[ (Alfred knows about every single person he's ever slept with, and will know about this. Sorry, Barry. Former spies notice everything, even if they would prefer not to.)
It is different. This isn't work. This isn't like anything else; there's no comparison to draw. If Bruce were pressed to dissect the psychological implications of the amount of stress and trauma bonding they've collectively been through together, he might say it's actually more surprising that they aren't all fucking.
But they aren't. It's this, a nervous, if genuine overture in private, sinking into quicksand after a reality-splitting revelation. Thoughts swirl in Bruce's head and some of them wonder about the shape of this encounter, and if it's like desperation. You're real, I'm real, neither of us is about to be pulled away through time and space. If it's doubling down after sheepish awkward socializing. If it's revelling in the cure for loneliness; they understand each other. They aren't hiding, or lying.
If it's like all of that.
His breath hitches once as Barry takes him in, and it's followed by a rough exhale. Bruce moves his hand higher, splayed out against the side of his cheek, fingers curled towards the back of his skull. Holding him and feeling the way his jaw moves as he sucks his cock, his forearm brushing against the younger man's as he moves.
Bruce is not a talker. Unlikely to be a surprise. But he watches him intently. His mouth feels good, and it's almost a shock to realize that, yes, Barry is good at this. Not that he looks like someone who'd be bad, or something, but he perhaps simply hasn't considered Barry Allen as someone spending a lot of free time working up his skills. But it's impressive, anyway, and Bruce finally moves his other hand - up until now still at his side, as if restrained - to card through his dark hair and drag blunt fingernails over his scalp. ]
thank
It is different. This isn't work. This isn't like anything else; there's no comparison to draw. If Bruce were pressed to dissect the psychological implications of the amount of stress and trauma bonding they've collectively been through together, he might say it's actually more surprising that they aren't all fucking.
But they aren't. It's this, a nervous, if genuine overture in private, sinking into quicksand after a reality-splitting revelation. Thoughts swirl in Bruce's head and some of them wonder about the shape of this encounter, and if it's like desperation. You're real, I'm real, neither of us is about to be pulled away through time and space. If it's doubling down after sheepish awkward socializing. If it's revelling in the cure for loneliness; they understand each other. They aren't hiding, or lying.
If it's like all of that.
His breath hitches once as Barry takes him in, and it's followed by a rough exhale. Bruce moves his hand higher, splayed out against the side of his cheek, fingers curled towards the back of his skull. Holding him and feeling the way his jaw moves as he sucks his cock, his forearm brushing against the younger man's as he moves.
Bruce is not a talker. Unlikely to be a surprise. But he watches him intently. His mouth feels good, and it's almost a shock to realize that, yes, Barry is good at this. Not that he looks like someone who'd be bad, or something, but he perhaps simply hasn't considered Barry Allen as someone spending a lot of free time working up his skills. But it's impressive, anyway, and Bruce finally moves his other hand - up until now still at his side, as if restrained - to card through his dark hair and drag blunt fingernails over his scalp. ]