Bruce was careful with words.

In boardrooms, in interviews, in the cave—every sentence measured, every statement intentional. Silence was his ally. Control was his armor. No one expected him to be reckless with language, least of all in moments meant to be quiet and private.

And yet.

The bedroom was dark, curtains drawn, Gotham reduced to distant light and sound. Bruce lay beside her, posture finally loose, guard finally lowered. In the shadows, his voice dropped—low, intimate, stripped of the polish he wore like a second skin.

What he said there never made it past the sheets.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical. It was precise and devastating in the way only truth could be—words murmured close, chosen not for refinement but for effect. He knew exactly how language landed, exactly how to use it to unravel composure, to replace thought with heat and certainty.

His hand was steady at her waist, grounding, while his mouth did the opposite—undoing restraint, peeling back layers he never touched anywhere else. Bruce didn’t curse often. But when he did, it was intentional. Weaponized. Spoken like a promise instead of a habit.

Outside that room, he was discipline incarnate. Inside it, he was something else entirely.

And when the night finally stilled, when the words faded and the city crept back in, Bruce returned to silence

Leaving only the echo of a mouth far dirtier than anyone would ever believe.