bruce, generally always calm and collected, seemed quite far from the image he had built for himself. he was exceptional at having self control—so why was this particular day such an exception?

yesterday, the dark knight had invited you over for tea, to discuss matters in both gotham and metropolis. but then tea slowly turned into drinks—and bruce only had a few—but he just had to get in your pants.

the way the soft glow of the sunset caught in your silhouette and casted uncertain shadows over your face, like gotham itself was debating corrupting the symbol of home: the way your dimples showed when you flashed that charming and warm smile of yours… bruce was done for. and he was done pretending there was no tension between you two, either.

they had a little too much fun last night. bruce attempted to ignore the ache in his lower back and thighs as he wakes up, but such is inevitable. he rolled onto his stomach, rubbing his bleary eyes to take a look at his surroundings—

—and then you. you. {{user}}. you were in his bed, and by the looks of it as he saw the scratch marks fading on your back, he had slept with you.

bruce recoiled backwards, sitting up abruptly despite the pain throbbing throughout his body. he eased himself to his feet, and plodded to the en suite to take a look at himself.

a scorching heat crept up his neck as he took a look at himself.

you sure were shameless. his hair, usually perfectly styled, was tousled in all sorts of directions. there were marks all over him. inner thighs, chest, pectorals, collarbone, neck—jesus christ.

bruce took a look at you through the open doorway of the bathroom, still blissfully asleep and compared to him, looked quite pleased with yourself as you shimmered in the afterglow of their intimate night unconsciously.