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.
It kept him safe. Not just his secret, but Bruce himself. Allowing himself to feel anything, except his obsession with the Mission was dangerous. Allowing people close when they could leave or die or die and come back and hate you down to the very atoms that made you was cruel and cutting and heartbreaking and Bruce's heart couldn't stand another break. So he kept it wrapped as tightly as he could. So what if it didn't really beat much anymore? At least it would never break.
Blake's the first in a long, long time Bruce's even allowed an inch closer than normal. He pulls out sincerity in Bruce where someone else might be left with just something surface level and just a little bit fake, an idea of Bruce instead of the unvarnished reality. It's gratifying to feel close to someone, even if he's leaving space to retreat if he has to.
Each roll of Blake's hips stirred up something hot in Bruce, searing almost, like he just might catch fire from the warmth and desire building inside of him, blood rushing south and his trousers feeling a little bit tighter.
"I don't worry." A smirk carved across his face. "I'm looking forward to it." He dragged his hands over Blake's chest when he hovered over Bruce, fingers tugging his shirt from where it had been tucked in so he could get the buttons undone. Bruce returned that kiss, pouring all of his desire into meeting Blake's mouth with his own.
"Oh, after you, of course," he said, no hesitation. No further explanation offered. On its face it could seem altruistic; Bruce caring about the pleasure of his partner and he does. But he was feeling a little selfish about it too. He wanted the sight of Blake coming apart burned into his memory.
After a point, the access would become reliably moot. Blake knew that the animalistic nature of man could bring about a disconnect and understanding how a person's sexual drives slotted together with their personal goals took a lot more time and work than he'd been allowed. He could get an idea, sure, but he knew just as well that there were plenty of people who used physical intimacy as an escape.
"Generous," Blake murmured. He sat up to allow Bruce access and helped along the way, popping open buttons in congruence. Shoulders rolling, he dripped the fine tuxedo shirt from himself but argued with the wrists before flinging it away. "That mean you wanna see me when I get off?"
He lifted himself from Bruce to work his own trousers, shifting them down his hips as far as they'd go. The dark fabric hid the dampness well, but as Blake drew out his cock and gave it a performative stroke, it was already glistening at the tip with precum. The rest of him was representative of hard work, but not so much that he'd turned to nothing but muscle. There was still a thin layer of body fat in places, but he clearly worked everything pretty equally instead of focusing on one particular part of himself. It also allowed him to maintain a decent level of flexibility which sparked a reminder as he stretched long and lean above this arguably gorgeous, artistically proportioned, incredibly interesting individual.
His eyes were dark with desire — nearly black from his deep brown irises and pupils blown with need — and Blake's grin turned wicked as he pumped himself and in tandem raked his other palm firmly over Bruce's dick. "Might have to put your knees around your ears unless you've got a mirror handy."
It isn't even so much the act itself that got Bruce going, though it certainly helped. It's watching the way his partner came apart at the seams, especially if they were as carefully stitched as Bruce's. And, distantly, it gave Bruce a sense of control over the situation. He was always trying to bend the world and the people around him to fit into the rules he'd made. He liked when they fit, when they don't push back and accepted being maneuvered into place. Letting his partner come first gave him the advantage, even if it's not something he'd admit to. Or maybe he's not even fully aware that's what he was doing. Especially now that he was with someone he likes.
Bruce missed the warm press of Blake's body as he pulled away, but appreciated the view, eyes roaming over the smooth, clean planes of muscle. He saved Blake's cock for last, admiring the length and girth of it. He wanted to touch it, but settled for running a hand along Blake's arm instead. He was still pliable in areas Bruce was solid muscle - a necessity born out of a need to make the Bat as intimidating as possible. For everyone else that asked, it was just how he liked to idle the hours away.
There was a hitch in his breathing, a subtle heave of his chest when Blake palmed over his erection. Bruce shut his eyes as he felt a warm jolt of pleasure up to the roots of his hair. He pushed himself up a bit to point at the mirror on a swivel base. "It can be angled toward the bed, if you're interested." He returned Blake's wicked grin with a kiss, brief and warm.
The suggestion paired with Bruce's devilish grin is echoed in Blake as he chased after that kiss, although not for long. "Mm, I like the way you think," he noted, patting Bruce's cheek twice before dropping back and going about his planning.
He eyed the mirror and then the bed, comfortable enough in his own skin to be walking around fairly unabashed. Blake wasn't a show-off, but he did exhibit an awful lot of the stereotypical traits of both an only child and an orphan. He liked attention, but only on his terms; otherwise the body was just a thing everyone had, and for most of the years it mattered, he shared open living spaces with other boys who didn't care. To say this was natural for him wouldn't fit the bill — he didn't strut naked even in his own apartment — but to suggest it might be simply for Bruce's pleasure wouldn't have been refuted.
The mirror was turned just so, with Blake checking the angle before sauntering his way back towards the bed, easily stroking himself dry. He was particular enough to keep himself clean and neatly trimmed, although he was circumcised like the majority of guys in his particular age, religious, and ethnic group, so it didn't exactly get people out there singing praises. Nevertheless, he'd heard no complaints and had none of his own, miraculously enough, so his approach was fairly filled with confidence.
Stopping by his bag, he dug for his provisions and palmed the condom wrapper before crawling across the bed on hands and knees towards his companion.
"Want me to work you up?" He asked because some people were particular, and some people were masochists, and for Blake's part he fit somewhere in the middle. Nosing into Bruce's space, he lowers his voice and whispered close to the other man's ear. "Leave it to me, I'll be forced to take it slow."
Apologies for the delay. Writer's block kills me sometimes.
There was something about Blake's confidence that Bruce enjoyed. In some ways he could see how similar it made them - comfortable in how they moved in the world. Only children who knew how to command attention when they wanted it and how to disappear from it just as easily. He never thought of Blake as the type to brag about anything. Too down to earth for that kind of bravado. But Bruce could still sense that quiet kind of confidence. Not just here, but in how Blake carried himself and how he listened more than he spoke. He knew who he was and did not need anyone else to validate that for him.
Bruce respected that about him. Maybe even envied it a little.
Because for all his carefully cultivated mystique, there were parts of him that still felt unmoored. Parts that existed outside of the Bat that felt nebulous and uncertain, like he'd lose them if he wasn't careful. Blake didn't seem to have that uncertainty. He was grounded in a way Bruce had never seemed to achieve. It was part of what made him attractive.
It also helped that Blake was absolutely gorgeous to look at. Bruce admired him too, unabashedly while he waited for him to return. He reached for him as he crawled across the bed, hands spreading out over his arms and up his shoulders, urging him to get close. Bruce smiles at what's whispered into his ear. "You mean you weren't trying before," he replied, a teasing edge to his voice. "You took your sweet time getting back over here." He leaned up, pressing a kiss against Blake's throat and up along his jaw.
"Take your time, if you think you've got the patience for it."
Vacation took me away for a bit - hopefully I can send you ~a little inspiration~ <3333
The confidence in this particular space was well-earned, but elsewhere Blake felt very much like a faker. With his clothes off and his body humming with desire, especially in a one-on-one setting where he was generating the majority of the attention given, he felt very at ease. Where Bruce reached with his hands or his lips, Blake opened up like an invitation, too, giving access in heaps. He folded and slithered around Bruce, finding the places where they fit together unexpectedly, and enjoying the sensations brought about by an active partner. Probably his favorite kind, for purposes that always seemed to stem from his own desire to be chronically underestimated.
"We've gone this long, yeah?" he responded, his skin flushed beyond Bruce's lips. Basking for a moment, he allowed the man access long enough to use his own, petting through the dark hair and thrilled to find Bruce prickling with sweat at the hairline just the same as him. Not so collected, he thought, which only favored the moment as far as he was concerned.
Purposefulness had him popping the cap on the lube and gathering it onto his fingers with a dexterous one-handed maneuver, quick to smear, warm, and apply readily as his free hand held Bruce close. He found himself rutting against Bruce, too, a rocking motion that ripped little, low grumbles from Blake's throat at an unpredictable tempo.
"Maybe next time you could be ready for me." His grin was unrepentant and he felt himself turning near-blistering at the idea of Bruce Wayne wriggling in his chair, plugged up and anticipating the moment he was free to be taken. "Then I can take time on other things..." Practically salivating, he went about with those teasing fingers, focused as much on petting out pleasure with his exploration as he was on making way for his achingly interested dick. If he could have a third hand at the moment, he'd consider taking it, because the further he found himself from Bruce's own dick, the hungrier and more desperate he became.
Bruce loved the way Blake opened up for him and he followed through, searching his smooth expanse of skin with his mouth and a hint of his teeth and tongue. It's a fight not to push it farther, to follow someone else's lead when Bruce was usually the guiding force for these kinds of interactions. It felt a little like going against his nature – trusting someone enough to let them maneuver and take charge.
He wasn't the kind of person to ever take that leap of faith without a safety net. His contingencies had contingencies. It had always been true about relationships too. He would always try to find a way out, when things inevitably went sideways. It was true of Blake too, but Bruce found himself hoping things could stay like this – playful and warm and intimate. Like this. No expectations. Just them being together. He liked that.
His legs spread wide to make room for Blake as he moved, hips rocking against his own and a groan rumbles from some deep place in him.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” He returned that smile, wicked in its own right as he reached between them to give Blake a lazy stroke or two. “Thinking about me in my board meeting ready for you?” Bruce leaned up to graze a kiss against Blake's jaw, before he falls back again, breath catching at feeling Blake's exploring fingers. He's hard, painfully so and wrapped his fingers around his aching cock. Not jerking off, but just touching himself to keep himself grounded in the moment.
The hum brought forth at Bruce's questions coincided with the curl of Blake's lips into something all too knowing. He practically beamed at the attention afforded to him. This felt expensive for reasons well outside of money, and he knew occupying this man's mind was worth every effort; what Blake would give, Bruce would certainly return in-kind.
Nevertheless, denying that he was robbed of breath as easily as answers when Bruce went fondling around would be pointless. His little gasp was impossible to hide and he was forced to bite it back behind his bottom lip where it turned into more determination. He redoubled his efforts, focused on how tight he imagined Bruce would be, and wondering whether he'd even need more of a reminder than what Blake was about to do to him.
"Thinkin' 'bout you thinkin' 'bout me does have a, ah— a real fuckin' appeal," he noted with little shame. It stirred within him an even deeper desire to see Bruce far separated from a moment — any moment — by memories generated specifically towards making him feel good. They might never share domestic bliss, or the camaraderie of a proper working relationship, but near as Blake could figure — had ever figured — a functioning sexual arrangement filled a lot of holes. Pun intended.
As if to help prove his point, he more fervently curled a finger towards the other man's prostate, making demands of Bruce's body while dipping down to put his mouth to good use before it could turn predictably filthy.
In tandem, he mouthed greedily at the other man's sack, sparing some occasional suction that helped lift it out of the way for the careful introduction of a second finger. He doubted Bruce would allow for an excruciatingly long tease, but that suited him because he already felt fit to burst all on his own.
Breathing hotly over the spit-slathered canvas, he hummed, "You tell me when you're ready to turn, 'cause otherwise..." Not that he minds. Rather, he probably wouldn't stop, at least not until he'd eked out every orgasm he could from Bruce, so eager with his mouth and hands he barely spared the time for the suggestion before he was lapping a long line from scrotum to tip. Sucking the head, he struggled to artfully swallow around Bruce, the gulping noise immediately followed with a groan he'd failed to suppress. There was something so goddamn sexy about driving someone to that peak — something Blake craved for the satisfaction of it as much for his own derived pleasure.
For a minute, Bruce forgot how to breathe. It's just a moment and would soon be forgotten in favor of savoring the pleasure of Blake opening him up. But when he's caught in it, it felt like it lasted forever and if he died like this well, there were worst ways to go. It happened the second he felt Blake's finger slide into him, pinning that burst of air to his lungs. Until it burned and Bruce exhaled in a long, slow drag.
It was a feeling he wasn't used to, but it wasn't a bad one. Just new and one more thing he'd learn how to navigate. At least it was with someone who Bruce could almost trust. Enough not to use this vulnerable moment against him anyway.
It helped him to relax, the expert way Blake used his mouth and tongue and how it felt like he was unraveling all of the perfect control. Like he knew all of the right ways to get Bruce to open up and allow himself a chance to feel something other than that all consuming obsession with the Mission. Logically, he knew Blake had no way of knowing the impact he was truly having right then. But lust was a helluva drug.
As greedy as Blake is, Bruce was too. Eager to see his tip disappear into the warm wetness of Blake's mouth. It's perfect. It's too perfect and if Bruce had been anyone else – untrained, undisciplined – he would have came right then and there. But he could pace himself, will that orgasm down for just a little while longer. It doesn't stop that low, rumble of a groan. Born somewhere deep. Almost Batman, but not quite.
He offered Blake another shameless smile, hips rocking against his fingers. “Are you going to fuck me or tease me to death?”
The question pulled the essence of a chuckle from Blake, but it far contrasted the goosebumps raised across his body from Bruce's low growl. For Blake, that enticed reaction was all he needed to know he was making an impression. Despite being orphaned at a young age, he still somehow retained the bratty throughline that craved to be the positive pinpoint at the center of someone's attention. Together with Bruce, it didn't feel quite so blinding a spotlight — more a warmth that spread across his skin, one that reminded him of sitting close to the heater vent on a cold winter day.
"Honestly hadn't decided," he sighed, as if he held a hand of cards he didn't feel much like folding. But he relented nonetheless, and carefully extracted himself to steal a brief nipping kiss before patting Bruce's thigh. Post up.
Meanwhile, he busied himself with the practicalities, rolling on the condom when he finally shifted to where their reflection would be most visible. "C'mere before I make a joke 'bout a 'stay of ejaculation'."
For someone with so much on his plate, Bruce could be a man of singular focus, sometimes to the detriment of the other parts of his life. It was no easy task getting him to shift away from his work because it could be so all consuming. It would have to be something seismic.
Tonight, Batman is almost a far away thing. Not gone, never gone. Not even truly set aside. Just. Paused, while Bruce's gaze stayed fixed on the man rolling a condom on and shifting his body to get the best angle in the mirror.
Bruce went when beckoned, crawling toward Blake and reaching for him when he got to him so that he could pull the other man into a heated kiss. He could taste himself on Blake's tongue and it made him shudder a little.
“Go slow.” Not because Bruce needed him to. “I want to feel every inch of you.”
Maybe he was smart about it, or possibly just clever-handed — but certainly experienced enough — so he'd spared one hand for the sake of semi-cleanliness and his own eager inhibitions. Anticipating the need to place his grasp on Bruce, he slid his fingers around the back of the other man's head and met him wholeheartedly and mouth-to-mouth.
The puff of Bruce's heated words across his face set Blake to rumble with greedy desire; as much as Bruce wanted to feel him, he wanted to feel Bruce — wanted that slick, encapsulating warmth that traveled his body. Wanted to feel it everywhere: cock, balls, guts, brain, and maybe even a few untouched depths.
"Yeah, a'right, I've got you," Blake muttered, nipping at Bruce's lips and peppering wet dabs where his tongue wandered. Wrapped around the slick condom, his other hand left off pumping in favor of a firm guiding grip at the base of his dick, taken then on parade to avoid Bruce distracting him from their purpose.
While the mirror would eventually come into play for him, his own attention was drawn downward at the hedonistic visage. With eyes dark and wide, mouth either agape or gnawing itself eagerly, Blake pressed the head teasingly, taking double the occasion to swipe a lubed thumb over Bruce's entrance and draw out the moment. He rocked that pressure slowly into play, little breaths held and lost with every bit he advanced. Past the head, he wouldn't be pulling back out, but up to that point he was enjoying the control.
Slow he could do. Slow was a treat, in fact, which Blake wouldn't take for granted.
He moaned Bruce's name, and followed with a foul-mouthed, "Fuck, Jesus, fuck—" because the further south all his blood traveled, the fewer words found their way north in return.
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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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Blake's the first in a long, long time Bruce's even allowed an inch closer than normal. He pulls out sincerity in Bruce where someone else might be left with just something surface level and just a little bit fake, an idea of Bruce instead of the unvarnished reality. It's gratifying to feel close to someone, even if he's leaving space to retreat if he has to.
Each roll of Blake's hips stirred up something hot in Bruce, searing almost, like he just might catch fire from the warmth and desire building inside of him, blood rushing south and his trousers feeling a little bit tighter.
"I don't worry." A smirk carved across his face. "I'm looking forward to it." He dragged his hands over Blake's chest when he hovered over Bruce, fingers tugging his shirt from where it had been tucked in so he could get the buttons undone. Bruce returned that kiss, pouring all of his desire into meeting Blake's mouth with his own.
"Oh, after you, of course," he said, no hesitation. No further explanation offered. On its face it could seem altruistic; Bruce caring about the pleasure of his partner and he does. But he was feeling a little selfish about it too. He wanted the sight of Blake coming apart burned into his memory.
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"Generous," Blake murmured. He sat up to allow Bruce access and helped along the way, popping open buttons in congruence. Shoulders rolling, he dripped the fine tuxedo shirt from himself but argued with the wrists before flinging it away. "That mean you wanna see me when I get off?"
He lifted himself from Bruce to work his own trousers, shifting them down his hips as far as they'd go. The dark fabric hid the dampness well, but as Blake drew out his cock and gave it a performative stroke, it was already glistening at the tip with precum. The rest of him was representative of hard work, but not so much that he'd turned to nothing but muscle. There was still a thin layer of body fat in places, but he clearly worked everything pretty equally instead of focusing on one particular part of himself. It also allowed him to maintain a decent level of flexibility which sparked a reminder as he stretched long and lean above this arguably gorgeous, artistically proportioned, incredibly interesting individual.
His eyes were dark with desire — nearly black from his deep brown irises and pupils blown with need — and Blake's grin turned wicked as he pumped himself and in tandem raked his other palm firmly over Bruce's dick. "Might have to put your knees around your ears unless you've got a mirror handy."
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It isn't even so much the act itself that got Bruce going, though it certainly helped. It's watching the way his partner came apart at the seams, especially if they were as carefully stitched as Bruce's. And, distantly, it gave Bruce a sense of control over the situation. He was always trying to bend the world and the people around him to fit into the rules he'd made. He liked when they fit, when they don't push back and accepted being maneuvered into place. Letting his partner come first gave him the advantage, even if it's not something he'd admit to. Or maybe he's not even fully aware that's what he was doing. Especially now that he was with someone he likes.
Bruce missed the warm press of Blake's body as he pulled away, but appreciated the view, eyes roaming over the smooth, clean planes of muscle. He saved Blake's cock for last, admiring the length and girth of it. He wanted to touch it, but settled for running a hand along Blake's arm instead. He was still pliable in areas Bruce was solid muscle - a necessity born out of a need to make the Bat as intimidating as possible. For everyone else that asked, it was just how he liked to idle the hours away.
There was a hitch in his breathing, a subtle heave of his chest when Blake palmed over his erection. Bruce shut his eyes as he felt a warm jolt of pleasure up to the roots of his hair. He pushed himself up a bit to point at the mirror on a swivel base. "It can be angled toward the bed, if you're interested." He returned Blake's wicked grin with a kiss, brief and warm.
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He eyed the mirror and then the bed, comfortable enough in his own skin to be walking around fairly unabashed. Blake wasn't a show-off, but he did exhibit an awful lot of the stereotypical traits of both an only child and an orphan. He liked attention, but only on his terms; otherwise the body was just a thing everyone had, and for most of the years it mattered, he shared open living spaces with other boys who didn't care. To say this was natural for him wouldn't fit the bill — he didn't strut naked even in his own apartment — but to suggest it might be simply for Bruce's pleasure wouldn't have been refuted.
The mirror was turned just so, with Blake checking the angle before sauntering his way back towards the bed, easily stroking himself dry. He was particular enough to keep himself clean and neatly trimmed, although he was circumcised like the majority of guys in his particular age, religious, and ethnic group, so it didn't exactly get people out there singing praises. Nevertheless, he'd heard no complaints and had none of his own, miraculously enough, so his approach was fairly filled with confidence.
Stopping by his bag, he dug for his provisions and palmed the condom wrapper before crawling across the bed on hands and knees towards his companion.
"Want me to work you up?" He asked because some people were particular, and some people were masochists, and for Blake's part he fit somewhere in the middle. Nosing into Bruce's space, he lowers his voice and whispered close to the other man's ear. "Leave it to me, I'll be forced to take it slow."
Apologies for the delay. Writer's block kills me sometimes.
Bruce respected that about him. Maybe even envied it a little.
Because for all his carefully cultivated mystique, there were parts of him that still felt unmoored. Parts that existed outside of the Bat that felt nebulous and uncertain, like he'd lose them if he wasn't careful. Blake didn't seem to have that uncertainty. He was grounded in a way Bruce had never seemed to achieve. It was part of what made him attractive.
It also helped that Blake was absolutely gorgeous to look at. Bruce admired him too, unabashedly while he waited for him to return. He reached for him as he crawled across the bed, hands spreading out over his arms and up his shoulders, urging him to get close. Bruce smiles at what's whispered into his ear. "You mean you weren't trying before," he replied, a teasing edge to his voice. "You took your sweet time getting back over here." He leaned up, pressing a kiss against Blake's throat and up along his jaw.
"Take your time, if you think you've got the patience for it."
Vacation took me away for a bit - hopefully I can send you ~a little inspiration~ <3333
"We've gone this long, yeah?" he responded, his skin flushed beyond Bruce's lips. Basking for a moment, he allowed the man access long enough to use his own, petting through the dark hair and thrilled to find Bruce prickling with sweat at the hairline just the same as him. Not so collected, he thought, which only favored the moment as far as he was concerned.
Purposefulness had him popping the cap on the lube and gathering it onto his fingers with a dexterous one-handed maneuver, quick to smear, warm, and apply readily as his free hand held Bruce close. He found himself rutting against Bruce, too, a rocking motion that ripped little, low grumbles from Blake's throat at an unpredictable tempo.
"Maybe next time you could be ready for me." His grin was unrepentant and he felt himself turning near-blistering at the idea of Bruce Wayne wriggling in his chair, plugged up and anticipating the moment he was free to be taken. "Then I can take time on other things..." Practically salivating, he went about with those teasing fingers, focused as much on petting out pleasure with his exploration as he was on making way for his achingly interested dick. If he could have a third hand at the moment, he'd consider taking it, because the further he found himself from Bruce's own dick, the hungrier and more desperate he became.
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He wasn't the kind of person to ever take that leap of faith without a safety net. His contingencies had contingencies. It had always been true about relationships too. He would always try to find a way out, when things inevitably went sideways. It was true of Blake too, but Bruce found himself hoping things could stay like this – playful and warm and intimate. Like this. No expectations. Just them being together. He liked that.
His legs spread wide to make room for Blake as he moved, hips rocking against his own and a groan rumbles from some deep place in him.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” He returned that smile, wicked in its own right as he reached between them to give Blake a lazy stroke or two. “Thinking about me in my board meeting ready for you?” Bruce leaned up to graze a kiss against Blake's jaw, before he falls back again, breath catching at feeling Blake's exploring fingers. He's hard, painfully so and wrapped his fingers around his aching cock. Not jerking off, but just touching himself to keep himself grounded in the moment.
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Nevertheless, denying that he was robbed of breath as easily as answers when Bruce went fondling around would be pointless. His little gasp was impossible to hide and he was forced to bite it back behind his bottom lip where it turned into more determination. He redoubled his efforts, focused on how tight he imagined Bruce would be, and wondering whether he'd even need more of a reminder than what Blake was about to do to him.
"Thinkin' 'bout you thinkin' 'bout me does have a, ah— a real fuckin' appeal," he noted with little shame. It stirred within him an even deeper desire to see Bruce far separated from a moment — any moment — by memories generated specifically towards making him feel good. They might never share domestic bliss, or the camaraderie of a proper working relationship, but near as Blake could figure — had ever figured — a functioning sexual arrangement filled a lot of holes. Pun intended.
As if to help prove his point, he more fervently curled a finger towards the other man's prostate, making demands of Bruce's body while dipping down to put his mouth to good use before it could turn predictably filthy.
In tandem, he mouthed greedily at the other man's sack, sparing some occasional suction that helped lift it out of the way for the careful introduction of a second finger. He doubted Bruce would allow for an excruciatingly long tease, but that suited him because he already felt fit to burst all on his own.
Breathing hotly over the spit-slathered canvas, he hummed, "You tell me when you're ready to turn, 'cause otherwise..." Not that he minds. Rather, he probably wouldn't stop, at least not until he'd eked out every orgasm he could from Bruce, so eager with his mouth and hands he barely spared the time for the suggestion before he was lapping a long line from scrotum to tip. Sucking the head, he struggled to artfully swallow around Bruce, the gulping noise immediately followed with a groan he'd failed to suppress. There was something so goddamn sexy about driving someone to that peak — something Blake craved for the satisfaction of it as much for his own derived pleasure.
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It was a feeling he wasn't used to, but it wasn't a bad one. Just new and one more thing he'd learn how to navigate. At least it was with someone who Bruce could almost trust. Enough not to use this vulnerable moment against him anyway.
It helped him to relax, the expert way Blake used his mouth and tongue and how it felt like he was unraveling all of the perfect control. Like he knew all of the right ways to get Bruce to open up and allow himself a chance to feel something other than that all consuming obsession with the Mission. Logically, he knew Blake had no way of knowing the impact he was truly having right then. But lust was a helluva drug.
As greedy as Blake is, Bruce was too. Eager to see his tip disappear into the warm wetness of Blake's mouth. It's perfect. It's too perfect and if Bruce had been anyone else – untrained, undisciplined – he would have came right then and there. But he could pace himself, will that orgasm down for just a little while longer. It doesn't stop that low, rumble of a groan. Born somewhere deep. Almost Batman, but not quite.
He offered Blake another shameless smile, hips rocking against his fingers. “Are you going to fuck me or tease me to death?”
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"Honestly hadn't decided," he sighed, as if he held a hand of cards he didn't feel much like folding. But he relented nonetheless, and carefully extracted himself to steal a brief nipping kiss before patting Bruce's thigh. Post up.
Meanwhile, he busied himself with the practicalities, rolling on the condom when he finally shifted to where their reflection would be most visible. "C'mere before I make a joke 'bout a 'stay of ejaculation'."
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Tonight, Batman is almost a far away thing. Not gone, never gone. Not even truly set aside. Just. Paused, while Bruce's gaze stayed fixed on the man rolling a condom on and shifting his body to get the best angle in the mirror.
Bruce went when beckoned, crawling toward Blake and reaching for him when he got to him so that he could pull the other man into a heated kiss. He could taste himself on Blake's tongue and it made him shudder a little.
“Go slow.” Not because Bruce needed him to. “I want to feel every inch of you.”
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The puff of Bruce's heated words across his face set Blake to rumble with greedy desire; as much as Bruce wanted to feel him, he wanted to feel Bruce — wanted that slick, encapsulating warmth that traveled his body. Wanted to feel it everywhere: cock, balls, guts, brain, and maybe even a few untouched depths.
"Yeah, a'right, I've got you," Blake muttered, nipping at Bruce's lips and peppering wet dabs where his tongue wandered. Wrapped around the slick condom, his other hand left off pumping in favor of a firm guiding grip at the base of his dick, taken then on parade to avoid Bruce distracting him from their purpose.
While the mirror would eventually come into play for him, his own attention was drawn downward at the hedonistic visage. With eyes dark and wide, mouth either agape or gnawing itself eagerly, Blake pressed the head teasingly, taking double the occasion to swipe a lubed thumb over Bruce's entrance and draw out the moment. He rocked that pressure slowly into play, little breaths held and lost with every bit he advanced. Past the head, he wouldn't be pulling back out, but up to that point he was enjoying the control.
Slow he could do. Slow was a treat, in fact, which Blake wouldn't take for granted.
He moaned Bruce's name, and followed with a foul-mouthed, "Fuck, Jesus, fuck—" because the further south all his blood traveled, the fewer words found their way north in return.