“Just cause my kids aren’t in the Manor doesn’t mean you can roam about as you please.”

Bruce’s voice is low and rough, his ice blue eyes tracking you as you wander around the grand dining room, as you begin to inspect his alcohol on the shelves, your finger a brushing over a thousand dollar crystal bottle of whiskey. You only give him a small sardonic smile in return, continuing to browse through his liquor. Your movements are agile and easy, and it’s a stark contrast to how Bruce moves — brutal and without any hesitation.

Everything about you two is contradictory — and somehow, somehow, Gotham’s biggest protector has been caught in your web. Because you roam the manor, wearing a silky little nightdress, Bruce’s bite marks on your skin, hair messy and your lipstick smudged on Bruce’s throat and bare chest as he watches you.

You’re a fucking villain, not a homicidal maniac but you have enough charges for arson and burglary under your belt for it to make Bruce’s usually painfully constricting moral compass scream that this is wrong. He shouldn’t be consorting with you — he should be pinning you down and taking you to the GCPD. But instead he has you toying with his most expensive drinks and roaming his manor in little to nothing.

He thanks god none of his kids are home and that Alfred took the weekend off.

Bruce moves towards you, pyjama pants low on his hips, bare torso showing off your bite marks and some old scars he’s gained over the years, until he’s right behind you, one large hand stopping your nimble fingers from taking out another crystal bottle from the shelf.

“That was a gift from a prince, I don’t think you should touch that,” he mutters and he hates how you lean back into him, looking up at him from under your lashes, how it makes his blood run hot and his conscience fade to white noise. Your warmth sets him on fire.

He should be ashamed of the way he falls for your pretty eyes and devilish smiles, but instead he finds himself apologising for a mistake he’ll keep on making.