sanity๏ธฑshe/they๏ธฑ18๏ธฑbegginer fic writer๏ธฑno dni, but i block freely๏ธฑwriting for x reader, but i'm open to character x character๏ธฑreally into battinson as of late๏ธฑenglish isn't my first language
๐๐ข๐๐ฌ!
fandoms: the batman (2022), potentially my chemical romance
masterlist ๏ธฑcross-posting everything on AO3 (shown to registered users only!)
๐ญ๐๐ ๐ฌ!
#sanity writes โ my works, including requests and headcanons ๏ธฑ #sanity talks โ thoughts and rambles๏ธฑ #sanity answers โ answering asks and requests (with links to written requests)๏ธฑ #sanity reads โ reblogs of other writers' fics
masterlistโโ ! โ do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites. โถ
His love language is acts of service.
He read that somewhereโsome stupid quiz you made him takeไธand he latched onto it like a lifeline because it made him sound normal.
See?
See??
He's not a freak, he just likes doing things for you. It's a legitimate psychological concept. It's on the internet, go look it up. It's real.
He loves it when you want something from him. He lives for it. Thrives on it. Gets dizzy with it the second you so much as look at an empty glass.
You barely have to open your mouth. You just shift on the couch and sigh and he's already upright, already halfway to the kitchen, already aching.
"Water? Snacks? A blanket? Your heating pad? Do you want the kitten mug or the big one? Do youโ"
"Just water, baby."
Baby.
His knees almost buckle.
Focus.
Water. You need water. He can do that. He's getting you water. Look at him goไธsuch a good boyfriend, so attentive, so caring, he's fucking nailing this.
He pours the water so carefully. No ice. You don't like it too cold, it hurts your teeth, and he remembered that because he remembers everything about you, every tiny preference, every little sound you make when you're happy.
Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
He hands you the glass with both hands like an offering at an altar. Bouncing a little on his heels. Doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until you take a sip and your throat moves and he's watching the little bob of it and his mouth is dry but that doesn't matter becauseโ
He have to be patient.
Waiting.
Just waiting for it.
Come on. Come on. Say it. Say the words. Give him the thing. He needs it.
"Thank you, love."
Oh.
The words hit his brain like a shot of something warm and syrupy. Thank you. You thanked him. He did good. He did good and you noticed and you said thank you and now he's standing there with his heart doing backflips in his chest.
He wants more. He wants you to say it again. He wants you to pat his head and tell him he did such a good job, that he's so helpful, that you don't know what you'd do without him. He's practically vibrating with it, this desperate, aching need for your approval, and it's pathetic, he knows it's pathetic, he's a grown man getting high off a thank you like it's a line of cokeโ
Cute isn't he?
No.
No, he's not cute.
He's a dog. A mangy. panting. desperate dog who just got a pat on the head for fetching.
And he gets hard like a dog in heat too.
Always hard.
Always.
You could ask him to pass the salt and he'd have to adjust himself under the table.
You could ask him to zip up your dress and his hands would shake and he'd have to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled just to keep from moaning at the brush of his knuckles against your spine.
What a loser, right?
His dick twitches.
Jesus Christ.
He's hard again.
Weirdo.
Disgusting.
Pervert.
He hates himself. He hates himself so fucking much.
Why can't he be normal? Why can't his dick just stay soft like a regular boyfriend instead of twitching every time you say his name? You're gonna hate him, aren't you?
Oh god oh god oh god.
You're gonna find out. You're going to hate him. You're going to leave him. You think he's disgusting. You think he's a creep. You're gonna leave him. You're gonna walkout that door and he'll never feel your eyes on him again and he'll die, he'll actually just curl up on the floor and stop breathing because what's the pointโ
"Such a good boy."
Huh?
Good boy??
Him???
He freezes.
Did you justไธdid those words actually come out of your mouth? Good boy.
Good. Boy.
And you're smiling.
You look so beautiful when you smile. Your soft eyes and your softer lips and the way your cheek creases just a little and he wants to lick it, he wants to suck that smile right off your face and swallow it whole so it lives inside him foreverโ
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
He's so hard he could die on spot.
"Um... excuse me."
The words come out strangled. He's already backing away, hands positioned awkwardly in front of his crotch like a teenager caught watching porn.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
You probably think he's having digestive issues. That's fine. That's better than the truth.
He immediately bolts to the bathroom, lock clicking behind him.
You don't know. You didn't see. You're not going to leave him. He won't let you leave him anyway. He'll lock the doors and he'll nail the windows shut and he'll chain you to bed and he'll chop your pretty legs off if he has toโ
no no no no no NO!!!
Don't think that. Don't you ever fucking think that about her. You sick fuck. How can you even imagine hurting her? Chopping off her perfect pretty legs? How dare you?? How fucking dare you???
If you do that you could never feel her thighs wrapped around your head while you suck on her clit. You'd never feel them tremble and clampagainst your ears while she moans your name. You'd never get to press your tongue inside her while her legs are draped over your shoulders, soft and warm and alive.
OH!!!
Okay that's better. He gets it now.
Yeah yeah yeah. See? He's not violent. He just panicked for a second. His brain does that sometimesไธthrows up these horrible, intrusive images that make him want to vomit but he'd never ever act on them!! He's not a monster!!! He's just... confused. Overwhelmed. He just loves you so much alright??? So much he'd unspool his own intestines into a leash if you asked him to walk himselfโ
Alright. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Deep breath.
Okay. Okay, he's fine. He's fine. Just rub one out quick and go back out there. You're waiting. He doesn't want to keep you waiting. That would make him a bad boyfriend, and he's notโhe's a good boyfriend, he's so good, you just said so, and if you said so then it must be trueโ
Shut. Up.
Focus.
His hand is shaking as he pulls down his jeans. He's leaking already, a slick little pearl at the tip, and it smears across his palm when he grips himself. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.
Firstโfirst, he needs something. Something to make it faster, make it pleasing, make it so he can walk out there and not immediately pop a boner again the second you breathe in his direction.
He opens the cabinet under the sink, behind the toilet paper, behind the bleach, where he hid it.
Your panties.
The ones you thought you lost in the laundry.
The lacy ones, light blue, a little damp in the center from a long day. He found them. He found them, okay? He didn't steal them. Fuck off. He found them. That's different. Stealing is a crime. Stealing is bad. He's not a bad person. He just... found them. On the laundry room floor. He was doing laundry like a good boyfriend, separating your underwears from the regulars because he read somewhere that youre supposed to do that, and they were just... there. In his hands. And then in his pocket. And now they're pressed against his face.
Fuuuck.
The smell hits him like a drug. Musky and sweet and so distinctly you that his knees give up. He inhales deep, pressing the soiled fabric to his nose and mouth, and his dick twitches so hard a bead of pre cum drips onto the bathroom tile.
He's disgusting. He's a creep. He's a freak and a weirdo and a pathetic little lapdog who gets hard from a thank you.
You'd hate him if you knew.
He hopes you never know.
He hopes you find out.
He hopes you walk in right now and see himโcock in hand, your panties stuffed in his mouth, tears streaming down his faceโand he hopes you step closer. He hopes you laugh. He hopes you call him a disgusting little mutt and pat his head and tell him he's still your good boy.
Your good boy.
Yours.
He cums so hard he sees stars. Ropes of it, hot and thick, splattering his hand, the floor, the little bathroom rug. He bites down on the panties to muffle the sob that tears out of him, and for a long moment he just kneels there, trembling, fucked, still crying, still hard.
But it's fine.
Everything's fine.
He cleans up. Flushes everything. Hides the panties again and washes his hands twice. Splashes water on his face. Looks in the mirror. Practices his smile.
He looks normal.
He is normal.
He's a good boy.
Then he opens the bathroom door and smiles.
"You okay?" you ask, tilting your head.
And he could say it. He could confess. He could drop to his knees right now and tell you everything and beg for forgiveness or punishment or whatever you wanted to give him.
Instead he just nods. Crawls onto the couch beside you. Rests his head in your lap like the loyal dog he is.
"Just missed you," he mumbles into your thigh.
You stroke his hair.
He almost gets hard again.
He's so fucked up.
But you're still here. Still petting him. Still calling him yours.
So he must be doing something right.
If you want to be in my taglist let me know :)
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masterlist๏ธฑcross-posted on AO3๏ธฑprev. headcanons: nsfw!Battinson!Bruce headcanons๏ธฑnext: stay tuned!
partly based on this lovely ask
no nsfw, read under the cut!
โ would not be very talkative about his love for you, but there really wouldn't be much of a need for him not. he's always been way more of a hands on person, believing that gestures convey a lot more than words.
โ even though he is a little bit socially stunted and awkward, Alfred had always him to be a gentleman. being the only heir to the Wayne family and not being well-mannered would be "simply disastrous and, quite frankly, disgraceful". that translates into your relationship as well.
โ when you're driving somewhere, he will open the door for you to get in, and he will not let the valet open your door, even if they open his. expect flowers given to you at least once a week. each flower carefully picked by him, delivered to your bedroom door. doesn't matter if you've been dating for a month, or for years, it's just what he deems as appropriate. is (almost) never late. he will wait for you without complaints, and will arrive five minutes earlier to make sure you aren't waiting for him already. the only times when his punctuality isn't at the top of its game is when he's out late at night, investigating in the city streets or looping the nights footage in the cave.
โ acts of service are his love language, and so, small actions are the bare minimum to him. he will gladly kneel in front of you to help you put on your heels, for example. when you're eating together, he will pull your chair out for you without much thought. the gesture will be the same even if you're alone in the cold of the Batcave, when he'll quietly take of his thick hoodie to wrap it around your shoulders, or when you two just happen to be in public at a charity gala.
โ if your relationship is public, he will make sure that everyone knows that Gothams most sought after bachelor is no more. the small amount of public appearances him, and you as well, make will be more than enough to show it. sweet gestures in front of people and the cameras are a non negotiable. he does not necessarily want to show you off, but all of those actions are very passive. kissing your hand when he reaches to hold it while you two walk up the stairs, fixing a bit of smudged lipstick with his thumb, lovingly looking up at you whilst you're talking to someone else (even though he was supposed to pay attention and engage in conversation).
โ if your relationship came into the public eye accidentally, presumably due to paparazzi, he did a single interview. he didn't exactly lay his heart onto his sleeve for the whole world to see, but his feelings for you were so extremely obvious. and he definitely wasn't hiding it! praising you and explaining how smart, capable, calm, and kind you were was done without missing a beat. he was conservative on the comments about your looks. simply stating that 'the moment he first saw you, all the light of the world darkened and left you as the only illumination his eyes had ever had the mere luck to lay on'. so conservative.
โ when he does choose to use his words, he melts you. the words he uses always tend to be some of the most meaningful and sweet compliments you've ever received and strike straight into you. he has always been a man of few words, but telling you how every touch of your finger tips makes him believe that there is a heaven makes up for it. your stoic and calm nature can't last very long around those words. he will coo and whisper it into your ear softly, while hugging you from behind.
โ on the topic of hugging! physical touch is key to him. he had been so touch starved for all of his life, so when he finally feels comfortable to lean into your touch, he never stops. any moment of physical intimacy he can get, he will. there is the usual of holding your waist and holding your hand, hugging you as he falls asleep, but that isn't even the half of it. keeping his hand on your thigh while driving around the city, or asking you to just hold his arm while he has to use his hands for anything. being unable to touch you is like agony to him. kisses are always present. kisses for a good morning, for good night, for thank you, for i'm sorry, for i love you, and just for. kisses and small pecks on any part of your face and body. if he could, he'd spent the rest of his life softly laying his lips onto you.
โ he is simply smitten with you. even if he might not show it as much, you've taken his heart hostage and he never, ever wants you to let it go. some days he has to supress himself from laying his mind and feelings bare in front of you, as his tongue would just unravel and he won't be able to stop himself, probably ever. words would choke him but he'd gladly succumb to that if it meant you'd know a fraction of his feelings about you. sometimes he gives you tidbits though. and those words can keep you fed for days.
โ it is well known that Bruce has a habit of staring. the usual socially awkward stares have a whole different meaning when they're directed at you. he loves to look at you, to take in your whole presence. while you talk, he'll watch your lips move, your facial expressions and your gestures, trying to take in as much of you as possible. he'd watch your legs as you walked, your chest rise and fall as you'd breathe, your back when you're turned away from him, your eyes before you'd lean in to kiss him. he'd stand by and admire every milimeter of your skin.
โ he'd be okay with holding eye contact with you as well! he still isn't as comfortable with it as when he is in the Batsuit, but it is miles better than with others. every moment that he is able to hold eye contact with you is precious. he'd sink in every color of your irises, trying to see into your soul. not in order to understand some yet unspoken truth in between you, as he'd try with others, but in order to reach that final moment of closeness with you. to finally have you closer than ever. those little stares feel like heaven.
โ in short, bruce is head over heels in love with you. he'll kiss your cheek before bed and give you the sweetest compliments whispered into your ear before a rare public outing. he's always been a gentleman, but, before you, not even he himself knew he was a rotten romantic (or a good old-fashioned lover boy)
writing headcanons is so fun ugh. currently trying to ease myself back into writing so i don't write a bunch of stuff and then disappear for another five to six months again. wish me luck lol!
freak frankโฆ.? looks around โฆhuh.. mustโve been the windโฆ
#freakfrank headcanons
summary: the f in frank stands for freaky
warnings: jerking off, dry humping, oral sex, spit, choking, masochism lowkey, creampie (donโt be stupid, wrap it up) pictures and videotaping
authors note: you have permission to throw pennies at me if this sucks ass #badatwritingsmut
-freak frank whoโs lowkey a pervert. He has this polaroid of you in his wallet (a completely normal photo of you just smiling at the camera that he took on one of your first dates) that he pulls out in the bathroom at work or even in his car after a hard shift and just tirelessly fucks his fist to it. His eyes are locked onto the photo the entire time as he pumps himself over and over at a feverish pace, his mind replaying every memory he has of you guys fucking, of how good you look stretching out around him, of how perfectly he fits inside you, like you were made for him. Heโs coming in record time, (man couldn't last long if his life depended on it) spilling onto the pretty picture with a quiet whimper. He ogles at it for a moment while he catches his breath, wiping it down eventually and stuffing it back inside his wallet. Itโs warping from how many times heโs used it like that, might have to replace it soon </3
-freak frank whoโs a big #dryhumping fan. He adores getting high with you in his room, rutting against your leg lazily like a dog in heat, practically drooling into your neck from how good it feels. Heโs ruined a good chunk of his jeans at this point but he could not care less. Heโll hump his pillow sometimes while staring at a picture you sent him like heโs a man looking at a locket of his wife while heโs away at war.
-freak frank who, despite his slightly perverted nature, isnโt super crazy about weird ass positions. Missionary and you riding him are his best friends. There's something to him about watching your face, visibly seeing how good heโs making you feel with every thrust that lights his brain up and completely fogs it all at the same time. Heโll give some life altering backshots if heโs really feeling it though.
-freak frank whoโs a complete munch. Iโm talking he genuinely salivates at the thought of eating you out. He moans while he works on you, his hands sliding up your sides to grip at your waist before moving them up and down the soft skin soothingly. He goes between lapping at you at a feverish pace like heโs a man starved before switching to a slower, more mild pace, pulling back and kissing where his mouth was just latched for the past couple minutes when you start mumbling something about how close you are. He wants to savor it for as long as he can even though he already knows heโs just gonna try and coax you into going again. And he is most definitely humping that mattress under him the entire time, shamelessly leaving a wet spot behind.
-freak frank who loves spit. Loves spitting into your mouth, loves you spitting into his, loves when you suck on his thumb and he gets to see that stupid string of saliva once he pulls it out. Heโd probably fuck with spit painting asmr HEAVY
-freak frank who canโt resist coming inside you. heโs all for safe sex but, and itโs a big but, if you give him the green light heโs emptying himself inside you time after time after time. he gets all googly eyed while watching it all pour back out of you, using his fingers to try and push some of it back in sometimes, sucking off whatever got on his digits. he always buys the plan b for you though #responsible
-freak frank who can only get off to porn when the actors look or sound like you
-freak frank whoโs a glutton for punishment. will purposely get on your nerves or start an argument with you just so youโre extra rough with him that night. wants you to slap his face and dick, call him all kinds of mean shit, edge him, choke him till heโs tapping out, have his hair tugged on with all the strength you have. anything even slightly painful, he wants all of it.
-freak frank who loves taking pictures and videos mid sex. Nothing fancy, just enough to have something to get off to later on. He keeps them in a hidden folder on his phone, scrolling through them when he starts missing you late at night
The weather outside was still rather gloomy. Gotham always took a little longer to wake up from it's winter slumber than the rest of the world. Long winter evenings wound stretch their arms as far out as they could, leaving cold breezes and frost covered grass in the mornings. The snow has long left by now, the muddy puddles, on the other hand, have not. Rain has been falling on the city for the last week. Rhythmic pitter patter on every surface had become background noise. Umbrellas and raincoats hung next to every front door. If someone that was not from the city had spawned in your living room and looked outside, they would be valid to assume that they did not only travel through space, but through time as well, and had been transported into an early October morning. You certainly felt like that. Even though your dimly lit flat had surprisingly good heating (for Gotham standards) you felt cold. Maybe it was due to a lack of sleep. Bruce, or, more accurately, The Batman, had knocked at your fire escape window at some late night hour, asking to be let in to crash the night. That has become a lot more common of an occurrence recently. He'd hower over you, still groggy and drowsy from sleep, and explain how he felt too dizzy to go back home. Or how his leg hurt too much. Or how he'd been up for three consecutive days and didn't trust himself with driving. Some of those excuses were probably true. Especially the last one. But you had your suspicions over some other ones. It didn't matter. He'd still take off his steel toed boots and Kevlar armoured suit, shower in your bathroom, and accidentally wake you up while trying to crawl into bed, no matter which excuses he used at your window. Maybe soon he'll stop looking for excuses altogether. Currently, he was in your bed, still sleeping peacefully under far too many blankets for the middle of April. But Gotham weather does as it pleases. You had managed to sneak out of bed around half an hour ago. Thankfully, you didn't have work today, as the rain seemed to be the heaviest since this whole spell. After a noticeably quieter morning routine, you were now in your kitchen. Through weeks of extensive work, you had managed to peel back some layers of Bruce's shell. One of the fruits of your labour was the name of his favourite food โ mulligatawny soup! You promised yourself that you will try your hand at making the soup one time, when you're sure Bruce will be around to try it while it's hot. At the time of that promise, there were not a lot of those instances. By now, you could roughly predict when you'd be woken up in the middle of the night by his rhythmic, soft knocks. In preparation, you had travelled around Gotham to find some instant mulligatawny soup, to be ensured that you'll be able to execute your plan whenever the time feels right. And a cold, rainy, pseudo October morning would be wasted if he would wake up without a warm mug of his favourite soup on your coffee table. The water boiled, the mixture was added, the pot was stirred, the smell filled the air around you and, eventually, your gas stove was turned off. You carefully poured the soup into two mugs, setting them at your small, slightly messy, wooden coffee table and turning on the TV. As you finally sat down on the couch, cuddling yourself with a throw blanket as you watch the morning city news, a pair of arms grabs you from behind. Bruce buries his head in the crook of your neck, his arms lazily hugging you from behind. This might be your personal favorite part of him crashing at your place. Whenever Bruce is sleepy, he lets his stone hard guard down just enough, letting himself be closer with you. His cravings for touch bubble to the surface, as he clings for you until he's a little more awake, or passed out cold. You hands hold his arms, fingers grazing over his skin as you wish him a good morning. In return, you receive an incoherent murmur into the space between your neck and shoulder. Some minutes after, he lazily lifted his head to look at the TV screen. And at the coffee table below.
"You made soup?"
"Mulligatawny, yes"
"...that's really kind of you"
"You should try it. It's some instant dry powder mix, and I want to know if it's any good. You're the expert"
In response, Bruce buried his face in the crook of your neck once more. Maybe he didn't count on you remembering details of one throwaway conversation from months ago. Who knows. You lifted one of your hands to his hair, gently massaging his scalp and roughing up his already messy head of hair. It was rarely a surprise to see him react in this manner to any sign of attention or care. Being almost completely socially isolated will do that to someone. Yet it was always sweet to see him come to terms with the fact that he is heard, and not just seen. He stood up slowly, walking around the couch from behind, before sitting down in front of you, right in the empty space between the couch and table. Now you were met with the crown of his head, his face turned in front. Your eyes followed the lines of his back peeking through the baggy shirt. You'd wonder about the bruises left on his pale skin from last night. Which places held scars from worse, more dramatic nights. Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of Bruce's voice. He turned to look at you, glancing upwards into your eyes.
"It's really good"
If you were a little more mature you'd pride yourself in that comment, and that you managed to make "really good" instant mulligatawny soup first thing in the morning. Or that your boyfriend can look you in the eyes without any awkwardness and without looking away due to insecurity or social anxiety. But instead you were biting down on your tongue, trying your very hardest not to make a single sound or look anywhere else other than his eyes because you'd certainly burst into a fit of laughter.
You failed.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, as Bruce sat looking up at you with a puzzled expression. After a couple seconds, a murmured question of "Do I have something on my face?" came from his general vicinity, to which you just maniacally shook your head. A soft hum left his lips, as he stood up. The mirror by your doorway would be the easiest way to decode your sudden fit of laughter. When he walked up to it, he surely had a sight to see. Bruce's eyes and the general upper half of his face were still covered in a messy, uneven layer of black kohl, with various patters, with red pillow markings fully covering his right cheek, and a thin line of yellow soup was drawn over his upper lip. He looked like a toddler. A blank expression sat on his face for a couple of moments, as he held eye contact with his reflection. Before a stifled laugh escaped his lips. He just buried his face in his hands in defeat as his own laughter filled the living room alongside yours.
i don't know if i have an accurate understanding of what a drabble is and how to write it but #fuckitweball. Don't be shy and leave a comment!! I love reading anything and everything people have to say about my writing (so constructive criticism is very, very welcome). Whenever summer comes my autumn cravings come back and I cannot sleep peacefully until mid October, so here is a fake autumn fic
title from IYDKMIGHTKY (Gimme that) by Type O Negative
can be read as a part two of The Drifter and The Distraction
masterlist๏ธฑcross-posted on AO3๏ธฑcontains NSFW, minors interact at your own risk๏ธฑread under the cut
based on this and this lovely ask!
The human experience revolves around spreading our wings and licking our wounds. Stretching out every single muscle until we are sure every part of us will ache tomorrow come. Then diving off the edge. Letting our bare feet part way with the rocky, rough ledge, with the cruel winds whipping their soles. If our body is agile and our senses sharp, we will adapt to the free fall before we kiss ground and leave a splatter in the dirt. We will glide easily across the dawning skyline. Itching closer and closer to the blinding Sun or the chilling Moon. If only Icarus knew when to stop. But without him, we would not have a clue to it. Basking in the warmth of the sun and in the cold of the air. Living in the grandiose in-between for at least a second. Oh, the beauty of being capable.
Others are not so lucky. The gravitational pull is far too strong. Limbs too heavy and long. The winds scratch our face and cold air tears apart the lungs with each breath. It is far too violent, so our eyes shut in self defense. Before we are even able to process the hurdling fall, our body crashes with the ground. Bones bent at unnatural angles. Skin painted with blues and dripping reds. Spine curled to mimic the position of fetus. The safest moment of life; before life was even fully there. In attempts to save grace during these intimate moments, we disappear. Go to the corners in which we feel the safest in. Maybe find comfort in the warmth of someone elses hands. Wrap bandages over joints and put bags of ice on our ribs. Seek the soft dull of familiarity for a few heartbeats more before hurling our body over the edge once more.
Maybe it is the fact he spent his whole life rewrapping his head in bandages or showing ice down his throat in vain attempts to cure a fever that was never existent. He never truly jumped. Two gruff, grimy hands shoved his body off the edge before his pin feathers even sprouted into a proper, warm coat. As he fell, he slammed his hands against the rocky cliff, breaking fingers and losing nails in a scramble to find some stability. To get another second of assured stillness and calmness. Then, his body slammed into the ground. For a while, there were no dark corners and campfires for him to crawl to. So, he just stayed put, not bothering to flip over and look up at the gray clouds. There was nothing to limp to, there was no bother in twisting his broken body to some vacant heaven. His fingers healed like crooked branches, painful and wrong. His spine stayed slightly curved to the left, from the impact of the fall. Pebbles imbedded into his skin, leaving holes and marks when he finally sat up. Bugs bit the exposed patches of his flesh, small red dots coloring his back, neck and arms. He does not know how long he stayed and layed there. Maybe he is still down in the grass, daydreaming about moving someplace else. Away. Far from the bugs and the gloomy sky above.
Everything he touches becomes stained and grimy. Nothing can wash away the years of rot imbedded into his bones. That is why his hands tend to be fixated on his neck. He will scratch it red and raw before reaching out for something to hold. After all, he cannot dirty something that is already his. He carries filth in his soul and he knows it. And he knows how much that cripples him in everyday activities. Therefore, he is aware of the burden of being dirty. Feeling someone elses skin can result in two outcomes: they become dirty or he becomes dirtier. He infects them with the same illness he's been tied to for nearly all his life. The other person will deteriorate and wither until they're a husk, emptier than him. He will suck the soul out of their own red and raw neck like a vampire. Option two, the slingshot backfires and hits him square in the nose. The blood seeping from it will drip into his mouth and down to his shirt. It will dry and paint his face in new shades of disgust. The person will spill through his fingertips like grains of sand. That is why Bruce Wayne does not touch. He just watches.
Today, he tasked himself with intently watching the gates of The Iceberg Lounge. Before patrol, that is. The hoodie and denim jacket feel suffocating on his torso. They cling to his shoulders, squeezing right by his armpits, the inside of his elbow and at his wrists. It feels restrictive. None of the materials feel like fabric, they are simply too rigid, and there are far too many of them dripped one over the other. He is wearing an armour of cardboard, costuming into Nobody. The cap is clinging to his forehead. The scarf is making the lower half of his face feel damp. Like his jaw is inside a gas station bathroom. He does look like he belongs in one. He feels like it. The apartment still invokes a feeling of subtle anxiety in his chest. At every moment, at any sound, he is expecting Nashton to barge in through the door, or through the window on the other wall, or to simply fall through the ceiling. His eyes will be wide and glaring and he will have a manic smile on his face. Their eyes will meet and Nashton will screetch his name again again. But this time he'll know. And Bruce will know that Nashton knows. And Nashton will know that Bruce knows that Nashton knows. Maybe then Bruce will bite the bullet and part ways with the ledge willingly. Jumping through the window, diving for his head and the concrete to collide in one final, desperate moment. Nashton never comes in. It is just him and the rats chewing wallpaper. The rats are also everything wrong with the city. He despises them with his whole heart. But he will not do anything about them. Killing them would be cruel and animalistic. The rats will disappear into another moldy, two room unit when they realize there is no food here. Is there a chance that the rats will move further away? Maybe the apartment building left to this one. Or to the next neighborhood. Maybe to the city over. Would that city be soiled up because of them? Or would the rats be cleansed?
The reason Bruce is watching over the Iceberg Lounge so intensely tonight is because you are in there. Even though he is always around you, just out of sight, he cannot know everything. Or, more precisely, he chooses to keep things outside of his reach and sight. With a few minutes of poking around in the cave, all your life would be on display to him across several expensive computer screens. Anything he could ask for would be served on a silver platter, ready for him to consume and devour. That way, he will be able to understand every crevice and fold of your brain without ever hearing your voice. But where is the love in that? Having your whole self cut up into digestable and consumable pieces of data would ruin everything you are to him. Watching you and studying you from afar is very thing that drew him to this. The mystery and intrigue of putting you together via scraps and snippets he gets when he is lucky and on time feeds him. Project Gotham wakes him up every morning. The idea of you gets him out of bed. If he even sleeps, courtesy of either of you. Everything that you are to him is a compilation of (deleted) recordings of his lenses and the analyses of your mundanity in his journals. Therefore, he does not know the reason why you are in the Iceberg Lounge tonight. He can speculate, brainstorming until he reaches a satisfying conclusion. Just like working on a case. While watching the entrance, he figured out three possible and plausible explanations. One, you are tired of work and the patterns of everyday life, so you're breaking the mundane by going out. Two, there is a cause for celebration, yours or some friends, like a birthday, graduation or promotion. Three, escaping from the stresses of breathing by partying and drinking the night away, taking the worries off your shoulders like a fur coat. Each one seemed equally plausible with the information he had on hand. Maybe he will get his answer when you re-emerge from the heavy doors.
Other than giving him a weird and twisted feeling of purpose and attraction, your vegetative presence in his life finally fills the void in his chest he never managed to warm up. He protects you. The Batman, Vengeance, Shadows, however people call him now, protects Gotham and its citizens. The Drifter protects you. Just you. It is obvious that Bruce Wayne isn't The Drifter. Rather, The Drifter just happens to be Bruce Wayne. So, through convolution and contrived sentence structures, Bruce Wayne protects you. He, as a person and individual, is holding your heart and lungs in his palm like a droplet of water, not letting anyone touch them. Maybe that feeling is purpose. Whatever. The whole world knows that he has never been too well versed in knowing his soul and mind. His eyes widen and his pupils dilate. You emerge from the doors. No injuries. Smile plastered across your face. He takes a note himself to save that specific moment of the recording. Usually, he deletes everything relating to you after the sun rises. But he's seen that wide smile, grin, on your lips very few times. Must have been option two, then. A celebration. Could it be your birthday? He could find out easily. You spin on the heel of your foot, turning to look back inside. He focuses on the entrance as well. From it emerges a man. Pale. Slightly disheveled dark brown hair. Straight nose. Sharp jawline. Black clothes. The mans hand extends toward yours, gripping it, pulling you into his chest. He said something in your ear. You laugh again. Bruce can see your shoulders rhythmically rise and fall through his binoculars. Ha-ha-hah. Ha-ha-hah. There is a lump in the back of his throat. Your apartment is right next to this one. That is how he found you in the first place. Accidentally. And now, you're leading the man towards the building. Towards your apartment. Probably towards your bedroom as well. Yet, he does not move. His eyes are fixed on you and your companion. Watching as you cross the street. As his fingers glide across your cheek. As his nose grazes across that very same skin. And as his lips finally touch it. When the two silhouettes disappear into the building, he knows where he is headed.
If Bruce were a little less levelheaded and a lot stupider, he would fully convince himself that this is some sick ploy fully orchestrated by you. A subtle nod, nudge, to let him know you see him and know of him. That is simply impossible. Not once did he slip up during these past few months. The shadows seeped into his pores, like vines twisting around whichever thing came close. The safety of them lulled the guilt throbbing in the back of his skull into a quiet murmur, or a distant hum. A TV left playing in the other room. It does not matter when, where, or who he was. The long, faint arms of the dark would find him and keep him close. The only times when the dark could not protect him were when he had to step out and put on an act. Like he ever particularly tried to make the act belivable. He would have to stand alone and bare in front of the world (or just the city), getting cut up and discarded like a science lab frog. It is good he does not need to go out much. The denim jacket is constricting him more by the second. Which rarely happened. Every bit of him outside of Wayne was carefully constructed and woven. Even the jacket on his back. He could smell his own breath under the scarf. Warm, damp. He needs air. He cannot stay here anyway. The distant click of the building entrance was his go sign. The backpack carrying Vengeance was swiftly picked up. Three steps, stand by the door. Rats ran into the corners. Maybe they seek solice in the dark like him. At the end of the day, he is also a rat with wings. After the break in by the GCPD, the door could not close. He could hear every sigh the building let out. He stood still. Waiting. The adrenaline flowing through his veins felt warm. Soft laughter in the distance. Slouch more. Head low. Gaze high. Steps next. Two pairs. Slipping through the ajar door, he began walking down the dark hallway. It was long, far too stretched out and way too narrow for his liking. Two bodies emerged from the stairs, sluggishly walking towards him. Laughter, stumbling, clinging touches. The muscle by his jaw tightened. Whatever you two were conversing about seemed rather nonsensical and vague. Not like he cares. With each step, he analyzed the man. The resemblance was uncanny, almost spot on. There were few differences. The other man did not slouch when he walked. And his hair fell into his eyes gracefully. And the paleness of his skin did not look sickly. The inside of his cheek felt hot, but he continued to chew anyway. Though the mans eyes seemed to be a dark, chocolate brown, rather than Bruce's pale blue, there was something else around them that occupied his attention. Smudged black eyeliner. How perfectly ironic. He could feel how red and dry his eyes were getting from the contacts and kohl. With that on top of his whole presence, he probably looked like a junkie. A fanatic shooting up in the Riddlers apartment to feel... Something. The distance was nearly closed. The dark engulfing the hallway offered a dull sense of comfort. He could probably reach out and touch your shoulder from this distance. The darkness disappeared. For a moment. His eyes met yours. In the middle of a giggle, directed at something the man next to you said. Eyes almost closed due to the bright smile on your lips. The shape resembled crescent moons. His lips pressed into a thin line. The light flickered, before turning off again. For a split second, they elluminated you in a warmth, akin to sunlight. Maybe the days in Gotham would not be as foggy and cloudy if you chose to be outside more often. His shoulder nearly brushed the other mans. His gaze fixed back onto the floor. Two laughs echoed through the hallway. Maybe you were not concerned about possible junkies crashing next door. It does not matter. He should hurry. He needs to keep watch. In case you need help. In case you need him.
The fire escape ladder almost feels worn out by now. Almost, because Bruce is acutely aware that that is not the case. The only reason he is under the illusion that it is worn out is due to the ritualistic way he finds himself here nearly every evening. Usually, the insides of his skull are painted with varuous shades of guilt, embarrassment, lust and an omnipresent disgust, yet tonight he feels different. His jacket was still clinging to his shoulders and elbows, trying to keep him in place. His skin felt even tighter. A size too small and even tinier, like it went through a dryer cycle. The way his lungs expand while he jumps over the railing and onto the rooftop of the building opposite yours still is not enough for a whole breath. His eyes are unfocused, lost in the distance, his feet hurriedly moving from one edge of the roof to the other. He is not planning to plunge, though. Maybe he does not need to see anything tonight. It is Saturday night, which means the city will be a disgusting mass of pulsing, sweaty, angry bodies. Yet, this could be yet another tragedy waiting to happen. Prevention is better than letting the crime happen and then planning the punishment afterwards. The binoculars are safe in his hands already. Let the backpack down, kneel onto the dirty cement, rest his arms onto the guardrail and, finally, bring the binoculars to his eyes.
Maybe it would have been more pleaseant to see you crying on the floor, pleading for mercy. With disheveled hair and bloodshot eyes, tears and snot streaming down your face. This whole situation would be solved in miliseconds if the man was holding a knife or a gun. Bruce would just jump, run, break a window or break down the door, before breaking the guy. From then on, he could choose if he would kneel in front of you and wipe your tear-stained face, embracing you in his arms or if he would look at you and disappear. Discinegrate into nothing, never to appear in front of your eyes again. But the man is not yelling at the top of his lungs about breaking your neck, nor are you begging for mercy. The sight is much worse. Your hands running over his bare shoulders and his face is buried by your jugular. Bruce can almost hear every breath you take and every sigh that escapes your lips. Chuckles of the man are visible by the slight shake of his purposefully dishevelled head of hair. You are lying on your couch, splayed over the cushions like a ragdoll. Body fully relaxed and gaze lazy, travelling over the shoulders and the back of the man beneath you. If he were closer, Bruce would be able to make out the freckles over his skin. If he were closer Bruce would open his skin with his fists. The mans head lifts, moving upwards towards your face, shielding it from view. His hands move towards the collar of your button-up shirt, undoing the very first button. Then the second. And he just continued to get lower and lower. Your hands ruffled his hair further. The force Bruce was biting the inside of his cheek with was getting close to strong enough to rip the flesh from it. Maybe having another hole in his mouth would help him talk more. Your button-up was discarded on the sofa back, the man lapping over your now fully bare torso like a dog. The dimmed lights of the apartment kept the expressions of your face slightly hidden, obscured. If he was able to see your face now, Bruce would have thrown up over the roof and onto the sidewalk several floors under him. The man was moving with trained precision. He was putting his lips and hands in all the right places. There was no need to see your face to confirm. Just the mere movements of your breathing were enough to conclude. In the moment the mans face passed lower than your belly button, he stood up. He watched over your body, Bruce unable to read his expression. He just stared at his slightly tattooed back and slim frame. With one hand, the man undid his belt, throwing it aside, onto the floor. The belt will leave a filthy stain on the carpet of your living room, ruining the pristineness of your living space. Untouched by any person that did not deserve to be in it. The baggy jeans fell after he fiddled with them with his hand. Bruce has bile climbing in the back of his throat. The manโs dirty hands and black fingernails hooked at your pants, sliding them off with ease. He truly was the picture-perfect example of a sleazy, grimy, gothamy asshole. When his hands slid off your panties and his face engulfed your, Bruce moved his binoculars away from his face, before throwing them off the ledge into the darkness below. Someone probably needs to get their nose broken in a few blocks away. And if there is no one, Vengeance will find someone. He will find someone tonight if it is the last thing he will do.
A good thing about having money, smarts, and a friend in the GCPD is the granted access to their database. Which includes the IDs of all Gothams residents. Sometimes further information was a few clicks away as well. All of New Jersey. If he did a little more work, he might be able to have everyone in The United States of America in his cave. But his profiling is rarely off. Gothamโs database was just enough.
He was not disappointed in you. There would be no use, point, or sense in being dissapointed at you or being angry with your choices. You are young, in a big city, and these situations are bound to happen. One-night stands and relationships were some things he should have made peace with when he started watching (over) you. Yet, it had never crossed his mind. Sometimes he would forget he was not bird watching. He had to force himself to remember that you are, indeed, a real person, with real thought, real feelings, capable of real and autonimous actions. This event helped him sober up. Prepared him for further potential scenarions. So, the fact that he was not watching you this past week was not a punishment you were not even aware of. Surprisingly enough it was not a punishment he made for himself either. Another opportunity came up. Another side tangent in his evening hobby.
The burning, white-hot anger he was feeling was, again, not directed at you or caused by you. The cause for it was the man who thought he had the right to be anywhere close to you. The man who arrogantly assumed he had the right to have your body underneath his. Somebody had to show him where he belonged and how he was allowed to behave. The shadows whispered to Bruce while he watched the man enter and exit his apartment. They told him what to do. Where to strike. The newly bought pair of binoculars helped him track every movement the man made. At his job. A barista at some rundown cafรฉ. If he could see him make the drinks, Bruce would guarantee with his own life that the man spat in them before giving them to the customers with a polite smile plastered over his idiotic face. The corner store he shopped at. He watched him buy snacks and soda every other day while going back home. If Bruce were inside, he would assure that the man always stole something small from the cashier counter. Once, Bruce followed him down to the subway. If Bruce had gotten inside the cart, he would ensure that the man would not get up to let some pregnant woman or a fragile old man sit. He did not need confirmation for any of his claims. He just had a feeling. And he made sure to be noticed. Appearing in the corners of the manโs eye a little too often. Walking across the street and watching his every move. Just enough to throw him off. He found out everything about him. It was even easier than he had imagined. The tattoo artist that did all the tattoos covering the skin that Bruce could not see in the hallway and the ink his mind had blanked out through the window. The high school he attended and the college he dropped out of within the second semester. The cover band he made in middle school. The manโs whole, short, embarassing life coloring the screens and lighting Bruces hollowed out face. Meticulous notes sprawled out over his desk, in a noncospicuous notebook. Alfred would not even see it if he came down to see which case had occupied Bruce these past nights. Like Bruce would let him see anyway. The cold air of the cave was biting at his skin. Winds coming from nowhere in particular whipped at his bare arms and back. Itโll be easier to adjust to the outside air like this. But he would be lying if he said he was excited about putting on the layers of suffocating clothes to form into The Drifter. The backpack filled with Vengeance was waiting patiently by his bike. The clock is ticking. He will have to leave soon. A little earlier than usual, while the night is still young. There is so much he needs to do.
Vengeance had learned his lesson. That violence is not the answer to the plague clogging the lungs and the collective mind of the city. That he must overcome his own grief and anger, in attempt to put a stop to the cycle of abuse embedded in the foundations of every building. And Vengeance has changed. Little by little, taking slow and calculated steps. Ordinary people do not need another reason to dread waking up and going to bed. He hopes he gives them even a little hope. But that is what Vengeance has done. If you could even call him that anymore. Bruce himself has never been too violent. He has never been fully there either. Partly a sculpture made in the eyes of various spectators. Partly a husk of whoever and whatever he was before his parents died. And The Drifter is nowhere. The Drifter is no one. Therefore, The Drifter does not need to change. There is no need to tame his most animalistic urges. The route feels familiar now. Although the evening feels different. The air does not feel as stuffy. The cloth covering his face is not as suffocating as even last night. Light rain pattered on the concrete. Gotham is in its full element. The shadows are almost fully under his control. Englulfing his whole body and person in a single move. Keeping him close and hidden as he follows. He has had dozens, hundreds of evenings like this. The rhythm of the steps he takes is always the same. Mechanical, slow, precise. The rush can wait. His eyes follow closely. There are only so many nooks and crannies on this route, all memorised and neatly mapped in his journails and mind. From here, it will only take twenty more minutes of stalking, then he will wrap everything in less than three. Two and a half years of meticulous planning and attacking with precision has never been so helpful in situations outside of the suit. A dark brown head of hair exited the cafรฉ. It is finally time to get going.
Everyone in Gotham feels a certain level of fear while moving through the night. The clock can simply strike six in the afternoon, but if there is no sun, up in the cloudy sky, the anxiety of the collective is touchable. Ordinary people fear criminals, and criminals fear Vengeance. People are afraid of everything that moves in their perephiral vision. And he is trying his very best to instill the maximum amount of fear he can into the man a few meters in front of him. Making sure to stop staring just a tad too late. To keep his steps audible enough, as they creak over the half-melted snow of the pavement. The two jackets and the hoodie made his frame appear even larger. In narrow alleyways he would swallow all the stray glimpses of light. Despite the restrictions they gave him and how much they burned at his skin they had never failed him. He partly forgot how easy it was to frighten. How easy it was to have people hyperventilating at the thought of seeing him. The man kept his head low and strides long and fast. Bruce did not feel any need to hurry. If the issue came up, he would be able to catch up with no effort. He did not bother to listen to the phone call the man was making. He had worked enough this past week, and tonight is going to be a breeze. He will be gone within seconds of appearing. The man walked the corner.
Bruce never blacks out while fighting. Years of training his body and mind did not make him able to tune everything out and float in his own conciousness. Quite the contrary. From the very first punch his body will be tense and senses sharper, aware of every miniscule movement of the people around him. He analysed the way the man stumbled and fell when Bruceโs boot met the middle of his back, right at the spine. He positioned himself to maximise the pain and intensity of the fall. He listened to the crack of the manโs nose when Bruceโs fist slammed into it. And the subsequent, pathetuic yelp that ripped through the manโs throat. The attempts at words coming through his bleeding mouth after he busted his lip, potentially broke his tooth as well. Begging and pleading, asking him who he is. Bruce stayed quiet. Nights of preparation and anger finally falling free. The smug smile was long gone from his face, replaced by tears, blood, and rapid swelling. Bruce lifted his forearm once more, swinging with even more force. Then, a rip. His hand made contact with the manโs cheekbone with even more ease. The seams of the hoode and denim jacket suffocating his body ripped open. The months, years of constriction finally broke, letting him land a final, rough, raw blow to the manโs, by now, disfigured face. Pleadings and questions still softly, desperately flowed through the freezing evening air. In response, Bruce just muttered your name and two simple words.
โNever again.โ
Bruce being filth does not mean that the rest of this rotten city is any cleaner. The fact is, him being unable to touch without leaving grimy, oily marks, does not give anyone else the right to leave palm prints over your body and brain. He would not let such a thing happen. And if the man dared to try contacting you, reaching you, trying to remind you of his worthless existence, Bruce would take care of it. And Bruce knew the man would not even try to dare harming you. It is simple to keep tabs on him on the sideline. The important thing, the only important thing, is that you will not be stained again. At least not by those two hands. If anyone dares to try, he will take care of it as well. There could be another man. And another. None of them are deserving of a name. But it does not matter. You are free to live as you please. You are not his. But your safety will always be in his hands. A comforting thought loops around in his brain. After tonights shift with Vengeance, he will climb back onto the rooftop by your building again. He will study you as you wake up, make breakfast, get ready for work. And life will fall into comforting routine again. There is still no plan in his mind to even attempt to contact you. The cleanliness of you, untouched by the city (or as untouched as you could be) will not be ruined by his hands. He can be psycopathic or sadistic, but he is not cruel. Bruce could never let himself be cruel to you.
A/N: this is the stupid fic i've been lying about posting for the last like five months lol, but it's finally done! taking five months to write five thousand words is very embarrassing to admit but hopefully i'll be able to write and post more regularly now. happy the-batman-part-ii-started-filming day! i'm posting this a few days later but you know, tomato tomato. this whole stalker!Bruce thing could become a series, but then i'd rewrite the first part a bit, modify this a bit and would defo have to write some stuff that comes before either of these. tell me what you think of that idea! hope you enjoyed and i hope i'll see you over here again :)
I tend to leave myself in an echo chamber when writing anything, including fics. If anyone's interested to beta read my fics and giving some criticism before publishing, reply here or in DMs :D
masterlist๏ธฑcross-posted on AO3๏ธฑprev. headcanons: PreBatman!Bruce Wayne headcanons๏ธฑnext: Gomez and Morticia Addams dynamics with Battinson!Bruce
contains nsfw, minors interact at your own risk; read under the cut
โ slightly masochistic. if the whole Vengeance thing didn't give it away already. in honor of that:
โ loves when you wear plumping lipgloss with chilli extract, because your kisses quite literally hurt. a peck on the lips before you leave will leave the soft, consistent pain on his lips will keep him unable to focus on much else. at least until the feeling subdises.
โ being bitten is another thing he enjoys. i have already mentioned him loving to have marks on himself in the first headcanons post, but biting is a whole other story. he doesn't discriminate against any form of them. soft nibbles of his shoulderblade instead of a kiss? perfectly fine, usually preferred. bites on his biceps and thighs that leave him with bruises for days? even better.
โ doesn't enjoy any rough, rough play, more so subtle pain that spikes up his senses even more. slapping and degradation aren't his cup of tea.
โ on the topic of that, praise! loves getting praised, but would not tell you that due to being embarrassed of it. you'd either have to get lucky and find out, or do everything in your power to pry it out of him. praise in a non sexual context also makes his whole body shiver, since he is insecure through and through. praises you as well, though not fully consciously. his mind is always foggy when you're going down on him, his filter is down, and he says the first things that come to his mind, whatever they may be.
โ very much a sub, but on the rare occasions, he is a soft dom. in high contrast to what he enjoys, he would be extremely gentle. kisses, soft praises, slowness, compliments, all consistently and unstoppably from his tongue. when he craves sweetness, he wants it in other contexts, but he constantly needs to take care of you and be as good of a person as he can.
โ due to having an oral fixarion, he also needs something to nibble on, kiss, suck, whatever to keep his mouth occupied. therefore, he loves giving oral. he enjoyes your thighs resting over his shoulders, he loves your hand twisting and pulling at his hair, he lives for kneeling in front of you and gazing into your half closed eyes with the most pathetic twinkle in his eyes there is. he also enjoys kissing your hand or putting your fingers in his mouth when you're on top, as he's completely ruined when he has you bouncing up and down on top of him.
โ at the start of a relationship, he'd always keep the lights off during sex. his preference for the dark is ever present, but that preference during intimacy also came through due to his dislike of emotional intimacy. being seen showing an emotion other than awkward indifference and anger is deeply uncomfortable and scary. it sinks fear into him so deep he can feel it in his stomach. experiencing emotions was sickening enough, so someone seeing his cheeks wet from tears and his brows furrowed in pleasure is too foreign in the beginning.
โ when he grows accustomed to your presence, both in bed and out of it, he starts being more outward with his wants. before formally meeting you, and before growing closer to you, he used to stalk you. watch from the nearby building with his binoculars, following you home from the shadows to make sure you're safe. And recording everything he watches you do with his contacts.
โ loves creampies. they're a guilty pleasure and bringing that up would prove to be even more embarrassing than both the contacts and the praise combined. he craves closeness, so what better kind of closeness is there than that?
guess who's back after only half a year
happy the Batman part 2 is finally starting filming next week! can't wait for new set pics so i won't have to reuse the same handful of pictures for every fic lolol. trying to get back into writing now, so chomp on these short headcanons while i work on longer stuff (which means finally getting to all those requests wink wink nudge nudge)
as of publishing this, i'm looking for a beta reader, for constructive criticism and stuff, so if you're interested feel free to chime in my dm or in the comments of my most recent post!
(also does anyone have any tips on learning slovenian)
should i do imagines/drabbles as well or just stick to longer fics??
on the mention of longer fics, im wrapping the (unofficial) part 2 to the drifter and the distraction, should only take one more lock in evening writing sesh to complete and then were good to go!
maybe i will force myself to write more in celebration of the Batman part 2 finally starting filming
tdatd is my favourite fic ive written and it's the least read one sigh
