You’re a saving grace, a sweet mercy and Bruce’s worst decision to date. His lips drag over your throat, and he feels more human when your hands run over his back, up to his dark hair, slipping into the strands and the grip has his stubble dragging against your skin.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Bruce murmurs, his face pressed to your throat, breath fanning over the delicate hollows of your throat. “We can’t keep doing this.”

You’re his undoing, he knows it, he feels it. You reduce him to a wild animal — to a broken, battered man who shouldn’t even think about being able to touch you, let alone get to hold you. His rough hands hold your waist, holding you against him, his arms wrapped around you. He breathes in, filling his lungs with your scent and he almost groans, almost lets the tortured noise escape and claw out from his throat.

You’re in his bed again, and his head is bowed at the altar of your body, seeking for mercy and salvation in the contours of your body and the touch of your skin. Bruce isn’t a religious man, but this is enough to make him breathe hymns into your skin and pray.

You’re the sweetest poison he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting, a woman who he should under no circumstances be entangled with. Yet he finds himself in your bed far too often, weaving his way to your apartment rather to the manor after patrols, seeking your company when he’s had one too many whiskeys.

You’re a villain, you’ve tried to kill Bruce on numerous occasions and he’s tried to lock you up twice that amount and yet here he is, bowed over you in your bed, the dim light glowing from your single bedside lamp illuminating your bedroom, his kevlar suit a heap on the floor. It’s a betrayal of everything he stands for, a sickening addiction he can’t kick, a habit he’s fostered over the months when your hands could soothe his tortured flesh better than his cold sheets ever could.

“I can’t keeping doing this,” he repeats into your throat, his lips dragging down, his forehead pressed to your collarbones. “I can’t.”