When the auction ends, Blake does well to hide his mild shock and disappointment at the outcome. It's a lot of money — he's not sad about that — but the bidding war that had taken place had left him feeling an undue amount of scrutiny, not to mention renewed concern over whatever expectations might come with this unexpected outcome.
Because the money's for the kids, he tells himself it's fine. The winning bid goes to a notoriously kind woman — her family is old money out of Russia — and while he thinks her plans will be fine, he's been told it's all meant to be standard: A photograph, a sit down meal with suitably pleasant conversation (translated professionally), and a visit to the orphanage where Blake grew up to wrap up the evening.
Blake will hate it, but he'll endure.
Truth be told, he was kind of hoping to ride a motorcycle, eat some cheap food, and maybe see where the night went with Bruce. He'd almost hitched his entire wagon to that star when he'd slipped into the crisp, clean tuxedo and presented himself on stage like a gussied up blue ribbon prize bull.
When the last of the arrangements are made, with ceremonial checks signed and proctored applause long died off, Blake catches Bruce in the hallway outside the dining hall.
"So, this is awkward," he says, only half-joking as he scrubs at the back of his head. He'd started the night pretty excited, but now he's more jittery than anything. Too much caffeine, too much attention, not enough room to fidget when the suit is exactly his size.
Bruce wasn't trying to lose on purpose. When he told Blake he was looking forward to going out with him, that had been an honest statement. Or as honest as you could get from Bruce when he's pretending to be some clueless billionare. It really should have been very easy. No one this side of the Atlantic could outbid Bruce Wayne. Probably the Pacific too. And if he'd been in his seat like he was supposed to be, waving his paddle like he was supposed to be, and running up the price like he was supposed to be the evening might have gone according to plan.
Instead he'd slipped out before it was John's turn on the auction block to stop a robbery in progress not more than 10 minutes down the road. He had plenty of time, he thought. This was going to be quick. He did not have plenty of time and really the only thing it proved was the perils of Bruce trying to be present when Batman was really the one Gotham needed. He really needed to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Bruce returned with only enough time to catch the winner of John's bid receive her congratulations.
It's for a good cause. That's what he tells himself so he's not too disappointed.
He smiles when John approaches him, notes his jitters and tries to be something close to reassuring. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how I dropped the ball so badly." A lie. "If you're not married by the end of your date, I'd still like to take you out."
Blake does the once-around, more concerned about being overheard by someone at the function than really how the auction for the evening played out. He knows they both probably would have preferred a different outcome, but what's done is done. All he can do now is shrug at Bruce's apology because he's not that broken up about it.
"If you really mean it, I'm not actually needed for, ah... publicity purposes until next week," he notes, trapped dead in between relieved and annoyed. Blake isn't looking forward to the wait, nor is he relishing the commentary that's certain to be tossed around when he's an escort around the boys' home, but it's not a television interview or a soul-crushing trip to a local art installation, so he counts himself a little bit lucky.
"You can make it up to me by gettin' me home. Eventually." His nose wrinkles. "I hate the bus and I bet you saved enough money tonight for a cab."
Blake's not going to meet anyone more paranoid than Bruce. He appreciates the once around to make sure they're alone, but Bruce had already assessed the location, chosen for its seclusion and because it was easy enough to watch who came and went not only from inside, but from outside too. They'd be fine so long as they stayed here. No one seemed to wander this far down the corridor. Except a guy who liked the dark, apparently.
There's a hint of a smile as John lays out his plans for the winning bid. A press tour didn't sound terrible but Bruce did those on the regular. For someone like John? Maybe riding a fast motorcycle into the night was more his speed.
"So what you're saying is, you're all mine for the night?" Bruce's smile broadens. It's easier to pretend when the company is good. "I can live with that."
Blake resists the urge to roll his eyes, lips pursed to keep him from smiling, too. Bruce has a way about him that is so effortlessly aloof, but when he turns on the charm even a little bit, it's a force to be reckoned with. It's part of the reason Blake keeps his wits about him whenever they're together (although their previous conversation about fruity drinks and walks on the beach does have him thinking again).
"What I mean is that I'm not occupied this evening, so yeah, I'd love to hang out, thanks," he says, purposeful but not at all lacking in humor. On another night he might call Bruce on making promises he can't keep — the idea of anyone being all his for a whole night (dedicated and uninterrupted) is utterly laughable — but seeing as how the gavel's barely had a chance to grow cold from the last promise he didn't keep, it feels a bit passé.
He tosses a playful jab at Bruce's arm and turns on his heel. "I'll grab my backpack and meet you outside." Blake isn't usually so emboldened as to act as if he's running the show, but he thinks he's bought himself a small amount of grace — enough that he's resolved himself that they'll have a good time no matter what.
If there was one thing Bruce made sure to perfect, it was the art of flirting. A lot of people had pressured him to be more like his father after Thomas's tragic passing and for a while, Bruce tried. He really tried to be the man Thomas was. He thought Thomas Wayne had been so effortlessly charming and well respected. He thought that maybe that would be the better cover for Batman than a playboy who wasted his family fortune falling off of yachts and dating supermodels by the dozens.
He'd tried and honestly, it never fit right. Thomas couldn't be what Batman needed. Being charming and kind of stupid didn't fit right either, but it did make people stop asking too many questions. He was raised by the help after all. You couldn't rightly expect civility from that situation. That kind of dismissal was what Batman needed.
Tonight, though, Bruce could come up for air to spend a little time with someone he genuinely liked. Batman needed that too. He grins at John as he turns to go. He waits for Blake on his bike, revving it once he sees the other man come outside. He offers Blake his extra helmet.
Blake finds his things and slips out pretty readily, mostly avoiding conversations on the way, but is still forced to wave a goodbye and beg off a few interested socialites at the door. This scene was so far from what he's used to, he feels like a shrimp cocktail at tea party. It's tested his patience and his overall ability to handle people, so the relief he feels upon crashing out into the cool night air to see Bruce's bike is immense.
Slinging his pack on properly and sliding the helmet over his head, he's snapping the strap while he takes a quick walk around the bike. The low whistle would probably issue forth for most any bike, but Bruce is never traditional and Blake's sure this will be a hell of a ride.
"Don't get a complex," he tells the other man, sliding on behind him. "It's really not a big deal." There's only a steadying grasp against Bruce's side for a second and then Blake's leaning back of his own accord, hands on his thighs. He hasn't had a bike of his own in years, but he's got the experience to know what to do as a passenger and barring reckless driving, he'll probably give Bruce his space versus clinging on like a garden slug.
Not surprised by the two-ways in the helmets, he grins and asks Bruce, "You already got plans for me or are we playin' by ear tonight?" He's game either way, content for the moment to let Bruce show him where two wheels can take them, but interested nonetheless.
Maybe one day, for not holding a grudge, Bruce'll show Blake the art of disappearing in a crowd. It's essential in escaping any awkward social situation. Or to baffle Jim Gordon. That's always fun too. He grins in his helmet, revs the engine as Blake gives his bike a once over. It wasn't one the more expensive models (those were heavily modified and technically not street legal), but it was no less impressive, all deep dark blacks and polished chrome.
When he's sure Blake's settled behind him and that they've been seen by enough cameras, Bruce peels out into the darkness. "Not a complex. I just hate to disappoint." Bruce isn't a reckless driver. At least not while he's a civilian. But it's quite clear he knows how to maneuver the bike through Gotham's traffic. He weaves in and out of the cars that are stopped or stalled, taking the sharp turns expertly that would get them to the penthouse.
"While you were getting your bag, I had Alfred drop by the penthouse and whip up a quick dinner for us. Didn't seem very fair to ask you to cook. After that, we're free to do whatever you like."
He glances over his shoulder at his passenger, amusement in his voice. "If you want to stop for condoms, let me know now."
Certainly enjoying Bruce's risks as much as his practical experience with Gotham streets, he can't help feeling entirely too old to be throwing his hands up excitedly and whooping at some point like they've just won some race. It's a unique thrill — something he's not sure many others have experienced — and maybe that makes the earlier part of the evening worth the hassle.
Still, Bruce brings the thrills and then adds a little rich boy chivalry into the mix and Blake can't help but be weirdly charmed. He wouldn't have minded making food — it's the reality of his life that he has to feed himself three times a day, more or less — but it's a nice enough gesture and he's glad to not have to compete with a refined palette.
At the last bit, he barks out a laugh and pinches Bruce's side. "Sounds like we'll be doing whatever you like," he says, cheeky through-and-through. "But it's nice you didn't ask Alfred to buy your date condoms, too." The tease is meant to be light, but there are few days that Blake spends time with Bruce that he doesn't feel the vast difference between their lives and upbringing.
Nevertheless, Blake's pack's got all the trimmings of a go bag. He's chronically prepared, having been relying on himself for a long damn time, so no detours necessary.
"Gotta say, though, didn't think you'd let anyone fuck you." A misconception he's interested in exploring considering the implication.
If you knew anything about Gotham's golden boy, you couldn't really be blamed for thinking this date was anything but typical. Blake isn't the first person he's whisked off on his motorcycle to the excited click of cameras and most of the time, it really was just for show. He wasn't sure he isn't entirely sure he's ready to admit that things feel different with Blake, even if that's a true statement. Bruce wants to be here, zipping through Gotham's streets with Blake behind him.
There's something about it. He doesn't want to give it words yet.
He laughs a little at Blake pinching him and throws another glance at him over his shoulder. He'd been teasing for the most part, but if he's honest, he's not opposed to seeing where the night went. Blake is handsome and easy to exist around. Expectations were not nearly so high like it is with Bruce's standard dates. The performance didn't have to be so perfect (even though it would be anyway). He's just always been good company and Bruce could always use some good company.
"I don't, especially on a first date." Partially untrue. He clears the entrance to the parking garage, nestled under Wayne Tower before he continues. "But I'm willing to try anything once. If you are."
Nothing like staring up at Wayne Tower and realizing you're going about as high up as a person can go. Blake stares as long as he can, head tipped until the parking garage takes over and there's nothing left to see. Feeling slightly better about this location and knowing there are at least a few sharp turns ahead, he uses it as an excuse and finally loops an arm around Bruce's front. He doesn't need to hold on, but he wants to.
"Gets me in trouble, but I rarely turn down a challenge," he says, sporting a full-on grin inside his helmet. That much is obvious, isn't it? And thus he doesn't need to list his accomplishments for Bruce; Blake's confident he can handle anything short of a proposal (or unexpected company). In fact, sex is easy. Always has been. Emotions are hard. And beyond a fair amount of fondness between them, Blake's pretty sure feelings won't come into play here.
He encroaches while he can, sliding forward on the seat until he's got his crotch pressed right up against Bruce. It's not so easy in those tuxedo pants, but he manages even if it means the tops of his socks are showing.
"In that case, you can come in my mouth on a first date, too," he says, voice lowered conspiratorially, and then chuckles, teasingly adding, "if you're into that."
Sex is easy. Because it is never anything personal. Nothing to put his heart into, because the people he'd end up being with never meant anything to him. It is just another tool in his utility belt, a part of the act that kept people from looking at him too closely. Brucie's life moves fast and so did the people he rotates in and out of it. Blake wouldn't have to worry about feelings. While quite fond of Blake, Bruce knew how to keep anything deeper put firmly away.
Still, he smiles when he feels Blake pressing against his back.
The work day is over, so the parking garage is, for the most part, empty. At least until they reach the level reserved exclusively for Bruce Wayne. There's an ornate elevator in the middle, an elegant W carved into the dark wooden doors. Along either side of the elevator are parked several luxury sports cars. Bruce puts the motorcycle into a empty spot close by.
"I just might be." He waits until Blake's dismounted before he climbs off himself, peeling the helmet off, so Blake could see his grin. "Let's get inside and maybe find out."
He strolls to the elevator, swiping a keycard to unlock the elevator and the penthouse level. The doors slide open, and Bruce gestures toward the interior.
While not saying anything to that, Blake has no trouble appreciating the grin. Bruce is handsome enough without trying, but when he's wearing a smile — especially a mischievous one — he becomes downright sexy. It only increases Blake's excitement over the evening and its prospects.
When Blake leaves behind the spare helmet, he uses the moment to steal a quick look-around at the garage. The cars are worth a peek, he thinks, and he lingers a second that allows him to lean down towards the nearest window to check out the interior. Very nice, very foreign.
Jogging to catch up with Bruce and passing him right into the elevator, Blake shoulders his bag onto just one arm and leans back against the railing. He feels a bit like he's heading into the candy store, where everything he sees will be something he wants to analyze for its presence and purposefulness.
"Sorta hate what you bring out in me," Blake says, grinning as they get going. He's splayed along the rail and entirely unbothered, of course. "Ten minutes and you've got me talkin' dirty and comin' back to yours. And all I wanna do— Me, a guy who'd rather gouge out his eyes than prance 'round in the public eye— All, I wanna do is show you off."
He shakes his head, feigning judgement. If anyone deserves to be judged, it's Blake. It's easy to say now but in the light of day when the presses roll with the gossip of the day, he won't feel so charitable about the idea.
If he's honest, this is the most Bruce has smiled in ages. It comes easily when he's waving to a camera or knew that there were eyes on him. Less so when he's being authentic. There's nothing to suggest Bruce's grin is anything but authentic for how it reaches his eyes and lingers there. So it's as real as it's going to get when it comes to Bruce. It's a nice feeling.
The smile stays as he watches John admire his cars. They're flashy, maybe a little impractical, but they fit in nicely with his fast lifestyle. Maybe Bruce would let him pick the ride Bruce takes him home in. When Blake joins him in the elevator, Bruce leans back against the wall as the doors close and the elevator starts its crawl upward.
"I can tone it down a little," Bruce replies, arms folded and eyes fixed on Blake's smiling mouth for just a minute. "But I can't turn it off, unfortunately. I won't be able to drive you wild if I do that."
The elevator dings and opens up on the top floor. The foyer, pristinely decorated, ends at a set of double doors Bruce unlocks with a key he fishes out of his pocket. When the doors open, they're greeted with the smell of Alfred's cooking. Bruce had asked for something simple. Knowing Alfred, it would be elaborate and set to impress. Alfred's note that accompanied the meal greeted John graciously and warned Bruce against being too much like himself, lest he scare off this nice young man.
It's very difficult not to be taken in by Bruce and the more steps Blake takes into his little slice of the world, the more he feels as if the urge to resist will become further and further from his mind. Truthfully, there aren't a lot of places to go or people to trust for Blake to get much practice just being himself, but here it feels a lot simpler. And maybe it helps he doesn't mind Bruce knowing where to find some of the divots in his emotional armor.
"You couldn't tone it down if you wanted to," Blake says as he picks up the note. The words are sweet — a nice touch — but it still fizzes inside Blake's brain like a fuse counting down on some kind of personal assault.
(What does Alfred know about him? About them? About these plans? Does he anticipate every quick meal Bruce asks after last minute to be in service of one of these scenarios? And how just how nice, young, and afraid does he really think Blake to be? The questions are like a spring weeds sprouting from seeds sown in years past, unwelcome but also difficult to be ridded of entirely.)
"Grilled cheese, huh?" He shakes his head. "Now I know you're checkin' up on me. No way your butler picked grilled cheese and wasn't thinkin' of my simple ass bein' absolutely relieved and delighted."
He will not deny that the portability of such a sandwich, so precisely sliced into triangles, is exactly what Blake wants so he can snoop a bit more freely. And he does just that, knowing there are other items on his place setting — salad, soup, croutons, cheeses, and all manner of nibbles from a jar — but content enough with this childlike meal-on-the-move.
If there'd been anyway to know what he's thinking, Bruce would have done his best to set Blake at ease. Alfred is just such a deeply ingrained part of his life that without him, none of this worked. Not Bruce Wayne the persona and certainly not Batman. Alfred is the glue that binds it all together into something cohesive and smooth. The oil for the well oiled machine.
But while he's as intertwined in this life as Bruce is, he knew when to take a step back and let Bruce have his moments of privacy. Blake would not have to worry about the butler popping in unannounced or speaking out of turn. All of this? It's just part of taking care of Bruce and maybe goading him into giving up the life of a vigilante for the something a little closer to family man. So far he's had no luck.
"I did ask for simple." The grilled cheese, Bruce is also surprised to see. He'd thought something to match Alfred's idea of a sophisticated palette. Not an after school snack. But it worked, strangely enough. It worked quite well.
He slides by Blake as he swipes a sandwich and reaches for one of his own. "I can't think of the last time he made me grilled cheese. I must have been a kid." Young and a little more carefree than this. Part of him feels it coming back now, while he's here with Blake. Life could be simple like this, if he'd let it be.
He won't. But it could be.
The rest of the penthouse has a distinct 'no one really lives here' feeling for how pristine it looks. The furniture - leather and neatly arranged - is accented by a fireplace, already lit and thriving. No doubt thanks to Alfred. There are trinkets and baubles on the glass shelves. Not a trace of dust and maybe rather morbidly a portrait of the Waynes - Thomas and Martha only - displayed over an accent table.
"God, no," Blake responds nearly automatically, but coughs and amends, "Sorry. Drink yes. Makin' myself at home here? No offense, but it's sorta like bein' in a museum."
Like someone who has been told many, many times in his life to keep his hands to himself, he walks along to investigate anything and everything that seems to stand out, artfully keeping his grilled cheese to one hand while the other rests behind his back and well away from the shelves or table edges. He's not sure he really recognizes much of anything that reminds him strictly of his friend, but it all fits an aesthetic Blake's certain was inherited.
At the accent table he studies the picture longer than the rest, picking out the ways Bruce resembles his parents before moving on.
"Where's the bedroom?" He grins and makes no effort to wait to be shown around. Bruce had said he could do as he pleases and Blake takes that to heart. Were their positions reversed, he wouldn't blink at the idea of Bruce poking his nose into any corner of Blake's apartment. If anything, he almost expects it of anyone he might actually allow close enough to invite in. "That's where the real judgement starts," Blake adds, wondering if Bruce will pick him a drink and follow or wait for Blake to return satisfied with his exploration.
Honestly, the manor would not have been much better. In fact, maybe a little worse for just how many portraits of his parents hanged there. It could easily feel like life stood still there, stifled by loss and grieving and a deeply rooted desire for revenge. But, Alfred warned him against being too much like himself. So it was better to bring Blake here, where things might be a little more normal. Where he's better able to hide all that good ol' fashion emotional turmoil. Even if it's like a museum. It's easier to breathe.
He points down the dimly lit hallway at Blake's question. "The room at the very end of the hall."
There's a stark contrast between the bedroom and the rest of the penthouse. Life happens here, clearly. The bed is neatly made, though there's remnants of Bruce's getting ready for the evening thrown across it - jackets he decided against, a few ties he'd been trying to match colors for. The trinkets in here are clearly more personal than anything outside of the space. Blake could poke around to his heart's content.
Bruce isn't overly concerned about him stumbling across anything in his exploration. It's by design that accessing anything beyond opening a door would require some very deliberate knowledge. And even if he managed, biometrics would stop him.
When his drink is ready, Bruce decides to join him (you know, just in case). "So do I pass?"
It's never really about what Blake can stumble across so much as what he can glean; Bruce would understand being very similar himself. Observant. Curious. Attentive. It's the natural spirit of a detective that causes a person like Blake to naturally grab for those puzzle pieces and begin turning them to see where they might fit.
Some things interest him more than others, of course, and while lingering by the bed, he appreciates the efforts he can see. His fingers brush along the cuffs of the jackets and down the ties, sensing the construction and weight of the fabric. Bruce cared enough to choose, but he wonders if he'd walked to his closet and plucked those items himself, or if he'd taken suggestions from an array laid out by Alfred and designed to work well enough.
When Bruce arrives with the drink, Blake's still turning that particular puzzle around in his head, too, trying hard to decide if he's better off letting himself be charmed, or if Bruce is due a little more comeuppance for only being 95% perfect.
"You really wanna know?" He asks rhetorically as he graciously takes the drink and makes no complaints about its contents. Nevertheless, before tasting, he smiles and reminds himself, with a raking gaze, of Bruce's choice of attire for the evening, contrasting it with a new perspective now that he's seen the spread of alternatives.
"So far, I don't hate it." Truthfully, that's akin to a sparkling review and Blake is grinning into his glass while testing the mix. He's not picky enough about booze to care what he's drinking, but he can admit, as he reaches to touch Bruce's chosen tie, that he appreciates it for how right it feels just as much for how attractive it reads already loosened some at the knot. "Worried I might be a harsh critic?"
Maybe Blake would realize how carefully crafted Bruce's puzzle truly is. They're all pieces he's very deliberately chosen and the picture is not too revealing when it's all put together. A rich party boy with expensive tastes. Bruce Wayne and every other socialite in Gotham. But there's still enough revealed that maybe you're not curious enough to question much more beyond that. And usually no one he brings back here does. Blake might be because Bruce does understand. Sometimes, you notice when the picture's a little too perfect. Sometimes, you notice there might be something a bit deeper behind what you're being presented.
But that's okay. Bruce is prepared for that. He's prepared for everything.
He smiles at Blake as he touches his tie, the warmth of it reaching his eyes for once. When you're a salt of the earth type, stepping into the glitz of Gotham’s elite can be jarring. Maybe a little off putting when you know how hard life really is for people without all this excess. That Blake didn't hate it? High praise indeed.
"Maybe. It's a little obnoxious up here." Everything so neat and orderly maybe a little too sterile. Blake's a welcome contrast, in Bruce's opinion.
"So what else would you like to see? The penthouse is pretty big. There's a pool and a gym. Or we can stay right here." " His smile turns sly as he sits on the edge of the bed.
Obnoxious isn't quite the word that springs to Blake's mind, but he feels ostentatious does cover it on some level. He particularly notes that people with more money can afford to look like they have so much less, apt to hide away their appliances or disguise the everyday necessities. A walk-in closet often means no need to stuff the dresser, and a second kitchen run by an out-of-sight staff means clean-up from today's peanut butter and jelly is a breeze.
"Yeah, haven't finished seein' all I can see here," Blake points out, equally sly as he smiles and makes no real effort to hide it in his drink.
Approaching with a measured pace, Blake reaches up to loosen the top two buttons of his once-crisp white tuxedo shirt. The smart bowtie had been stuffed into his bag the moment things were over, but there's no denying he's somewhat enjoyed this game of dress-up. He could do more of this if he wanted, but he doesn't. At least, not unless he can rope someone else into approving of how good he looks. Not narcissism so much as interest in providing a feast for the eyes; certainly, he finds himself hungry for the same.
Shoes once mirror-shined bear their scuffs as Blake encroaches. His foot taps the edges of Bruce's more pristine footwear, urging space between them where he inserts himself. Couched warmly between Bruce's knees, well enough above him, he reaches to card his fingers through Bruce's hair, testing the weight and density, how it feels fine but also thick.
"Think you can show me what's under all of this?" He doesn't lack softness, but he isn't cradling or coddling by any means. His hands are certain and when he slides his fingers beneath Bruce's chin, it's as much curiosity as it is eagerness that has him tilting that powerful man's jaw upward for his own pleasure. He studies sharp, blue eyes and instead of kissing Bruce's lips, he swipes his thumb across them in a gesture that almost feels like it could be even more intimate.
He wants to bite and stroke and grope, wants to approach that place where he's wild for the way pleasure spills from his partner's mouth. Rucked clothes and raked skin, shared breath and sweat mingled in the sheets. But something tells him that's not novel here and he's sniffing out alternatives like a bloodhound on a scent, making careful approach with tender and genuine intent.
If Bruce is truly ready for anything, then he should be prepared for this.
For Bruce, it’s a distinction without a difference. Maybe it’s the years he’s spent navigating Gotham’s criminal underworld, watching how easily life can be made unbearable for people just trying to survive—scraping by with almost nothing, only to have even that taken by those too lazy or cruel to earn it themselves. Bruce Wayne’s wealth is a necessity—Batman is nothing without it—but it’s still excess, and Bruce has always been more than willing to give it away to those who need it.
Maybe that’s why he isn’t really all that broken up about losing his bid for a date night with Blake. The money is going to a good cause, and Bruce can still make a sizable donation. Besides, Blake is here with him now. They’ve skipped the auction’s formality and gone straight to the best part of an evening together. So who’s the real winner? Checkmate, Grandma.
For all of Blake’s humility, he looks incredible tonight—a genuine feast for the eyes. Bruce can hardly look anywhere else as Blake crosses the room toward him, shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar. Bruce hardly needs an invitation to make space for Blake between his knees.
At Blake’s question, Bruce’s lips curl into a familiar, confident smirk. "I think I can handle that."
Usually, when someone touches Bruce, it isn’t gentle. More often than not, it’s a fist flying at his face. But with Blake, there’s a different kind of energy—firm, sure, but not something Bruce feels he should lean away from. In fact, he finds himself leaning into it—a wordless request for more. He catches Blake’s thumb with a kiss as it brushes his lips, his hands already slipping the tie free from his collar, fingers moving expertly to the buttons next, slow and deliberate with each one.
It doesn't take a detective to know someone who takes hits on a daily basis like Bruce would yearn for a lighter touch. Similarly, Bruce might clock that Blake's been asked in the past to play a part — to fulfill the role of enforcement — and what he's asked versus what he enjoys giving are across a vast expanse from each other.
"Mm, I know you can," he asserts. His hands spread across Bruce's shoulders and he presses until the man beneath him gets the picture and lays back. Each knee is placed carefully on either side of Bruce's hips and Blake straddles him, curling over like a protective umbrella to force his way to Bruce's lips. In the spaces where skin's already been revealed, Blake smooths his fingertips, tracing skin not just to feel the scars and muscles, but to live in the warmth of another human being so close.
Grip spreading, he urges Bruce's arms aside, guiding them out of the way — up, to the side, or away hardly matters — and in their absence Blake wanders his wet mouth freely over the exposed flesh.
Bruce is so presumably perfect. The world looks at him and even when they sneer at his playboy antics, they're still doing so with the knowledge that he has everything he needs to be as perfect as expected. Blake, for all his flaws and with no one left for him with expectations, thinks his friend's life sounds miserable at its best; no wonder this person beneath him doesn't care much beyond the metrics that keep the money flowing.
"Do your— dates ever ask about these?" His quiet question is accompanied by the following of a particularly gnarly scar. And the pause? Well, call him uncertain, but Blake wonders if dates are truly dates when it comes to Bruce, or if it's just another situation where he feels the need to acquiesce in order to satisfy someone's urge — so he could have the freedom to once again get back to his own needs. Rarely do they seem self-indulgent, either, if you can look past the fact that Bruce's most powerful driving force is himself. That he took even this time to spend with Blake seems... significant. Maybe as much a need as a want.
Mouth always going one way or another, he parts what clothing is left only to where it's fastened and explores more readily, tongue tracing freely over intimate spaces. He thumbs over the opposing nipple just to test how Bruce likes it, but he's scraping his teeth against the ridge of the ribs, too, finding places where he doubts people pay much mind. He's nothing if not thorough, and while in the information gathering phase, he sure doesn't mind that he doubts he could do much wrong. It charges him with energy and he demonstrates his own interest by rocking himself forward enough to rut his hardening cock in the groove of Bruce's hip.
Maybe it shouldn't have surprised him how many people compared Bruce to his father. In many ways, he was the spitting image of Thomas Wayne—same dark, dense hair that curled slightly when wet, same strong jaw, and the same burning blue eyes. People who had known Thomas could look at Bruce and think that maybe Thomas wasn't dead and buried in the family mausoleum. And all the expectations they had for Thomas seemed to have been pushed onto his son—who had been there when he died and would carry that image with him for all his days.
And maybe, for a little while, Bruce tried to be Thomas while he was scrambling for an identity—a mask for the man he'd diligently trained himself to become. But he wasn't Thomas Wayne—a man who might have genuinely been perfect. Trying to become him only invited unwanted scrutiny, causing Bruce to recoil from the idea. He couldn't fit into that box, so he decided that Bruce Wayne had to be something else entirely. Not perfect. But someone no one would ever take seriously. Blake included.
It could be a miserable way to live. But it was necessary. And if it kept people from getting too close? That was necessary too.
He sank back into the soft contours of his bedding, quietly eager for the weight of Blake over him—the warm press of his mouth and the curious touch of his fingers. Bruce's hum was appreciative and warm as Blake explored him, his broad hands finding their way to Blake's thighs and then around and up along his spine.
At Blake's question, Bruce opened his eyes but didn't bother to look at the scar in question. He could feel Blake's fingers tracing over it—a chemical burn from a particularly nasty encounter with the Joker. Bruce knew how to explain it away with a charming smile and a self-deprecating laugh (he's such a bonehead, right?). But he didn't offer that this time. Blake deserved a little more sincerity.
"Sometimes. Most people don't care enough to ask." Or they were never allowed to see them in the first place. He was clever with the lights when the clothes started to come off. Or he made sure to offend his would-be partner so they stormed away before it ever reached that point. It didn't matter in the end; the results were the same, and so were the rumors.
But Bruce was glad that Blake didn't question it further or any of the other twisted, ugly folds of scarred skin. There weren't many, but they were prominent compared to the smaller ones that had mostly faded over time. He was glad Blake seemed far more interested in exploring the rest of him, and Bruce absolutely let him. He exhaled softly at the press of Blake's teeth.
"God," he whispered, breathless, a laugh slipping through. "That's good."
Blake wasn't surprised to know people rarely cared to ask. Hell, they were lucky if they weren't placed in that specific position because they wouldn't ask. He kept his secrets, vault-like and careful with his emotional slights of hand; Blake could relate. He shared little purposefully, and when prompted found a sheepish smile and a reflective question in return typically worked to move away the spotlight.
Arching under the other man's touch, he hummed his own approval. Blake's never been bulky; as a teen he was little more than five sticks and a head, but as he reached past his awkward teenage years, he'd toned up without over-pumping those muscles. His strength came more from precision than brute force. He maintained deep flexibility and retained the surprise that typically registered after judging him on a sweet face and a generally quiet demeanor.
"Don't worry; you don't gotta get deep with me," he assured between one roll of his hips and the next. Bruce was firm beneath him but not unyielding and Blake felt his body responding easily to the attention. The bloom of heat fought against a full-fledged shudder and goosebumps raised all the way up to his neck. "But I'm gonna get deep with you..."
No laugh followed and Blake pressed upward to lock his elbows, eyes dark with desire and promise as he observed Bruce. He may not have come into this expecting more personal information about Bruce, but he wouldn't apologize for what he observed readily during all of this, either.
Kissing Bruce, he meant to prove his point and Blake picked at buttons, finishing the reveal of Bruce's whole chest. Mouth curving into a smirk against Bruce's mouth, he scraped blunt nails down the other man's sides and then shimmied downward until his hands and face were both hovering over Bruce's beltline.
"You gotta tell me how you wanna come, though. First? Last?" Feedback here was necessary from Blake's perspective, even if he had every ability to ad lib his way through this.
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'Till the Bidder End
Because the money's for the kids, he tells himself it's fine. The winning bid goes to a notoriously kind woman — her family is old money out of Russia — and while he thinks her plans will be fine, he's been told it's all meant to be standard: A photograph, a sit down meal with suitably pleasant conversation (translated professionally), and a visit to the orphanage where Blake grew up to wrap up the evening.
Blake will hate it, but he'll endure.
Truth be told, he was kind of hoping to ride a motorcycle, eat some cheap food, and maybe see where the night went with Bruce. He'd almost hitched his entire wagon to that star when he'd slipped into the crisp, clean tuxedo and presented himself on stage like a gussied up blue ribbon prize bull.
When the last of the arrangements are made, with ceremonial checks signed and proctored applause long died off, Blake catches Bruce in the hallway outside the dining hall.
"So, this is awkward," he says, only half-joking as he scrubs at the back of his head. He'd started the night pretty excited, but now he's more jittery than anything. Too much caffeine, too much attention, not enough room to fidget when the suit is exactly his size.
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Instead he'd slipped out before it was John's turn on the auction block to stop a robbery in progress not more than 10 minutes down the road. He had plenty of time, he thought. This was going to be quick. He did not have plenty of time and really the only thing it proved was the perils of Bruce trying to be present when Batman was really the one Gotham needed. He really needed to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Bruce returned with only enough time to catch the winner of John's bid receive her congratulations.
It's for a good cause. That's what he tells himself so he's not too disappointed.
He smiles when John approaches him, notes his jitters and tries to be something close to reassuring. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how I dropped the ball so badly." A lie. "If you're not married by the end of your date, I'd still like to take you out."
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"If you really mean it, I'm not actually needed for, ah... publicity purposes until next week," he notes, trapped dead in between relieved and annoyed. Blake isn't looking forward to the wait, nor is he relishing the commentary that's certain to be tossed around when he's an escort around the boys' home, but it's not a television interview or a soul-crushing trip to a local art installation, so he counts himself a little bit lucky.
"You can make it up to me by gettin' me home. Eventually." His nose wrinkles. "I hate the bus and I bet you saved enough money tonight for a cab."
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There's a hint of a smile as John lays out his plans for the winning bid. A press tour didn't sound terrible but Bruce did those on the regular. For someone like John? Maybe riding a fast motorcycle into the night was more his speed.
"So what you're saying is, you're all mine for the night?" Bruce's smile broadens. It's easier to pretend when the company is good. "I can live with that."
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"What I mean is that I'm not occupied this evening, so yeah, I'd love to hang out, thanks," he says, purposeful but not at all lacking in humor. On another night he might call Bruce on making promises he can't keep — the idea of anyone being all his for a whole night (dedicated and uninterrupted) is utterly laughable — but seeing as how the gavel's barely had a chance to grow cold from the last promise he didn't keep, it feels a bit passé.
He tosses a playful jab at Bruce's arm and turns on his heel. "I'll grab my backpack and meet you outside." Blake isn't usually so emboldened as to act as if he's running the show, but he thinks he's bought himself a small amount of grace — enough that he's resolved himself that they'll have a good time no matter what.
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He'd tried and honestly, it never fit right. Thomas couldn't be what Batman needed. Being charming and kind of stupid didn't fit right either, but it did make people stop asking too many questions. He was raised by the help after all. You couldn't rightly expect civility from that situation. That kind of dismissal was what Batman needed.
Tonight, though, Bruce could come up for air to spend a little time with someone he genuinely liked. Batman needed that too. He grins at John as he turns to go. He waits for Blake on his bike, revving it once he sees the other man come outside. He offers Blake his extra helmet.
"I can keep one promise at least."
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Slinging his pack on properly and sliding the helmet over his head, he's snapping the strap while he takes a quick walk around the bike. The low whistle would probably issue forth for most any bike, but Bruce is never traditional and Blake's sure this will be a hell of a ride.
"Don't get a complex," he tells the other man, sliding on behind him. "It's really not a big deal." There's only a steadying grasp against Bruce's side for a second and then Blake's leaning back of his own accord, hands on his thighs. He hasn't had a bike of his own in years, but he's got the experience to know what to do as a passenger and barring reckless driving, he'll probably give Bruce his space versus clinging on like a garden slug.
Not surprised by the two-ways in the helmets, he grins and asks Bruce, "You already got plans for me or are we playin' by ear tonight?" He's game either way, content for the moment to let Bruce show him where two wheels can take them, but interested nonetheless.
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When he's sure Blake's settled behind him and that they've been seen by enough cameras, Bruce peels out into the darkness. "Not a complex. I just hate to disappoint." Bruce isn't a reckless driver. At least not while he's a civilian. But it's quite clear he knows how to maneuver the bike through Gotham's traffic. He weaves in and out of the cars that are stopped or stalled, taking the sharp turns expertly that would get them to the penthouse.
"While you were getting your bag, I had Alfred drop by the penthouse and whip up a quick dinner for us. Didn't seem very fair to ask you to cook. After that, we're free to do whatever you like."
He glances over his shoulder at his passenger, amusement in his voice. "If you want to stop for condoms, let me know now."
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Still, Bruce brings the thrills and then adds a little rich boy chivalry into the mix and Blake can't help but be weirdly charmed. He wouldn't have minded making food — it's the reality of his life that he has to feed himself three times a day, more or less — but it's a nice enough gesture and he's glad to not have to compete with a refined palette.
At the last bit, he barks out a laugh and pinches Bruce's side. "Sounds like we'll be doing whatever you like," he says, cheeky through-and-through. "But it's nice you didn't ask Alfred to buy your date condoms, too." The tease is meant to be light, but there are few days that Blake spends time with Bruce that he doesn't feel the vast difference between their lives and upbringing.
Nevertheless, Blake's pack's got all the trimmings of a go bag. He's chronically prepared, having been relying on himself for a long damn time, so no detours necessary.
"Gotta say, though, didn't think you'd let anyone fuck you." A misconception he's interested in exploring considering the implication.
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There's something about it. He doesn't want to give it words yet.
He laughs a little at Blake pinching him and throws another glance at him over his shoulder. He'd been teasing for the most part, but if he's honest, he's not opposed to seeing where the night went. Blake is handsome and easy to exist around. Expectations were not nearly so high like it is with Bruce's standard dates. The performance didn't have to be so perfect (even though it would be anyway). He's just always been good company and Bruce could always use some good company.
"I don't, especially on a first date." Partially untrue. He clears the entrance to the parking garage, nestled under Wayne Tower before he continues. "But I'm willing to try anything once. If you are."
No pressure at all, of course.
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"Gets me in trouble, but I rarely turn down a challenge," he says, sporting a full-on grin inside his helmet. That much is obvious, isn't it? And thus he doesn't need to list his accomplishments for Bruce; Blake's confident he can handle anything short of a proposal (or unexpected company). In fact, sex is easy. Always has been. Emotions are hard. And beyond a fair amount of fondness between them, Blake's pretty sure feelings won't come into play here.
He encroaches while he can, sliding forward on the seat until he's got his crotch pressed right up against Bruce. It's not so easy in those tuxedo pants, but he manages even if it means the tops of his socks are showing.
"In that case, you can come in my mouth on a first date, too," he says, voice lowered conspiratorially, and then chuckles, teasingly adding, "if you're into that."
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Still, he smiles when he feels Blake pressing against his back.
The work day is over, so the parking garage is, for the most part, empty. At least until they reach the level reserved exclusively for Bruce Wayne. There's an ornate elevator in the middle, an elegant W carved into the dark wooden doors. Along either side of the elevator are parked several luxury sports cars. Bruce puts the motorcycle into a empty spot close by.
"I just might be." He waits until Blake's dismounted before he climbs off himself, peeling the helmet off, so Blake could see his grin. "Let's get inside and maybe find out."
He strolls to the elevator, swiping a keycard to unlock the elevator and the penthouse level. The doors slide open, and Bruce gestures toward the interior.
"After you."
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When Blake leaves behind the spare helmet, he uses the moment to steal a quick look-around at the garage. The cars are worth a peek, he thinks, and he lingers a second that allows him to lean down towards the nearest window to check out the interior. Very nice, very foreign.
Jogging to catch up with Bruce and passing him right into the elevator, Blake shoulders his bag onto just one arm and leans back against the railing. He feels a bit like he's heading into the candy store, where everything he sees will be something he wants to analyze for its presence and purposefulness.
"Sorta hate what you bring out in me," Blake says, grinning as they get going. He's splayed along the rail and entirely unbothered, of course. "Ten minutes and you've got me talkin' dirty and comin' back to yours. And all I wanna do— Me, a guy who'd rather gouge out his eyes than prance 'round in the public eye— All, I wanna do is show you off."
He shakes his head, feigning judgement. If anyone deserves to be judged, it's Blake. It's easy to say now but in the light of day when the presses roll with the gossip of the day, he won't feel so charitable about the idea.
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The smile stays as he watches John admire his cars. They're flashy, maybe a little impractical, but they fit in nicely with his fast lifestyle. Maybe Bruce would let him pick the ride Bruce takes him home in. When Blake joins him in the elevator, Bruce leans back against the wall as the doors close and the elevator starts its crawl upward.
"I can tone it down a little," Bruce replies, arms folded and eyes fixed on Blake's smiling mouth for just a minute. "But I can't turn it off, unfortunately. I won't be able to drive you wild if I do that."
The elevator dings and opens up on the top floor. The foyer, pristinely decorated, ends at a set of double doors Bruce unlocks with a key he fishes out of his pocket. When the doors open, they're greeted with the smell of Alfred's cooking. Bruce had asked for something simple. Knowing Alfred, it would be elaborate and set to impress. Alfred's note that accompanied the meal greeted John graciously and warned Bruce against being too much like himself, lest he scare off this nice young man.
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"You couldn't tone it down if you wanted to," Blake says as he picks up the note. The words are sweet — a nice touch — but it still fizzes inside Blake's brain like a fuse counting down on some kind of personal assault.
(What does Alfred know about him? About them? About these plans? Does he anticipate every quick meal Bruce asks after last minute to be in service of one of these scenarios? And how just how nice, young, and afraid does he really think Blake to be? The questions are like a spring weeds sprouting from seeds sown in years past, unwelcome but also difficult to be ridded of entirely.)
"Grilled cheese, huh?" He shakes his head. "Now I know you're checkin' up on me. No way your butler picked grilled cheese and wasn't thinkin' of my simple ass bein' absolutely relieved and delighted."
He will not deny that the portability of such a sandwich, so precisely sliced into triangles, is exactly what Blake wants so he can snoop a bit more freely. And he does just that, knowing there are other items on his place setting — salad, soup, croutons, cheeses, and all manner of nibbles from a jar — but content enough with this childlike meal-on-the-move.
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But while he's as intertwined in this life as Bruce is, he knew when to take a step back and let Bruce have his moments of privacy. Blake would not have to worry about the butler popping in unannounced or speaking out of turn. All of this? It's just part of taking care of Bruce and maybe goading him into giving up the life of a vigilante for the something a little closer to family man. So far he's had no luck.
"I did ask for simple." The grilled cheese, Bruce is also surprised to see. He'd thought something to match Alfred's idea of a sophisticated palette. Not an after school snack. But it worked, strangely enough. It worked quite well.
He slides by Blake as he swipes a sandwich and reaches for one of his own. "I can't think of the last time he made me grilled cheese. I must have been a kid." Young and a little more carefree than this. Part of him feels it coming back now, while he's here with Blake. Life could be simple like this, if he'd let it be.
He won't. But it could be.
The rest of the penthouse has a distinct 'no one really lives here' feeling for how pristine it looks. The furniture - leather and neatly arranged - is accented by a fireplace, already lit and thriving. No doubt thanks to Alfred. There are trinkets and baubles on the glass shelves. Not a trace of dust and maybe rather morbidly a portrait of the Waynes - Thomas and Martha only - displayed over an accent table.
"Make yourself at home. Want a drink?"
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Like someone who has been told many, many times in his life to keep his hands to himself, he walks along to investigate anything and everything that seems to stand out, artfully keeping his grilled cheese to one hand while the other rests behind his back and well away from the shelves or table edges. He's not sure he really recognizes much of anything that reminds him strictly of his friend, but it all fits an aesthetic Blake's certain was inherited.
At the accent table he studies the picture longer than the rest, picking out the ways Bruce resembles his parents before moving on.
"Where's the bedroom?" He grins and makes no effort to wait to be shown around. Bruce had said he could do as he pleases and Blake takes that to heart. Were their positions reversed, he wouldn't blink at the idea of Bruce poking his nose into any corner of Blake's apartment. If anything, he almost expects it of anyone he might actually allow close enough to invite in. "That's where the real judgement starts," Blake adds, wondering if Bruce will pick him a drink and follow or wait for Blake to return satisfied with his exploration.
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He points down the dimly lit hallway at Blake's question. "The room at the very end of the hall."
There's a stark contrast between the bedroom and the rest of the penthouse. Life happens here, clearly. The bed is neatly made, though there's remnants of Bruce's getting ready for the evening thrown across it - jackets he decided against, a few ties he'd been trying to match colors for. The trinkets in here are clearly more personal than anything outside of the space. Blake could poke around to his heart's content.
Bruce isn't overly concerned about him stumbling across anything in his exploration. It's by design that accessing anything beyond opening a door would require some very deliberate knowledge. And even if he managed, biometrics would stop him.
When his drink is ready, Bruce decides to join him (you know, just in case). "So do I pass?"
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Some things interest him more than others, of course, and while lingering by the bed, he appreciates the efforts he can see. His fingers brush along the cuffs of the jackets and down the ties, sensing the construction and weight of the fabric. Bruce cared enough to choose, but he wonders if he'd walked to his closet and plucked those items himself, or if he'd taken suggestions from an array laid out by Alfred and designed to work well enough.
When Bruce arrives with the drink, Blake's still turning that particular puzzle around in his head, too, trying hard to decide if he's better off letting himself be charmed, or if Bruce is due a little more comeuppance for only being 95% perfect.
"You really wanna know?" He asks rhetorically as he graciously takes the drink and makes no complaints about its contents. Nevertheless, before tasting, he smiles and reminds himself, with a raking gaze, of Bruce's choice of attire for the evening, contrasting it with a new perspective now that he's seen the spread of alternatives.
"So far, I don't hate it." Truthfully, that's akin to a sparkling review and Blake is grinning into his glass while testing the mix. He's not picky enough about booze to care what he's drinking, but he can admit, as he reaches to touch Bruce's chosen tie, that he appreciates it for how right it feels just as much for how attractive it reads already loosened some at the knot. "Worried I might be a harsh critic?"
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But that's okay. Bruce is prepared for that. He's prepared for everything.
He smiles at Blake as he touches his tie, the warmth of it reaching his eyes for once. When you're a salt of the earth type, stepping into the glitz of Gotham’s elite can be jarring. Maybe a little off putting when you know how hard life really is for people without all this excess. That Blake didn't hate it? High praise indeed.
"Maybe. It's a little obnoxious up here." Everything so neat and orderly maybe a little too sterile. Blake's a welcome contrast, in Bruce's opinion.
"So what else would you like to see? The penthouse is pretty big. There's a pool and a gym. Or we can stay right here." " His smile turns sly as he sits on the edge of the bed.
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"Yeah, haven't finished seein' all I can see here," Blake points out, equally sly as he smiles and makes no real effort to hide it in his drink.
Approaching with a measured pace, Blake reaches up to loosen the top two buttons of his once-crisp white tuxedo shirt. The smart bowtie had been stuffed into his bag the moment things were over, but there's no denying he's somewhat enjoyed this game of dress-up. He could do more of this if he wanted, but he doesn't. At least, not unless he can rope someone else into approving of how good he looks. Not narcissism so much as interest in providing a feast for the eyes; certainly, he finds himself hungry for the same.
Shoes once mirror-shined bear their scuffs as Blake encroaches. His foot taps the edges of Bruce's more pristine footwear, urging space between them where he inserts himself. Couched warmly between Bruce's knees, well enough above him, he reaches to card his fingers through Bruce's hair, testing the weight and density, how it feels fine but also thick.
"Think you can show me what's under all of this?" He doesn't lack softness, but he isn't cradling or coddling by any means. His hands are certain and when he slides his fingers beneath Bruce's chin, it's as much curiosity as it is eagerness that has him tilting that powerful man's jaw upward for his own pleasure. He studies sharp, blue eyes and instead of kissing Bruce's lips, he swipes his thumb across them in a gesture that almost feels like it could be even more intimate.
He wants to bite and stroke and grope, wants to approach that place where he's wild for the way pleasure spills from his partner's mouth. Rucked clothes and raked skin, shared breath and sweat mingled in the sheets. But something tells him that's not novel here and he's sniffing out alternatives like a bloodhound on a scent, making careful approach with tender and genuine intent.
If Bruce is truly ready for anything, then he should be prepared for this.
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Maybe that’s why he isn’t really all that broken up about losing his bid for a date night with Blake. The money is going to a good cause, and Bruce can still make a sizable donation. Besides, Blake is here with him now. They’ve skipped the auction’s formality and gone straight to the best part of an evening together. So who’s the real winner? Checkmate, Grandma.
For all of Blake’s humility, he looks incredible tonight—a genuine feast for the eyes. Bruce can hardly look anywhere else as Blake crosses the room toward him, shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar. Bruce hardly needs an invitation to make space for Blake between his knees.
At Blake’s question, Bruce’s lips curl into a familiar, confident smirk. "I think I can handle that."
Usually, when someone touches Bruce, it isn’t gentle. More often than not, it’s a fist flying at his face. But with Blake, there’s a different kind of energy—firm, sure, but not something Bruce feels he should lean away from. In fact, he finds himself leaning into it—a wordless request for more. He catches Blake’s thumb with a kiss as it brushes his lips, his hands already slipping the tie free from his collar, fingers moving expertly to the buttons next, slow and deliberate with each one.
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"Mm, I know you can," he asserts. His hands spread across Bruce's shoulders and he presses until the man beneath him gets the picture and lays back. Each knee is placed carefully on either side of Bruce's hips and Blake straddles him, curling over like a protective umbrella to force his way to Bruce's lips. In the spaces where skin's already been revealed, Blake smooths his fingertips, tracing skin not just to feel the scars and muscles, but to live in the warmth of another human being so close.
Grip spreading, he urges Bruce's arms aside, guiding them out of the way — up, to the side, or away hardly matters — and in their absence Blake wanders his wet mouth freely over the exposed flesh.
Bruce is so presumably perfect. The world looks at him and even when they sneer at his playboy antics, they're still doing so with the knowledge that he has everything he needs to be as perfect as expected. Blake, for all his flaws and with no one left for him with expectations, thinks his friend's life sounds miserable at its best; no wonder this person beneath him doesn't care much beyond the metrics that keep the money flowing.
"Do your— dates ever ask about these?" His quiet question is accompanied by the following of a particularly gnarly scar. And the pause? Well, call him uncertain, but Blake wonders if dates are truly dates when it comes to Bruce, or if it's just another situation where he feels the need to acquiesce in order to satisfy someone's urge — so he could have the freedom to once again get back to his own needs. Rarely do they seem self-indulgent, either, if you can look past the fact that Bruce's most powerful driving force is himself. That he took even this time to spend with Blake seems... significant. Maybe as much a need as a want.
Mouth always going one way or another, he parts what clothing is left only to where it's fastened and explores more readily, tongue tracing freely over intimate spaces. He thumbs over the opposing nipple just to test how Bruce likes it, but he's scraping his teeth against the ridge of the ribs, too, finding places where he doubts people pay much mind. He's nothing if not thorough, and while in the information gathering phase, he sure doesn't mind that he doubts he could do much wrong. It charges him with energy and he demonstrates his own interest by rocking himself forward enough to rut his hardening cock in the groove of Bruce's hip.
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And maybe, for a little while, Bruce tried to be Thomas while he was scrambling for an identity—a mask for the man he'd diligently trained himself to become. But he wasn't Thomas Wayne—a man who might have genuinely been perfect. Trying to become him only invited unwanted scrutiny, causing Bruce to recoil from the idea. He couldn't fit into that box, so he decided that Bruce Wayne had to be something else entirely. Not perfect. But someone no one would ever take seriously. Blake included.
It could be a miserable way to live. But it was necessary. And if it kept people from getting too close? That was necessary too.
He sank back into the soft contours of his bedding, quietly eager for the weight of Blake over him—the warm press of his mouth and the curious touch of his fingers. Bruce's hum was appreciative and warm as Blake explored him, his broad hands finding their way to Blake's thighs and then around and up along his spine.
At Blake's question, Bruce opened his eyes but didn't bother to look at the scar in question. He could feel Blake's fingers tracing over it—a chemical burn from a particularly nasty encounter with the Joker. Bruce knew how to explain it away with a charming smile and a self-deprecating laugh (he's such a bonehead, right?). But he didn't offer that this time. Blake deserved a little more sincerity.
"Sometimes. Most people don't care enough to ask." Or they were never allowed to see them in the first place. He was clever with the lights when the clothes started to come off. Or he made sure to offend his would-be partner so they stormed away before it ever reached that point. It didn't matter in the end; the results were the same, and so were the rumors.
But Bruce was glad that Blake didn't question it further or any of the other twisted, ugly folds of scarred skin. There weren't many, but they were prominent compared to the smaller ones that had mostly faded over time. He was glad Blake seemed far more interested in exploring the rest of him, and Bruce absolutely let him. He exhaled softly at the press of Blake's teeth.
"God," he whispered, breathless, a laugh slipping through. "That's good."
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Arching under the other man's touch, he hummed his own approval. Blake's never been bulky; as a teen he was little more than five sticks and a head, but as he reached past his awkward teenage years, he'd toned up without over-pumping those muscles. His strength came more from precision than brute force. He maintained deep flexibility and retained the surprise that typically registered after judging him on a sweet face and a generally quiet demeanor.
"Don't worry; you don't gotta get deep with me," he assured between one roll of his hips and the next. Bruce was firm beneath him but not unyielding and Blake felt his body responding easily to the attention. The bloom of heat fought against a full-fledged shudder and goosebumps raised all the way up to his neck. "But I'm gonna get deep with you..."
No laugh followed and Blake pressed upward to lock his elbows, eyes dark with desire and promise as he observed Bruce. He may not have come into this expecting more personal information about Bruce, but he wouldn't apologize for what he observed readily during all of this, either.
Kissing Bruce, he meant to prove his point and Blake picked at buttons, finishing the reveal of Bruce's whole chest. Mouth curving into a smirk against Bruce's mouth, he scraped blunt nails down the other man's sides and then shimmied downward until his hands and face were both hovering over Bruce's beltline.
"You gotta tell me how you wanna come, though. First? Last?" Feedback here was necessary from Blake's perspective, even if he had every ability to ad lib his way through this.
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Apologies for the delay. Writer's block kills me sometimes.
Vacation took me away for a bit - hopefully I can send you ~a little inspiration~ <3333
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