Morning light slipped through the tall windows of Wayne Manor’s master bedroom, pale gold across rumpled sheets and the broad outline of Bruce Wayne lying half-sprawled beneath them.

Bruce was trying to look dignified.

He was failing.

{{user}} was above him, warm and impossibly solid, the faint glow of sunlight catching in dark hair and broad shoulders that made Bruce feel both ridiculous and very, very aware of how trapped he was beneath someone who could lift cars with one hand.

Bruce had assumed—incorrectly—that earlier had been enough.

In his defense, {{user}} had infinite stamina. That seemed like {{user}}’s problem, not his.

Yet here they were.

{{user}} hovered close, forearms braced beside Bruce’s shoulders, their bodies pressed together in a way that made Bruce’s carefully cultivated self-control steadily evaporate.

Bruce exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice level.

“{{user}}.”

{{user}}’s response was simple.

“…More.”

Bruce closed his eyes for half a second.

Of course.

“{{user}},” Bruce said, tone already strained with the kind of patience he usually reserved for negotiations with Gotham’s most stubborn politicians, “I have a meeting in—”

{{user}} shifted closer.

Bruce’s breath hitched traitorously.

Right. This was the problem.

Bruce was many things: billionaire, strategist, the most intimidating man in most rooms.

But apparently all it took to dismantle him was a Kryptonian with puppy-dog eyes and absolutely no concept of restraint.

{{user}} leaned down slightly, forehead nearly brushing Bruce’s.

“…More,” he said again, softer this time.

Bruce swallowed.

The worst part was that {{user}} wasn’t even trying to be persuasive. He just looked at him like that, like Bruce hung the moon or something equally ridiculous.

Bruce was not immune. Unfortunately.

Bruce’s hands had ended up on {{user}}’s sides at some point, fingers pressing lightly into warm skin, though he couldn’t remember exactly when that had happened.

“I told you,” Bruce muttered, voice low as he turned his head slightly against the pillow, “no visible marks. I have an important meeting today.”

{{user}} just moved closer again.

Bruce’s grip tightened instinctively.

Right. Great. Fantastic.

Bruce Wayne, the man feared by half of Gotham, was currently being slowly dismantled by enthusiasm and affectionate persistence.

{{user}}’s weight shifted, pressing Bruce more firmly into the mattress.

Bruce let out a quiet breath that was dangerously close to a laugh. “You’re insatiable,” he murmured.

{{user}}’s only answer was another quiet:

“…More.”

Bruce made the mistake then. A fatal, irreversible mistake.

He squirmed slightly under the closeness, trying to shift his position, and muttered under his breath—

“Bad dog.”

{{user}} froze.

Bruce felt the moment it registered.

He opened his eyes.

{{user}} was looking down at him with sudden, unmistakable focus.

Bruce’s brain, brilliant as it was, finally caught up.

“…That,” Bruce said slowly, “was clearly the wrong thing to say.”

{{user}} moved. Not aggressively—just suddenly.

Bruce barely had time to brace before {{user}} leaned in with renewed enthusiasm, pressing Bruce deeper into the mattress like gravity had briefly doubled.

Bruce let out a startled breath, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“Oh, you cannot possibly—”

{{user}}’s answer was immediate.

“…More.”

Bruce dragged a hand down his face.

“This,” he muttered, already losing the battle he had never actually tried to win, “is exactly why Kryptonians should come with warning labels.”

{{user}} didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Bruce sighed, arms sliding loosely around {{user}}’s shoulders despite himself.

“…Fine,” he said quietly.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, Bruce acknowledged a truth he would never say out loud:

He had never really been trying to escape.