masterlist︱cross-posted on AO3︱prev. headcanons: nsfw!Battinson!Bruce headcanons︱next: stay tuned!
partly based on this lovely ask
no nsfw, read under the cut!
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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).
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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!
Warnings: Minor spoilers for white clouds. Mentions of blood
A/n: requests? Please? :3
Yuri watched the enchanting way his darling (n/n) moved her body. He soaked in the way your arms moved, the way your hips swayed, to the rhythmic steps of your feet. Yes, his little dove was the winner of this year's white heron cup. (Y/N)’s dance came to an end as you posed delicately. The accessories littering your outfit and body jingled and glimmered from the faint light the torches of abyss gave.
“Excellent work dove.” You gave a soft laugh before you made your way to where Yuri stood. a soft voice rang around the relatively quiet room. “I still need to work on the transitions.” Yuri felt the corners of his lips curl upward. “Looked fine to me dove.” You let out a hum as you moved your hand and placed it on top of Yuri’s shoulder. The other hand laced your hands together. “Can’t keep your hands off me can you?” Yuri remarked with a charming smirk. You flushed a bright rosey colour before letting out a small snort. “Flirt.” Yuri’s bright laugh rang around the room. He placed his remaining hand on your waist and raised your entwined hands. He let you lead the way into a music-less waltz.
A week has passed since then. Oh how he wishes he could go back to then. Back to when you were in his arms. Safe. Dancing without a care in the world. Now here you lay in the middle of battle, head cradled in Yuri’s arms. Crimson soaked both of your outfits, the air leaving the burning scent of iron. A weakened voice pierced his train of thoughts. “Y-Yuri…” It pained him so much to see you in such a state. “Quiet (Y/N). Save your breath. Marianne and Mercedes are coming. Hold on just a bit longer.” His words of comfort came out more strained than he'd like. He could feel the tears blur his view.
Time was on the line and you looked paler by the minute. Weaker. Closer to death’s door. A shaky bloodied hand reached out to gently cup Yuri’s face. Your eyes flowed with tears of pain. Pain from leaving your Yuri and pain from the gash you have sustained. “L-looks like… I’ll be leaving y-you know.” Your voice was so faint. So strained. Yuri let the tears flow freely now “D-DON'T SAY THAT! The-there’s still hope. We still have s-so much time l-left together! Yuri could feel his heart skip a beat as your hand fell from your hand. Nononono. You gave a final, tiny smile before the light left your eyes. You were gone. Yuri let out an agonized cry. “D-dove? W-wake up! Please!” His cries went unheard as the battle continued around him. Your body felt so stiff and limp. Yuri stood up. A newfound rage filled him. Those who took his dear (Y/N) would pay.
masterlist︱cross-posted on AO3︱prev. headcanons: PreBatman!Bruce Wayne headcanons︱next: Gomez and Morticia Addams dynamics with Battinson!Bruce
contains nsfw, minors interact at your own risk; read under the cut
✑ slightly masochistic. if the whole Vengeance thing didn't give it away already. in honor of that:
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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.
✑ 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.
✒ 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)
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 — 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
masterlist ︱ cross posted on AO3 ︱next; pre batman!Bruce Wayne headcanons
includes NSFW content, minors read at your own risk
✒ stalked you beforehand, sorry. it doesn't really matter how you met, but he wanted to 'keep tabs on you'. keep you safe and all of that. so what harm is there in just staring into your window with his binoculars from the nearby building? or walking you home after work, from a little distance? or the Batman patrolling around in the area of the club you were spending your friday night in?
✑ and journaled about you. the project gothan journals aren't his only journals, not by a long shot. when he was a kid, after the death of his parents, his therapist recommended writing as a way to process emotions (since he wasn't too keen on talking anyway). keeping diaries and journals eventually became a force of habit. and you and his thoughts regarding you seeped in.
✒ was extremely reluctant to form any actual relationship, platonic or romantic. his personality is more adjacent to a stray cat, rather than a bat. at the first sight, or even a thought, of danger coming your way because of him, he'd disappear. he was sure his mere presence would be a sure way to get you hurt, or worse. it took a lot of patience to even have a singular conversation with him, one which didn't result in hums and awkward stares as answers. getting further than that took even more work, even more time, even more patience. but it felt.... good?
✑ doesn't use social media. at all. he doesn't even have an account managed by some poor intern at wayne enterprises. his phone consists of a mostly empty contact list (four contacts, to be exact), even emptier gallery and a music listening app. he curates his playlist, library, albums and liked songs to hell and back. so, when you two begin to date (or when you catch his attention) he makes playlists. songs you remind him of. songs you mentioned you liked. songs he heard when he was around you. at first, he kept it secret. then, he sent you a link to one playlist he made, unrelated to you. maybe you asked for his favourite songs, or some recommendations for grunge music, since you knew he had a thing for it. and little did Bruce know, once he makes a playlist, it's automatically pinned to his profile. oops.
✒ when he isn't the Batman, he's just cooed up in the wayne tower. which isn't surprising. in general, he is the most stereotypical introvert there is. he could spend days in his room or in the batcave, alone, working on a case, reading, exercising, or listening to music. that is all he needs to function properly. sleep, food and water are just suggestions at this point. or at least that's what he needed to function properly. now, you're on that list as well. yeah, he can go several days or a week or two without seeing you, but that doesn't mean he'll be happy about it, or take it well. sometimes all he truly needs to crack a case is a soft smile or two and another chair next to his.
✑ he kind of looks like a mess. he uses whatever 17-in-1 shampoo Alfred got him once when he was 12, and just told him to keep buying it. his wardrobe consists of black sweatpants, black t-shirts, and the occasional dark gray hoodie. his eyes have perpetual eye bags, which aren't helped by the fact he tends to remove the kohl from his eyes haphazardly. his gets combed and gelled when he needs to go somewhere. which isn't often. any other times? however it looks, it's fine. not like he'll see anyone important. he always has the smell of freshness and musk, not too harsh on the nose unlike a lot of other guys and their strong colognes. once you two actually interact, he'd try to make himself more presentable. for starters, he bought a seperate body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and face cleanser. his hair and style of clothes never seemed to change though. not that you complained. the prince of darkness and his messy crown of hair.
✒ his love language is definitely acts of service. maybe even his stalker tendencies and behavior are part of it too. walking you home (whether you know it or not) is him keeping you safe. you fell asleep on the couch while you were having a movie night at your place? you wake up tucked into bed like when you were a kid. he noticed your fridge was running a little empty too. not anymore! would also love to make you food, even if it's just three minute ramen noodles. besides, why bother ordering takeout when he can make some grilled cheese and tomato soup better than any diner or restaurant in Gotham?
✑ touch starved through hell and back. he used to be a really cuddly kid, the kind that his behind mom's skirt or under dad's coat. when that was ripped from him, he refrained from physical contact. his aversion to it just exponentially worsened as he grew older. his grief eventually made him think he never liked it in the first place. then, you came along. Bruce would have never, not in a million years, thought that he'd reach for your hand when you're just sitting on the couch at your place, each doing your own thing. or that, after a night of patrol, the thing that would fix his unresting thoughts and quick heart beat would be a warm body cuddling him to sleep. so, he's constantly itching for any physical contact. hand holding, hugging, his hand around your waist, his chin resting on your head, or his forehead tucked into your neck, hell, even his foot resting on yours under the table. teasing him about it proved futile, as he'd quietly double down on it, even without noticing. maybe he'd grip your hand a little tighter when you're walking to that corner diner you like. he'd cuddle you closer to him before drifting off to sleep. and that's easier than saying anything. he just let's his actions and hands do the talk for him.
!NSFW after this point onward! ⁀➴
✒ him being touch starved does stretch into his sex life as well. he has some experience, but it's safe to say he hasn't had any action in a while. he wasn't planning on it either, but when you come along, it's hard to resist anything. especially with a pretty look and a flutter of your lashes will have him undone in no time.
✑ before you started dating, when he was still just stalking you, he had a thing for watching you. at first, it wasn't a sexual thing. he was curious. when he had time, he'd take his binoculars and see what you were up to. watching television? making diner? reading something? sleeping? but one time he managed to look while you were changing. he'd never been more thankful to have his contacts in. he drove his bike back to the cave to watch the recording over and over again, taking care of the uncomfortable buldge in his jeans in the process. him watching you became a way more common occurrence after that. not that he complained.
✒ likes to have marks on him. a hickey anywhere makes him blush and stutter and feel all warm on the inside. he sees it as a small reminder of you being there, in his life. but he couldn't lie and say he doesn't think it's hot as fuck. seeing himself all marked up before you even properly touch him? his head is spinning and he's already fucked out of his mind.
✑ so, so, so whiny. he'll fight tooth and nail to keep his mouth shut, because once a single noise escapes his lips, he knows he'll be unable to shut up. sometimes it seems like he's the most vocal when you're squished around his dick and when he's babbling nonsense into your neck. he loves to beg, and praise, and compliment, and spill his 'i love you's when he's an overstimulated mess. drooling, whining, and breathless. and when you squish and suck just right, he'll gasp like he's been drowning. it's like he doesn't even try to quiet down.
✒ sub. look me in the eye and tell me that man is anything but a sub. maybe a soft dom on an odd day. but on top of everything he wants to be coddled and laid back on the bed, losing sense of where he is while you take care of him. your pleasure is very important to him, but he can't help but let you take control (of him) once he sees that smirk on your face. before he knows it, he's trying and failing to bite back moans and whines while his eyes are half rolled back into his skull. his life is a mess, he deserves to relax and let someone else take the reigns.
✑ cries during sex too. he gets overstimulated easily, and it doesn't take much for a few tears to fall. you'll be working on him and tears will be rolling down his cheeks, while his begging and pleading for you to let him cum. and you'll simply tell him that he has to wait and that patience is key. in response, he'd just let out a whine (sob?) and continue letting words mindlessly roll from his tongue.
✒ cries AFTER sex as well. especially after the first time you two do it. he'll lay in bed, slowly catching his breath, and before he knows it, his lip is quivering for no reason and his eyes are watering and he's trying to bite back a sob. he does feel better after a cuddle session. for him, aftercare might be better than the thing itself. taking a bath together, watching a movie, cuddling, or just sleeping after something so raw and intimate? the hairs on his neck are raising and he's burying his face in your neck to hide a flustered smile.
if you enjoyed, my requests are open! english isn't my first language, sorry if there are any grammatical errors ⁀➴
warnings: voyeurism, stalking, discussions of self harm (not cutting, non descript), m!masturbation
masterlist ︱ cross-posted on AO3
(if you remember me trying to post this like three days ago, no you don't)
He'd be a liar if he said he isn't sure when it started. His journals would betray him. Everything meticulously written and kept track of. Fountain pens and bottles of ink drunk dry in the transitions of late night and early morning. He keeps track of everything, no matter how small or insignificant. Stray thoughts that spilled through his skull find place on paper in leather bound notebooks. It helped him keep track of where his mind was. Split knuckles or a busted lip after a long night were just a souvenir. The pain kept him moving. Pain has been driving him all these years, after all. Pain, in any way, shape, or form, is an advantage. Ways of furthering that pain are tools. Drilling it into himself until his teeth grit against each other, before they shatter in his mouth, cutting up his gums and tongue. He has a few tools at his disposal, both as Vengeance, and as Bruce Wayne. Vengance can let himself be sloppy and sluggish in a fight. That results in blue and purple marks over his pale skin, or a fucked up jaw. Or, Vengance can be fast and disgusting. Smashing noses, dislocating jaws, breaking bones. In return, he gets the ache of exhaustion and knuckles split open so many times, he doubts they'll ever fully heal. Bruce Wayne can avoid food and sleep. Bruce can stay in the cave for days on end. Bruce can self isolate. Bruce can be constantly hungry, sleep deprived, cold, and alone. Because Bruce wants to be hungry, sleep deprived, cold, and, most of all, alone. Or at least that's what he thinks Bruce deserves.
There is a part of him that lives in the in-between. Before he slips into the shadows and alleyways, but after he leaves Wayne tower. A part of him that lives in the drifting motions of his two lives (life and a half). Dark makeup would already be smeared over his eyes and dripping down his cheeks with the common Gotham rain. But his face would be obscured by a simple cap and scarf, instead of the menacing black leather cowl. Sometimes he'd move with the crowds on the square. Other times, he'd glide down the streets on his bike. But no matter what, his mind would be clear. He'd be looking out for anything. The sunset approaching. A dealer hurriedly exchanging small bags with another drophead. Scuffles that sound too panicked. He likes to think that he knows when to intervene. But he's all too aware that he doesn't know much. So he keeps his head low and his eyes fixated on his steel capped boots. At least until his cowl is buckled into place. That is the only time he doesn't feel the nails of the world ripping at the flesh of his back, or trying to dig out his eyes out of their sockets. When the night is dark and the rain is pouring.
The first time he saw you, he didn't think much. He didn't think anything really. Just another person trying to get through the city with a simple objective: coming home. The first time he followed you home was truly an accident. A server in the corner diner where the Riddler was arrested living in the same apartment building as the guy? The irony wasn't lost on him. But he knew you didn't notice. You were too shaken up anyway. And he is one with the shadows. He has been for a while. Even after the Riddler was put behind bars, he continued to loom around the area. Even after several weeks passed with his website laying dormant. The flood water subdued. The apartment has been swiped clean by the GCPD. That chapter of Project Gotham is over. Just like so many other cases. But his feet still absentmindedly took him to this neighborhood. To the nearby building, with binoculars in front of his eyes. Staring daggers into the empty apartment window. One time, he sneezed, so his hands moved. When he looked up again, the binoculars were letting him see into another apartment in the building. The server from the diner. A wholy unimportant individual. Yet, his gaze didn't move. And rarely did he come back there to stare into the empty apartment unit. Instead, the one right next to it seemed far, far more interesting.
Gotham isn't safe at night. Gotham isn't much safer during the day either, but Vengance doesn't go out with the sun. Maybe he is the vampire of the city, instead of the long titled prince. Pale skin, dead eyes (or at least he deems them as dead), aversion to the sun, insomnia. And the whole bat thing. Everyone in Gotham would love to have someone looking out for them during the night. A paid bodyguard, a strong boyfriend, a cop that actually does their job. Fewer would want Vengance himself. Were you one of them? Or were you just as scared of him as that man in the subway station? It doesn't matter. Whichever opinions you held close do not matter. He'll stay in the shadows while you're walking from the diner to your apartment. Sometimes he'd want for someone to jump out from the darkness and attack you. A mugger, a drophead, some maniac, anyone. So he could step out of the shadows and turn the person into pulp under his fists. Yet that never happens. You're lucky. Rottenly lucky. He persists. Watching from the shadows and rooftops. Following you when he's drifting around the in-between. When he should be focused on fixing himself Gotham. The streets are full of rotten people, and the clubs and mansions are overgrown with black mold, and lead paint stuck in on the roofs of the mouth of their owners. Instead of focusing on ripping the corruption from the soil of the city, he's focused on a random civilian. It numbs the pain a little. It shouldn't.
Rain is falling again. It doesn't help wash away the grime of the city. If anything, the rain feels greasy and sticky, clinging onto the pavement and clothes. It drips from his baseball cap and it clings to his fingers. They're already numb with the cold, and the night hasn't even began. The binoculars are held close to his face, gaze fixated on the dark window. He doesn't feel anxiety. He knows he's one with the shadows now, even without then cowl. His pale fingertips won't be enough to change that. The light in the apartment turns on. You're finally home. He knows you were on your way. After all, he's always nearby. He's the safety net, even if you aren't aware of it. You're peeling off the drenched coat from your shoulders. That one isn't made for Gotham weather. You probably can't afford a better one with that measly server salary. His fingers flex, gripping the binoculars. It's cold outside. His fingers are red and they hurt. That's good. It's what he deserves to feel for intruding like this. Watching you in moments like these feels so intimate. More intimate than when you're changing or playing with yourself. Seeing you fall asleep on the couch, chop up vegetables, vacuuming. That's the true intimacy of life. Seeing the mundane so clearly. His intrusion is so much worse because of that. You're peeling off layers of clothes. They're all partly wet. Rain is always heavy at this time of the year. Unbuttoning your work shirt. Slipping out of the pants. Bending over to take off your socks. Bruce's breath hitches. And so you walk into the bathroom to shower, promptly closing the door behind you. He's glad the contacts are always in his eyes. At first, they were strictly related to Project Gotham and Vengance. But this is also tangentialy related to that, no? He's lying to himself again, and failing miserably. The guilt of this is eating him alive. If Bruce were to ever see someone doing what he's doing now, Vengance would make sure they won't be able to get out of a hospital bed for a while. Because he's aware it's wrong. The guilt burns his throat whenever he swallows at the sight of your figure. It gnaws at his fingertips just like the cold, trying to persuade him to drop the binoculars. It whispers in his ear like the wind, telling him how he's sick in the head. That's why he can't look at your face. Never. He'll look at the top of your head, or at your body, your hands, he'll watch your feet move as you walk through the streets. But your face is off limits. If he were to see it, he'd know you're real. The guilt he'd feel then would chew him up, spit him out, crush him into dust, all in one swift motion.
When you emerge from the bathroom, you're in a mere towel. Water mist condenses on your skin. Is your skin dried out from the hot shower? Or do you put some lotion, letting it melt into your skin to soften it? If so, is it scented? Maybe you smell as soft as your skin might be. Warm as well. The towel is discarded now. His pupils dialte. You're moving through the apartment with practiced percision. Avoiding a coffee table, jumping over messes on the floor. He can predict what you'll do. Attentiveness and the habit of watching you tend to give him a fair idea of your subconscious actions. For example, he knows that you'll walk over to your closet. Which you do. Your hands glide over the dark, shiny wood of the wardrobe, before opening it. Your back is turned to him the window. His eyes follow the curve of your back and the faint line of your spine. And he kows you'll bend down to look for a shirt to sleep in. The guilt is a forgotten though now. Instead, his throat is dry. Every bit of his body is burning. Sometimes, he doesn't even believe that the sight of your body is what turns him on so much. The actual vulgarity lies in the fact that you simply don't know he's there. You're living your life. Boring rituals. Simple routine. The lull of safety. Little do you know about Bruce's little hobby. But it does keep you safe. He makes sure of it. Your back straightens again. An oversized T-shirt engulfs your frame. Big, shapeless, black. It looks similar to the dozens of his shirts back in the manor. Would you enjoy wearing his shirts? They're fairly soft. Alfred uses a good fabric softener. They smell clean as well. Would you wear them to bed or outside too? He isn't sure how much bigger he is than you. Would his shirts fit nicely, or drape over you? His thoughts are cut off. Your apartment is pitch black. You went to bed. He didn't pay attention. But it's alright. The contacts have everything he could want. And it's best you snapped him out of that fantasy. He's aware that's all it'll ever be. A fantasy. A cowardly attempt to numb the pain. But Bruce Wayme deserves that pain. Bruce Wayne deserves to be alone. Bruce Wayne needs to be alone. So he has to settle for the next best thing. Lurking, staring, feeding on you. Close enough to feel the hint of warmth over his cheeks. But never close enough to feel warm. That small distance is enough to form an angry wound, the kind that doesn't scab over. Instead, it keeps dripping blood when it's feather lightly touched. And he can't keep his hands to himself.
It's always cold in the cave. He never bothered to do anything to change it. Sometimes Alfred will bring down a small heater. Leave it on the table, trying to strike up a conversation. Bruce will turn it off the second the elevator doors close. It's not that the cold soothes him — quite the contrary. That's exactly the point. But during nights like these, the cold is everything he could wish for. The flimsy shirt on his back let's the cold air truly seep into his skin. Everything is hot. His hair is damp, partly with the rain, partly with sweat. His cheeks are almost fully black. The makeup around his eyes dripped down, pooling at the tip of his chin. He's reviewing the footage of tonight. Reviewing? He's lying to himself again, and failing miserably. Vengeance doesn't have anything to do with this. Even trying to tie it close to it is shameful. Throwing dirt to his name. His own actions are spitting into the face of everything Vengance is supposed to be. He's a stalker and a pervert. Following someone unsuspecting around, hiding in the shadows, watching them change. It's disgusting. Sick. That's the outcome of his isolation. Starvation for human contact will lead him to trying to replicate it. Intruding on someone else, trying to shove his presence into their life. Even if it's just a fantasy. Nothing more will ever grow from it. The distance he keeps is mandatory. An immovable wall separating whoever he is, and the rest of the world. Separating himself from you. Watching you is as close as he'll let hinself get to contact. But he can't even look properly. His eyes are scanning the screen. Drifting down your back again. Lower. Lower. Repeating pieces of footage over and over. And yet. His gaze methodically avoids your face. One time, while staring at your bare body, his eyes drifted up. Locked onto your face. Taking in the shape of your lips, the curve of your nose, the color of your eyes. Afterwards, he couldn't look at you for weeks. The guilt was nauseating. He always had troubles holding eye contact. This wasn't even that. The guilt was hurting him, bringing pain that was supposed to help. Yet, it felf like it was just slowing him down. Pulling his limbs and scratching, tearing through the skin of his back. So, he simply avoids looking at your face. His eyes take in every curve of your body and any mark on your skin hungerly. Replaying you removing your top. Pants. Dropping the towel. Like his own personal strip tease.
His cock has been painfully erect for what felt like ages now. The cold air of the cave made him wince, sucking in air through his teeth. Precum leaking down it's lenght, his tip angry and red. Bruce doesn't enjoy looking at himself much. Instead, he focuses on the screen. His hand is methodically pumping up and down, his thumb grazing the tip of his dick gently, a futile attempt in soothing it. Tonight, he lets his thoughts wander. Would your hand feel different? Surely it would. Your hands aren't calloused and constantly bandaged up. You probably put on hand cream to keep them soft. He can imagine you standing slightly behind him, to the left of his chair. One arm lazily resting over his shoulders, hand drawing mindless circles on his chest. The other in his lap. He's biting down on his lip. Hard. There isn't any fear of someone hearing him present in his head. Just the overwhelming embarrassment of moaning and whining to himself here, of all places. Maybe his lip is already bleeding. The cold air feels so good on his skin. His hand is slick, and he can feel his orgasm Already already buidling up. Letting his eyes close, he lets go of tonight's recording of you, instead putting his fantasies play fully. You're whispering something into his ear. He doesn't know what you're saying. Neither does he know your voice. Are you insulting him? Letting him know how disgusted you are of everything he's doing? Calling him every name he deserves to hear? Or are you cooing in his ear? Giving him the softest nicknames, letting him know you're taking care of him and that you're there like he so desperately wants you to be? Your eyes are so clear in his mind. Beautiful. Full of hate. Full of compassion. A broken whine escapes his lips. His load spills over his hand, onto his pants. With a bloodied lip, he opens his eyes, before promptly shutting them again. With a tired sigh, he deleted the footage of tonight. Just like every time. Maybe one day, when circumstances are different and he is a changed man, he'll have the courage to look you in the eye when his hand isn't stuffed in his pants. Maybe you'll even look back.
i hope you enjoyed!! my requests are open, feel free to drop in :) i'm a beginner fic writer and english isn't my native language, so constructive criticism is welcome!
i FINALLY figured out why this fic wouldn't post and it's because two of my passages were too long. but we made it out!!
title from IYDKMIGHTKY (Gimme that) by Type O Negative
can be read as a part two of The Drifter and The Distraction
masterlist︱cross-posted on AO3︱contains NSFW, minors interact at your own risk︱read 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 man’s 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. Gotham’s 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 café. 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 man’s 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 man’s 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. It’ll 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 café. 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 Bruce’s 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 man’s nose when Bruce’s fist slammed into it. And the subsequent, pathetuic yelp that ripped through the man’s 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 man’s 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 man’s, 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.
“Never again.”
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 :)
masterlist︱cross-posted on AO3︱prev. headcanons: Bruce Wayne x reader headcanons︱next; nsfw!Bruce Wayne x reader headcanons
no nsfw; read under the cut
✑ had a minimal emo/alternative style phase that he never fully grew out of. had a pierced side labret and black dyed hair, but couldn't figure out how to style it. couldn't commit to the look too much due to his surroundings, but definitely dreamt of wearing a spiked choker and chipped black nail polish. today, he lives his dreams of wearing black eyeliner to school by putting on black kohl for the batman every night.
✒ and that's when he learned to play bass guitar. at first, he wanted to learn to play electric guitar, but settled on bass after hearing bass-isolated versions of his favorite songs. the fact that he could 'feel' the music completely reset his brain. refused to use a pick because it felt fake to him.
✑ was very quiet during school and avoided talking to people as much as he could. at first, kids were intrigued by him, both due to his name and status, and due to his quiet nature. eventually, they grew tired of the ordeal and Bruce was left undisturbed, to his dismay satisfaction. he was just seen as the quiet, awkward Wayne that stares a little too much, can't hold eye contact and takes too long to come up with a reply to whatever you told him.
✒ used to be really into energy drinks and used to smoke. energy drinks came into the picture due to his chronic insomnia. he didn't try out a million flavours, just bought the classic one of whichever brand came under his hand first (and he definitely didn't get monster because it was the default alternative kid drink whattt). picked up smoking as a habit because he has an oral fixation and constantly needs to fiddle with something in his mouth — a cigarette worked fine enough. smoked really strong red marlboros that left his clothes, hair and fingers smelly for days. Alfred pretended not to notice. kicked the habit after the idea of vengeance/batman became something more solid than daydreams. drinking and psychedelics were never too interesting to him, since he constantly needs to have full control of himself and a complete comprehension of his surroundings, even before batman. has been straightedge ever since.
✑ used to be afraid of the dark as a kid. constantly had to have a night light on, but fairy lights were sufficient enough after some work. the fear completely died alongside his parents. since then, he tended to prefer to sit in the dark.
✒ didn't enjoy reading much as a kid, but he started picking up the hobby due to journaling. his therapist recommended journaling as a form of letting his feelings out, since he was neither talkative or interested in physical activities (at the time). after being unable to articulate himself as much as he hoped, he began to read copious amounts of classics. the realization that he was "into" reading never came to him, he just never stopped doing it.
✑ loved soup as a teen, since he could pour it into a cup and drink it in his room. his favourite was specifically soup mulligatawny soup. he always tended to self-isolate, which is still a big habit. his strong introversion was present before his parents were killed, but the trauma just amplified it. that's why, during school, he had maybe one friend, which was a classmate he worked on a project with and talked to twice outside of that. any romantic interests never went farther than him staring at the person from a distance.
✒ loved to collect CD's and still prefers them to using a phone to listen to music. never made playlists, just listened to albums from front to back. when he eventually tried an app, he started micro curating playlists for anything and everything. would still prefer to put on a CD when doing anything, but sorting through them, figuring out which album he's in the mood for, etc, takes more time, which he doesn't have much of.
✑ prefers music with a slower pace, rather than fast paced energetic numbers. his music taste is a colorful mix of grays, with his favourite band of all time easily being Nirvana. also enjoyed Type O Negative's Bloody Kisses album. still appreciates the guitar in the music he listens to, despite his fondness of the bass.
✒ figured out he was bisexual during high school. he didn't have any major crisis due to the revelation because he wasn't getting any play anyway because he wasn't interested in dating, preferring to stick to his studies and hobbies instead.
✑ despite being very gifted in stem sciences, he has a deep appreciation for humanities and art. reading, writing and making music were already mentioned, but his drawing skills are still above average. his journals tend to have a small sketch done in a fountain pen, with meticulous attention to detail. he doesn't like to draw people, preferring to stick to still life or, less often, landscapes.
✒ with all of his skills, both intelligence and physique wise, he had to get nerfed by being very emotionally unstable and painfully awkward. while his face tended to remain in a constant expression of indifference and total boredom, under the surface he could feel like he's fighting for his life due to a small remark someone made about him. his awkwardness was always on full display when he wasn't sitting in the corner looking at his feet. his word tended to come out too quietly and clumsily, too blunt and practically spat out. he never meant to sound rude or mean spirited, but he couldn't figure out how to change it. his eye contact was nonexistent.
✑ living in the limelight of the press, magazines and the public killed any sense of privacy. since an early age, he was aware that anyone and everyone who met him was fully aware of his life, before he could even mutter his name out. when his parents died, his biggest trauma was displayed on night talk shows, news outlets and gossip sites. that fact heavily contributed to his hardships in making human connections. when complete strangers know the infected wound in your flesh like the back of their hand, you'd be weary of everyone as well. so it was easier to avoid people altogether.
✒ his favourite animals were never bats. instead, he loved iguanas. one of his childhood trips with his parents involved visiting the zoo, and the only animal he remembers clearly is an old iguana from the reptile enclosure.
✑ never tended to keep up with the news and politics, at least outside of Gotham. he was privileged enough to not have to worry about them, and his ideals were far more achievable by getting his own hands into the dirt, rather than throwing his dollars to some political candidate. he knows his ideals and beliefs, but he couldn't tell you anything about the current political climate of his country other than 'bad'. when Batman picked up, and when Bruce had to catch up as a public figure, he also had to catch up with those news.
in short Bruce Wayne was constantly faking being nonchalant as a teen (still does)
Hope you enjoyed! My requests are open, feel free to chime in :)
i could talk about eye contact in the batman 2022 for genuine ages omg. and the scene with the riddler in arkham???? robert pattinson and matt reeves you are so
