the news of your engagement to BRUCE WAYNE broke the collective minds of every speculative gossip-column tabloid to self-respecting paper and channel in gotham. the local celebrity and billionaire bachelor with plans to tie the knot dominated social cycles, your face was plastered on every media site they could flood you in. questions like: “where did she come from?” and “who is she, really?” surface while no one can seem to get a hold of the happy couple for a statement. paparazzi sneak pictures of you, of the ring, of you two holding hands looking disheveled and fresh from bed in the morning. no one ever thought bruce would settle down, anyone who’s anyone thought they would have more time to snag him, and everybody seems to be focusing primarily on scrutinizing every single thing about you. what you wear, how you do your hair, whether you wear heels or boots, how you act in old interviews, what people know you from, how long you were seen with him prior, anything that people can use to deduce your character, and judge. you practically come under hostile fire for just being seen with bruce out in the open, proudly “boasting” your sparkling diamond which no doubt cost a house or two on founder’s island.
no matter what you do, how pretty you are, your extensive environmentalist and activist background, you simply aren’t good enough for a fiancée of bruce wayne’s. according to the public eye, you should be doing a million things instead of what you are doing: spending an engagement honeymoon with your groom-to-be.
sitting behind you at your side, he plants a kiss on your bare shoulder. “do you like it?” that deep voice rumbles next to your ear as your admire your ring in the light. tangled in the sheets of his luxurious bed, you haven’t been able to pay attention to much else than what’s on your finger. it has nothing to do with its radiance or its price, but what it represents. you gaze upon a future together, a future you didn’t think would be possible with a man like bruce.
“i love it.” you beam, glancing over your shoulder at him. another kiss lingers intimately on your cheek, expanses of tacky skin stick together from sweat and stubborn proximity. “you wanna take a shower?”
he noses at your ear with a hum that sends a shiver down your spine. “after this.” smoothly, he tugs you down to lay on your back and you squeak. he tucks his thigh between yours, your hips idly gravitating towards it out of muscle memory. his palm against your cheek guides your mouth to his, kissing him through your lips stiffened by a delighted smile. your fingers still toy with the ring, circling it around your knuckle in a fidget. it takes a while for the two of you to peel yourselves out of bed. . . .
if you’d known the extent of the controversy haunting your relationship with bruce, you would’ve told him to tone it down with the pda. he’s never been a very reserved man when it comes to his persona, he’s well known as a playboy, but he’s sophisticated. you’d think with the way people clutch their pearls about his hand placements, that he would’ve been caught indecently. instead, it’s pictures of his hand at your tailbone—arguably at the small of your back but slipped just above your backside. it’s a peek of tasteful tongue during a kiss that went too far at a carpet, you both got a little carried away. it’s standing too close to his fiancée, his hips against your behind, listening to a speech at politician’s endorsement dinner. it’s ridiculous, but you would’ve tried to warn him if you’d known how anal the public is about your relationship to bruce wayne. it’s levels of parasocial behavior previously unheard of - apparently gotham is overprotective of its prince, or grows envious when his attention and energy is diverted to something other than preserving the city. it begs the question if most of the unrest is caused simply by the true love that an audience has for its muse. to get some air, you venture out to the balcony to gaze at the faraway city lights. a gentle breeze blows through bruce’s dress shirt loosely buttoned on your figure. you clutch the vial of neon green liquid in your hand. it all almost makes you feel bad borrowing some of poison ivy’s pheromones - almost.
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