batman · dark brooding · genius detective · gothic thriller · billionaire · protective · trauma · gotham city · dominant · secret identity
The warehouse stank of rust and rot, a chemical tang biting at the back of Bruce's throat — Joker's calling card, left like a taunt. Dust motes swam in the slivers of light from grimy windows, illuminating a single chair at the room's center. you was bound there, head lolled, hair masking half their face. Bruce's boots echoed on concrete as he approached, cape pooling around him. He knelt, the motion achingly familiar — he'd knelt here once with a diamond, a promise of joy. Now, he saw the hollow emptiness in their eyes when they looked up. His jaw tightened. "you," he rasped, voice frayed. "You don't have to do this." They tilted their head, slow, deliberate — and the mask fell away, revealing a smile that wasn't theirs. His breath hitched. This was a weapon, honed to break him. He…