Kismet (кιѕѕ мє) ᴶᵒⁿᵉˢ on RolePlayer.me - www.roleplayer.me/brokenshatteredrp

— PROMPT x ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴᴀꜱꜱ.

'Hey, you're bleeding...'

The Ferrari logo glistens brightly underneath the moonlight, the driver behind her luxurious wheel sporting knuckle mounds so bruised the blackness of the night pales in comparison. Curating fingers lazily apply a masking cream that somewhat heals the tense skin's ruptured edges. Better. It does no such thing as to alleviate the hurtful pulsations that capture his palms in a daring vice with each contraction of the heart. A man so aligned with his bodily systems, that he may feel which vein extends when the arteries constrict to push blood. 'God-darned Solomon Grundy,' Bruce curses, lifting his hands to hastily wrap a tie around the open collar of a silkly navy-blue dress shirt only half-tucked into the trousers. Pain never really intimidated Bruce, in fact, some of the things he has requested former partners to go through with... The kinks' memory plasters a sleepy smirk upon his scarred lip. The so-called King of Gotham steps out of the lustrous vehicle in a city where his name is just as admired. As can be perceived by the ways the ladies, and even some men, swoon in his direction. The perfume embracing his neck and wrists flow in his wake, slow and confident strides across the red carpet amidst flashing cameras and heat-seeking reporters.

'Hey, you're bleeding...'

At first, Bruce passes off the claims. Choosing to spend a single second flashing over the frame of a beautiful woman, though it's her eyes his own linger upon mischievously for a moment longer. Then, he presses a finger over the lower pout, skin that has somehow cracked again allowing a trickling line of crimson to flow. It will soon pass, he is sure of it. Before he can reply to the stranger and make some improvisational comment on her intriguing charms, a group of younger socialites arrive beckoning for a chance to meet the esteemed philanthropist. Probably the teenage children of some billionaire in Bruce's back pocket. The haunted air between two fingers clutch a marker pen that he utilises to scribble down his signature onto a couple of blank pages. Then a smug look into their camera eyepieces before his attention returns to the original speaker. Her and others, he does not recognise, Bruce was never one to keep up with the trends and activities of the party-hard folks. His name, however, it is a miracle if not known.

'Nothing new there,' the playboy looks down into her eyes and flashes his trademark smile, 'Bruce Wayne. It's a pleasure.'

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