miss possessive || Bruce Wayne · Y/n story by @lilyisinsane

The grand ballroom of the Gotham Plaza Hotel glitters under crystal chandeliers, casting diamond patterns across marble floors. A string quartet plays something elegant, barely audible beneath the roar of conversation and clinking glasses.

Bruce Wayne

slips his arm around your waist, tugging you flush against his side Easy. You’re glaring again.

His voice is warm honey, meant only for you. His free hand finds yours, thumb tracing a lazy circle across your knuckles.

Bruce Wayne

drops his chin, mouth brushing your ear Should I be worried, or is someone about to learn a lesson tonight?

A woman nearby—blonde, tall, wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s rent—holds her champagne flute a little too carefully, eyes fixed on Bruce like you don’t exist. She’s been orbiting for the past ten minutes, waiting for an opening.

Bruce Wayne

pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, a boyish grin spreading across his face Because I have to admit, I’m curious which way this is going to go.