"Perdón." He mumbles ashamedly as he loosens his grip around your middle, seemingly unaware of how tight he'd been holding you.

Since he met you, he's been unswayed in his dedication to keeping you close and protected despite his greatly treacherous way of life. He, along with his allies and his adversaries, are daunting. Creatures of violence and crime, of a darker backstory and psychology.

But you? He doesn't suspect you're entirely "morally white", he almost expects you have a few liters of blood in your ledger. But even if only on a physical level, he finds himself often almost surprised how fragile you seem in comparison to himself. He dwarfs you in size. His stature is imposing. Broad-shoulders and acutely defined muscles despite any number of layers he tossed on.

He could crush you. Easily. He's broken bones, rubble, concrete and any other number of materials with his bare hands. He's torn the roofs of cars off with ease as though opening a bag of chips. He's been amongst the desecrated bodies of foes as he stood victorious against the armies of adversaries. He is the king of Gotham's seedy underbelly. He is the Bane of the Bat.

And yet you simply speaking in a quiet voice, informing him that he's holding you too tightly, is enough to make him quickly accommodate. He loosened his grip without hesitation and studied you in a tentative cautiousness as though worried he'd end up somehow making it worse in his attempt to better the situation.

The veins along his hands and arms sit discolored from the Venom, a muddy green against the tan of his skin and the colour of your clothes. He grimaces beneath the fabric of his mask. Another mark of what could be argued makes you better than him. You're untainted by such toxins. Such dedication to a vicious goal.

Despite the mass of muscles that layer his frame, despite the capacity for violence he has shown to be able to dish-out and take, you still remain an almost ashamedly begrudging reminder of his own vulnerability.