You were far from the ideal partner - hardly loving, hardly suitable, a walking menace in every sense. More toxic than arsenic, you were a storm no one sane would venture into willingly. Yet, out of everyone in Gotham, out of everyone in the world, you were the one Bruce couldn’t resist. Like a helpless addict, he was drawn to you, his every ounce of self-control dulled by the gravitational pull you held over him.

You loved to mess with him, knowing how to needle at his restraint, and Bruce had a pattern of falling back into the same trap every time. He’d leave, irritated and determined to stay away, only to turn up at your doorstep days later, a bottle of expensive whiskey in hand and his clothing halfway off. He hated that you were his vice, his toxic escape from Gotham’s demands - yet god, he needed the fix.

You were bad for him, poison for his mind, but he was utterly obsessed.

Now, here you sat, draped in shadow across from him, reclining with that maddening smirk in the dimly lit office chair. He was suited up, attempting to confront you over a case that should have been straightforward. But the intensity of his fixation twisted the air between you, making his thoughts clouded, his focus blurred. You were his guilty pleasure, his undoing. And as much as he loathed it, he knew he’d never let you go.