It was almost impossible to find Bruce Wayne amidst the flock of models that had descended upon him. Pictures would soon be all over various social networks as guests pretended to take selfies, though it was unlikely Mr. Wayne would have stopped anyone from taking photos outright. At least one of those photos was going to end up a meme sooner rather than later.
It wasn’t hard to see why. The man himself, dressed in an impeccable suit, had taken a seat to give himself a break from mingling. A very large fellow with an earpiece kept the area under his poolside awning free of those his boss didn’t care to speak to. All around him the party continued, with more than one person leaping fully-clothed into the pool. And slowly, like moths to a flame, slender women with fashion-shoot faces had gathered around Wayne. No one stopped them. A few had enough decorum to sit in adjacent chairs. Some sat on the couch beside him, one with her legs draped sideways over his lap; some stood behind the couch and bent half over it to talk to him, doing dangerous things to their necklines. A few, shameless, sat on the tile of the patio near his feet.
Not that any of this was particularly unusual. It was difficult to find a picture of Gotham’s favorite son at a public event without a throng of women. The fact that he had never been known to date anyone seriously did not dissuade them.
“I don’t know why I even come to these things when he just hogs all the hot chicks,” one guest complained. Someone — he did not see who — pushed him into the pool, and gave him something better to complain about.
“Bruuuce,” Cindi said, looking up from where she sat on the ground. “Seriously, you should come.”
“What would I even do?” Bruce asked, as Laura took his glass to steal some of his champagne. She was standing behind the couch, and wasn’t actually old enough to drink.
“Play with us, obviously,” said Adia, legs draped over him for no apparent reason whatsoever. Bruce took his glass back from Laura before she could take a second sip, and she pouted. He frowned as he wiped lipstick off the rim.
“I don’t even know how to play Street Fighter,” he said.
“Who doesn’t know how to play Street Fighter?” Cindi demanded, scandalized. “Didn’t you go to college?”
“Is that what I was supposed to be doing?” Bruce asked. “In that case, I made things much more difficult than they needed to be.”
More amazing fic. Seriously, I want fan art of Bruce and the dashalier puppy.
