cw: yandere, captivity, infantilization, narcotics/sedation, implied dubcon/noncon
Yandere! Bruce Wayne - who would rather bleed himself dry on the cruel gotham streets than admit aloud that he is afraid of losing you. If he’d wanted the chase - the sharp sting of claws and the thrill of being outwitted - he would have stayed with Selina. Instead he found you, now drugged and drowsy, softened into something pliant, no longer an ounce left of fight left within you. It's different. And he finds he likes different.
The narcotics make you sweet in a way he never expected you to be. Your lashes flutter heavy, soft lips parted as drool dampens the dark knit stretched across his chest. His seed seeps down your thighs, warm and sticky, soaking into sheets far too expensive for the kind of ruin he delights in leaving on them. A lamb instead of a cat, nestled and helpless in the crook of his arm.
He reads to you from a dog-eared paperback stolen from your apartment, the smut clumsy and crude on his tongue. The book isn’t his taste, but it is yours. And he wants to give you yours. A small mercy for everything he puts you through. His voice rumbles low, deep and gravelled from too many nights without sleep, lulling you against him like the hum of some great machine.
One hand steadies the book, fingers resting on the worn spine, while the other drifts through your hair in slow, worshipful strokes, calloused fingertips grazing your scalp with the patience of a man who has never known patience until you. He likes the way you sag your weight into his own, whether from the haze of drugs or some unconscious surrender. His jaw brushes the crown of your head when he leans close, stubble scraping against your soft skin, the sheer breadth of his shoulders sheltering you, pinning you, keeping you small.
Sometimes, he thinks of his wards. The children he forged into vigilantes. How often he failed them, how often he left them bleeding and alone, how poorly he ever played the role of caretaker. His eyes, steel blue, unforgiving in every other light, soften when they fall on your drifting form. With you, he tells himself, he can do better. He can hold you steady, keep you warm, keep you fed. Make sure you never have to claw or run or beg.
When your lashes finally give in and shutter closed, he presses his mouth to your hair. The kiss lingers, rough, caught somewhere between regret and possession. Shackled or not, it makes no difference. The room itself won’t let you leave, the blackout curtains smother the city’s glow, the door bolted from within, and Bruce himself a barricade of flesh and will.
And so he breathes easier. For once, there is no fire to put out, no son to patch back together, no lover vanishing into the night. Only you, soft and pliant in his arms. Only you, the lamb he never knew he needed.
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