I Love Butcher!Simon. I Love Weirdo!Simon. But I Extra Love Weirdo!butcher!Simon. He's Just So Awkwardly

simon knew it was over the moment he realized just how freaky you are.

simon knew he was massive—he always had.

it was a quiet fear that followed him, the thought that if he lost control for even a moment, he might hurt you. his touch was always careful, deliberate.

his hands were wrapped around your neck, not tight, but gentle—just enough to feel the pulse beneath your skin. his thumbs rested softly against your throat, his grip light, careful not to leave a mark. but when you started frantically grinding your hips against his, rolling your body in desperate need, everything shifted.

a low, guttural noise rumbled from his throat as his body responded on instinct. without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—

it happened.

you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:

you liked it rough.

you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.

he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet

—you were freaky.

a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

Boyfriend!Soap who just loves his girlfriend. Carries a photo of you with him in his wallet. Also, has a photo of you in a heart frame on his office desk on base.

“Yeah, this is my wife 😼”

Some of his coworkers on base genuinely believe you two are married. No ring, no ceremony, but spiritually Soap is devoted to his missus MacTavish.

Bonus: a rookie was crying over his girlfriend breaking up with him, so in turn Soap did what he does

“Awww man, that’s tuff… my wifey would never!”

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

dead man walking

—

or, cyberpunk 2077 tarot (the magician) but it’s ghost

SPN MOODBOARDS

Damocles - Sleep Token

What if I can't get up and stand tall? What if the diamond days are all gone And who will I be when thе empire falls? Wake up alonе and I'll be forgotten

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)

people say the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t believable but if I caught Bruce Wayne drunkenly lying under a desk in an office he shouldn’t have access to with a ream of secure documents and he replied to my “Mr. Wayne?” with “Mr. Wayne was my father—oh god, my father” and then started sobbing, I would 100% back away and leave him alone. like that shit would work on me every time.

I learned to draw him now I put him in angsty situations 🫶