alone: "I know you're rich, but come on! A hundred dollars? I was lucky if I even got one." Bruce, burrowing his head in his hands: "I thought it was a dollar. I would have never given him a hundred, I didn't--" *Loud crashing sound following by pitiful wailing*

Alfred, walking in a few moments later holding a now sobbing Dick: "Sirs, I wish to inform you, Master Dick just jumped off the first floor banister yelling 'I'm going to be a millionaire'. I will call Dr Tompkins."

Dick, wailing loudly: "I didn't even loose another tooth!"

Alfred, raising an eyebrow at Bruce.

Bruce, holding up his hands: "I can explain."

▪︎𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 “𝙎𝙤𝙖𝙥” 𝙈𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙝 | 𝙏𝙁 𝟭𝟰𝟭– 𝙊𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙡𝙚 ▪︎

“Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.”

— Vincent Van Gogh

and a lil something spicy that was meant for the zine~

"Home, In All But Name"

Summary: The war’s loud. The world’s rough. But here, in this room, among these misfits, killers, and brothers — it almost feels like home.

Rating: wholesome, cozy, found family fluff

Soap was snoring on the couch again.

One boot half on, the other discarded somewhere under Price’s desk, his head hung off the armrest at an angle that couldn’t be healthy. Gaz had tried waking him up twice already, only to get a swat and a muttered, “M’fine, mum.”

Ghost sat in the corner, legs kicked up on the table, sharpening a knife with lazy, deliberate strokes. Every once in a while, he’d glance over at you from behind the skull mask, not saying a word — just checking. Just watching.

Price walked in with a tray of mugs, black coffee for himself and Ghost, tea for you, and whatever chaos-fueled mix Soap claimed helped him sleep like a rock. He handed you yours first, giving your shoulder a little squeeze as he passed.

“Everyone alive?” he asked dryly.

“Physically,” Gaz muttered from where he was trying to untangle Soap’s comms wire from his bootlace. “Emotionally? Jury’s out.”

Price chuckled, deep and warm. “Close enough.”

You sat back in your chair, wrapping your hands around your mug, letting the silence settle in. It was a quiet kind of peace — the kind you only found in the lulls between missions. No gunfire. No yelling. Just the low buzz of the heater, the clink of metal, and the occasional snore from the couch.

Ghost leaned back, mask tilted toward you. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. This helps.”

“This?” he asked.

You gestured vaguely — to all of it. Soap drooling on the couch. Gaz swearing at tangled cords. Price humming something under his breath. Ghost sharpening his third knife for no reason.

“This. You guys.”

Ghost didn’t say anything for a beat. Then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You help too.”

Masterlist

happy mermay! one sturgeon soap for you <3

Mermaid AU now with Jason!

more mermaid stuff

They're not supposed to go beyond the Coral Reef alone, but Dick loves sneaking out, and looking for various shells and stones especially because it reminds him of traveling with his parents. One night, Jason followed him...

Bruce and Alfred found out they snuck out and immediately started searching. But it was too late, Jason couldn't be found and Dick was barely alive.

One day during Dicks recovery, Alfred was on his way to check on him, but he was gone...

I think Jason is taller than Bruce but because they re-met in their suits, and Batman had a slight heel, Jason didn’t notice. But Bruce did. So now he has a bigger heel.

Dick has noticed but no one else is looking, he just knows because he’s been around B since nearly the beginning. And he is definitely holding that over Bruce’s head.

Bruce partly did it out of assholery but also a little bit of stupid paternal feelings about his baby being all grown up.

Jason still hasn’t noticed because they both wear boots and are still rarely in casual clothes/barefoot around each other.

10 year old Dick: "Bruce, when you get married, can I be the best man?"

Bruce: "Of course, chum."

---

12 year old Dick: "Hey Clark, do you think when you get married, I can be your best man?"

Clark: "I don't see why not."

---

25 year old Dick: "In my defence, I had no way of knowing you'd end up marrying each other."

thinking about getting a little too drunk w husband!simon…

he’s already a super possessive guy, but your drunken antics are only making it ten times worse.

sure, coming to the bar was his idea. it was only fair, after such a long week at work, that he got to have a nice dinner on the town and a few beers shortly after. even better that he got to do it with his pretty fucking wife, you know?

yeah, he watched you slip into the tightest, smallest dress you had, curl your hair into pretty little coils, and push and pull at everything else out of place. he saw the too tall black pumps you choose— the one’s he got you for your anniversary that make your legs look model-length long. he even saw the way your black lace bralette played peek-a-boo along your dress’s neckline.

all of it only made him more excited.

getting to show you off on the town? his sweet, sexy little woman all done-up and pretty, hanging off his arm like his little trophy? god, he was practically hard before you two could reach the front door.

the second that liquor hit your system, though, was the second all hell broke loose.

at this point in the night, you’re long past the idea of sitting pretty, eating your food, and posing for pictures. now, you’re feeling good. a little tipsy, or maybe even drunk. all the shyness or docile little feelings from the beginning of the night are gone.

now, you wanna dance. you wanna throw your arms up and sway with the other bar-goers, and why shouldn’t you be able to?

you didn’t mind the way your dress rode up your thighs, giving the wrong people an eyeful of your goods. you hadn’t noticed the men who’d run their hands over you, every so often passing by with their crotch just a little too close to your ass. all you were focused on was the music, how good you felt, and when your next shot was coming.

if only you had paid attention to the damn near menacing stare simon had you under. something that rivaled a madman’s with its intensity.

he’d held back for the first few songs, letting the angel on his shoulder telling him to ease up guide him. sure, he still stood around like an unamused body guard, sending glares to the gawking men and buying your drinks whenever you asked. maybe occasionally he’d get a cute picture or video of you too. that was just what came with the simon o’riley type though.

it wasn’t until you got to the flirty territory, grinding your ass into him with the music or kissing him with a little too much tongue, that he decided to pull the plug.

and god, did you always give him attitude for it.

“i’m not ready to leave, simon,” you’d whine, eyes glossed over and face screwed up in that cute little way you only do when you’re aggravated.

“i want another drink,” but you’re slurring and stumbling already.

“just keep kissing on me, baby,” you protest as he grabs your discarded shoes and purse and starts leading you towards the exit.

he’s sweet with you at first, given how drunk and cute you truly are. sure, you may have triggered his possessiveness early, but you’re batting your eyelashes up at him and clinging onto him for dear life. how could he not talk to you softly? how could he not kiss you back as he tugged your dress back down?

“it’s alright, lovie. let’s get home and i’ll take such good care of you.”

you start trying to fight him though and you’ll see how thin his patience truly is.

doing things out of spite? pulling his hands away from you while he’s trying to guide you down the street? arguing with him through your half-coherent sentences? cursing him under your breath just loud enough that he can hear it?

you’re getting yourself in trouble and you’re too drunk to know it.

he was prepared to let your little outbursts slide. wouldn’t hold it against you and still keep his plans straight for the night.

after all you’d done, he was still gonna get you home, slip off those stockings and undo those zippers. dedicate the rest of the night to making you feel all good like how you’d begging him too.

but you just can’t keep that pretty little mouth shut, can you?

“don’t make it worse for yourself.” he’d warn, grabbing your face from its resting place against his passenger-side window, “you’ve already fucked up enough as is, yeah?”

his voice is gruff and his jaw is set, but his eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

you’ll be making it up to him all night long, and he’s gonna be anything but nice now ;)

headcanon that the bat kids have a shared note on their phones called "shit bruce says that's technically not a lie but is INCREDIBLY misleading"

examples include:

bruce, calmly sipping coffee while covered in bandages: "the mission went fine"

bruce, after disappearing for 3 days: "i was busy with work"

bruce, to a socialite asking about his kids: "they're very well-behaved"

bruce, after alfred finds him testing potentially lethal tech on himself: "the chances of catastrophic failure are statistically insignificant"

and the latest addition, from last tuesday:

tim: "did you seriously tell superman you were 'mildly inconvenienced' when you had THREE BROKEN RIBS?"

bruce, not looking up from his computer: "three broken ribs IS a mild inconvenience"

jason, walking past: "to fucking WHO?"

bruce: "language."

jason: "TO WHOM, then, you absolute psychopath?"

———

damian adds his own entry later that night:

"Father told me today that Grayson was 'somewhat enthusiastic' as Robin. This is the same Grayson who did a quadruple somersault off a skyscraper just to catch a hat that was blowing away from a civilian."

dick, reading over his shoulder: "in my defense, it was a really nice hat."

You like to crochet at night and simon likes to lay his head on your lap while you do so he let's you use his night vision goggles so you can still crochet while he falls asleep on your lap

Clark: "Hey, B, are you okay, you look a little--"

Bruce: "What ever you are about to say, don't say it."

Clark: "Why?"

Bruce, in a whisper: "Because Dick has taken it upon himself to impress me with backflips should I appear upset."

Clark: "And this is a problem because?"

Bruce, still whispering: "Because whilst in all other ways he is a gifted acrobat, every time he does a backflip, without fail, he falls on his face and fighting back the urge to laugh everytime is starting to wear on me."

Clark: "Aww, Bruce. Sounds like he messes up on purpose to try and make you laugh, 'cause I've seen him do backflips lots of times."

Bruce: "Oh..."

---

Bruce, later as he tucks Dick into bed: "If you really want to make me laugh, you should do that thing where you jump onto Clark..."

---

Dick, the next morning leaping from the chandelier: "SKY ATTACK."

Clark, scrambling to catch him: "Jesus, Dick!"

Intro Post

Hi! I go by Vic or Bat and use they/he pronouns.

This is just a place for me to reblog fics, art and other fandom stuff I like.

Currently, it's mostly Batfam and Call of Duty. Feel free to come chat about them!

I don't tag things. I understand that it may deter people for following me, but this is a place for me to enjoy fandom, not have to make sure other people are comfortable.

So as a warning, I am 22 and I will reblog NSFW fics/art as well as dark content and it won't be tagged. Follow at your own risk.

Your mental heath and triggers are not my responsibility, they're yours. Unfollow or block me.

That may sound rude, but I want to reiterate that this is a place for me to enjoy fandom, though I hope other people can too.

Minors and bigots, DNI. I have no issue with blocking people. You won't get an answer.

Recommended Fics

Call of Duty

Bleed into my open mouth will you, won't you? by @kaadaaan

Summary: Simon Riley never learned to let go. He lets the pain follow him, swallow him, devour him whole. For once, he wants to be the one who consumes.

This ghoap fan art!!!

Recommended Creators

Call of Duty

@bi-writes, @dante-mightdie, @yooo-lets-go

Divider Credits:

@strangergraphics-archive - bats

@huraxy - webs