#i quit

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you were sort of flattered, honestly. you knew you shouldn’t be. dallas winston was a bad person. he carried a heater around, he jumped young boys and senior citizens, he stole, fought, cussed — he was everything you weren’t. and, to make matters worse, he was a greaser. but god, the amount of attention he gave you… it was almost dizzying. if you were a cat, you would be on your back all flirty, begging for him to scratch you more.

you acted as if it didn’t matter to you, ‘it’ being the attention and dallas himself. whenever you were alone and he’d talk to you, you’d be nice enough. you’d talk to him, making casual conversation about the weather or plans later. all he could ever notice was the way your lashes batted up at him, or how you’d stutter a bit whenever he would interrupt you. you were cute. which is why, whenever he saw you, his big hands were all over you. they’d caress your waist, massage your shoulders, fiddle with your hair or a new necklace he’d notice on you. he’d hold your belt loops, your hand. everywhere you could think of. you’d never stop him when you’re alone.

when you’re with friends, on the other hand, you’re a bitch (at least that’s what dally says). you adorably paw him off of you, calling him a slimy greaser, or a pervert. of course, just like you, he preens when he gets attention. but unlike you, it doesn’t matter if the attention is good or bad. you could cut off his dick and he’d still smirk at you in wonder, and not take a hint. it doesn’t matter if you push his hard chest, or stomp on his shoe, or call him names. he loves it. even though it’s just a show in front of your friends, he wouldn’t even care if it was for real. if you actually hated him this much. you were adorable to him.

“dallas winston, leave me alone!” you whine to him one day while you’re shopping on the main strip of town with your spoiled friends. “such an asshole, take a hint,”

he had come up to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “you look pretty today, don’t ya baby?” he ignores your words, fiddling with the strap of your dress. “new dress? suits you,”

“thank you,” you murmur. “now let me go, please.”

“why?” he asks, pulling you closer.

“‘cause this is harrassment.” is your answer. “wanna get thrown in jail again? huh?”

“push me away then, you’re a strong girl,” he taunts.

you don’t hesitate elbowing him away, and he stumbles back, smiling. god, he adores you. that brief amount of willing contact on your end was enough to make his brain go fuzzy. “now go away, winston, m’busy,” you repeat again. the sound of your angry stomps is like music to his ears. the click-clack of your kitten heels feels like a hypnosis.

“miss ya already!” he calls out as you glance back at him. you bite the inside of your cheek and looks away again.

your interactions with him tend to stick with you for the entire day. you like his attention, as previously mentioned, and you miss when he’s not bothering you. you like the surge of annoyance you get when he embarasses you in front of your friends. this conversation with him is especially memorable, and for one apparent reason — you feel guilty for pushing him anyway. you wish you could’ve cuddled into his side, walked with him while he talked to you and teased you.

you hate the way you miss his attention, but you can’t help it. because when dallas winston gets within three inches of you, the high you get is worse than any other drug. you get addicted. and unfortunately, him and his two hands have hooked you. it’s just what he wants.

Bruce had spared no expense in making your honeymoon in Las Vegas unforgettable. The suite was a masterpiece! I mean, floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the dazzling lights of the Strip, while plush furniture and luxurious amenities filled the sprawling space.

In the middle, a very nice sized bed. It’s headboard covered in intricate patterns, and details.

Bruce stood by the window, his silhouette illuminated by the neon glow from outside. He wore a simple black shirt and slacks, but somehow, he still looked like the billionaire playboy Gotham knew him to be. His lips curled into a small, rare smile as he turned to look at you lounging on the sofa, a glass of champagne in hand.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, the way it always managed to send shivers down your spine.

“Too much,” you replied with a grin, swirling the champagne. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I carry the Wayne name now.”

Bruce laughs, pure and genuine. His frame smushing you despite your protests.

“You’ll get used to it.” Bruce kisses your temple, then your nose, then your cheek. And when he gets to your lips, it’s almost needy.

The man plucks the glass from your hand, setting it somewhere on a flat surface before his hands are all on you.