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They’re all floral patterns. Different colors and flowers, but still the same pattern of petals and leaves is always there. One time, Jaime asked him about it, but it wasn’t a good time. He was bouncing about in his lap, edging close to orgasm. He’d stiffened a bit, but continued on as if he didn’t hear. A few days later, when they’re curled up in Jaime’s too-small bed cuddling and still, he asks again. And, this time, after a few minutes that dragged on for both of them, Bart turns to face him looking as close to serious that Jaime’s ever seen on his face and he says:
“We don’t have too many flowers in the future. And the patterns are nice—they don’t die like real flowers.”
And there’s something in that which makes Jaime pull the younger boy too his chest, let him press hard and bury his face into his collar. He doesn’t exactly cry, but there are shudders that run through him that Jaime can feel. They stay like that until he’s still, sleeping, and somehow Jaime thinks it’ll be alright again.
After that, Jaime doesn’t so much focus on the ‘why’ and just focuses. Because regardless of why, the floral looks good on him, and Jaime is definitely not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s smart. If Bart’s wearing one of his skirts, something good is about to happen.
It’s not exactly like Bart plans it out that him wearing skirts only ever ends in sex. They didn’t start that way. He’d simply enjoyed wearing them. He liked the movement, the swish, as he went about, liked the freeness, liked the softness of the fabric against his skin, and the way the skirt dance around him when he twirled. It was cute and innocent and he just wore them to wear them and of course Jaime liked to look at him in them—he did have fantastic legs, obviously, and the constant movement of fabric was nice when his eyes were looking at the perfect time.
The actual event where skirts started to equal sex just so happened when one of their video game sessions got hot and heavy and Jaime made the comment of how convenient the skirt made things and Bart’s eyes had lit up. And, as they say, the rest is history.
So, now, when Bart wears the pleated floral skirts, it doesn’t completely mean he wants sex, doesn’t even mean his mind is even thinking in that direction, but nine times out of ten it is where the day will lead.
Like, you know, now.
“Bart, Bart—fuck!” Jaime hissed, biting his lips as he throws his head back against the wall hard enough that it makes a sound and pain edges into his head. He should have done it harder to counter the pleasure that is making him not think straight in the slightest.
Because Bart is currently on his knees sucking him off in one of the hallways of HQ. Where anyone at any time could come down and see how much Jaime loves the feeling of Bart’s lips wrapped around him. Which, for the record, is a lot, but right now he’s trying really, really, hard to resist the urge to move Bart down further onto his dick instead of pulling him off.
And Bart doesn’t fucking care. Not in the slightest because he doesn’t think about these sort of things. All he knows is they were having a fantastic make-out session on the couch before Jaime’s hands found his ass underneath his skirt’s hem and at that moment all Bart wanted to do was get his mouth around the other boy to hear him moan.
Jaime hadn’t lost all his common sense at that point, seeing as when the speedster had gone straight for his fly he’d managed to get him to stop, get up, and move the short distance down the hall because god only knows no one wanted to see them getting hot and heavy on the communal couch.
He’d only managed halfway down the hall, however, before Bart’s persistence one out and short circuited his brain when the kid fell to his knees. It really wasn’t fair at all, in his opinion.
“Bart, seriously!” He tried again once he’d bashed his head once or twice more (much to Khaji Da’s great displeasure because it didn’t make any sense to hurt himself, he obviously enjoyed what the Bart Allen was doing indicated by heart rate and blood flow—) “We have to—get to a room. Any room! Just not so out in the open.”
Later, when he was not thinking with his smaller head and remembered he had to look certain people straight in the eye later, Jaime would very much regret his choice in words.
One second, they were in the hallway and Bart was on his knees. The next, Jaime was sitting on an unmade bed with Bart still on his knees and the edges of his skirt fluttering around him; his hair shifting back into place.
“Better?” Bart drawls out as he leans his head back down to lick at Jaime’s cock. He’s holding it now in one hand like it’s something precious, pink tongue coming out to lick at it like a cat cleaning itself, making sure he wasn’t missing any part that still needed to be shiny wet with spit.
Jaime can’t say much of anything at this point; just stare down at Bart with his mouth hanging open, the sight before him needing to be etched into the very fabric of his being for all eternity.
After making sure he’d tasted every inch of skin on Jaime’s cock, Bart flicks his gaze upward, green eyes hiding behind thick lashes that make Jaime understand exactly what everyone means when they say ‘bedroom eyes’. His hand moves down to grip at the base, never once losing eye contact as he moves his mouth up and slowly starts to swallow down the majority of Jaime’s cock.
Bart’s only ever slow when things matter and this, this fucking matters.
‘Breathe, Jaime Reyes.' The ever present voice in the back of his head reminds him, which he promptly does because he certainly wasn’t while watching Bart suck him down. He can’t bare to watch anymore, letting his body fall back onto the rumpled sheets of the bed they’re using, staring up at the ceiling instead.
It somehow makes it worse, though. Not being able to see Bart, just feel him. Feel the way his tongue flexes along the underside of his dick, how thin his lips feel stretched so wide around him, the wet pressure of his mouth, his cheeks, when he hollows them out to suck. His fingers feel small and nimble around his base, squeezing just enough to have pressure, control. There’s no calloused on them, not like on Tim’s or Conner’s or anyone else more physical, because Bart doesn’t work with his hands, but then again Jaime’s never seen calluses on his feet either. It might be a speedster thing. Might be a healing factor thing. Might just be a Bart thing because there’s a lot of categories he falls into that are all his own.
There’s too many thoughts and sensations wrapped around him right now to think properly, but there’s a split second where there’s one that’s a little different, cool, quick, and sharp that makes him push up on his elbows and look down.
“Fuck, fuck, Bart!” He moans, looking down while Bart looks coyly up at him as if he has no fucking clue. “Where did you get lube?”
It’s a stupid question, honestly, because Jaime can see the sway of his skirt and the fact that Bart didn’t even have time to close the bedside table’s drawer, but the surprise still drives words out of him faster than he can process. And right now Bart’s expertly sucking his dick while he’s also got a hand reached behind him with movement Jaime can’t see from behind the skirt, but knows exactly what he’s doing and it’s really not fair when his cock throbs.
“Don’t complain,” Bart says with a smirk that should be impossible to make when you’ve got a finger up your ass—he pauses to shit a little and moan—correction, two fingers.
“Dios mío, you’re going to kill me.” Jaime groans before flopping back onto the bed, an arm thrown over his eyes.
He can feel the speedster’s smile against his cock, breath hot on his skin. “Oh no, not until you fuck me.” There’s a little edge of laughter in those words that dies off quickly when Bart apparently picks up the pace of his fingers, arching softly and slipping to press his forehead against Jaime’s thigh, moaning with it.
Right now, right now, Jaime has never hated a skirt more in his life, because it’s completely blocking his view of watching Bart sink his slime fingers over and over again inside his hole, slick and red and stretched.
He lets out a sound of displeasure before he can help it, sitting up again. Bart barely notices, as he’s still panting hot against Jaime’s thigh. He does notice, however, when Jaime quickly pulls him up from the floor, making him jump slightly and glare as he has to pull his fingers free.
“What are—“
“Shut up, just keep going.” He interrupts, commands, dragging Bart by his thighs as he lays back down again, this time with Bart straddling his chest.
The speedster is slow on the uptake this time around, confusion still on his face for a second before Jaime pulls him closer and lifts up his skirt to disappear underneath it.
“Oh—Oh!” It finally clicks and Bart bites his bottom lip, already swollen from his recent activities. His eyes slide closed just as Jaime’s mouth wraps around the head of his own cock, making him gasp and throw his head back. His fingers are curled at Jaime’s shoulders, the fabric of his shirt tight in his grip as he tries to concentrate on how he should not choke his boyfriend by rutting into the hot channel of his throat.
Fingers grip at the meat of his hips, squeezing, before moving a little further back, down, correcting his grip. Bart moans, worries his lip between his teeth until he knows he’s broken the skin from the quick taste of copper on his tongue, but the small cut closes quickly as he swallows the blood away. Jaime squeezes the flesh of his ass, pulls the cheeks apart leaving Bart feeling open and cold and he gets it.
His still slicked hand leaves Jaime’s shoulder, not sorry at all for the sticky dampness he left behind, and slides his two fingers right back inside, the stretch of them burning slow at the base of his spine. It feels amazing, taking an extra second to memorize how each bit of his fingers pop inside of his body, knuckle by knuckle, until he can press them no further. It should be vexing to him, going this slow, but right now the pacing feels just right and Bart draws out the pleased moans just as long, feeling the stretch from his fingers and the light sucking on his cock. It feels like heaven.
Bart has to pull his fingers out to apply more lube before he dives back in, taking pause this time only enough to feel before he’s starting to get antsy, impatient, wants to feel completely full now, and he knows for a fact Jaime wants that too, so he fucks into himself a little faster this time. He’s pushing and pressing, body quacking with every movement, his hips jerking backward and forward not knowing which sensation to follow more so.
Jaime keeps making pleased noises, humming softly, hidden away underneath Bart’s skirt like some dirty secret. It takes him by surprise when one of his hands leaves his cheek, moving downward to collect some of the lube that had slid down his cleft, coat his fingers before he was pressing one in alongside Bart’s own.
The new feeling of different and more pressing inside him makes Bart babble, moan, hips jerking before he’s going completely stiff, back arched and ridged, coming.
He rides it out, humping Jaime’s face for the last few seconds, body now loose and limp. It’s perfect as Bart’s fingers slip out, only for Jaime’s to replace them, thicker than the boy’s own. Jaime pulls out from below Bart’s skirt to look up and lick his lips, cum still stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“You good?” He asks, sitting up and sliding Bart down his body a bit until the boy was in his lap and Jaime was cupping his cheek with his freehand, turning his head in for a kiss.
It’s all open mouth and tongue, licking and sucking languish against one another. Bart sinks completely into it, tasting himself on his boyfriend’s tongue until there’s nothing left and their mouths taste exactly the same. His arms drape around Jaime’s neck, fingers curling loosely into the nape of his hair.
After a long while, they finally pull away softly breathing each other’s air, foreheads pressed together.
“I’m good,” Bart manages to get out, looking straight into Jaime’s eyes, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Fuck me?”
Jaime’s reply comes as a nod, not caring for words as Bart smiles and presses the container of lube he’s found into his hand. Jaime makes quick work, making sure Bart’s at least decently stretched—loose from his orgasm, but still tight as ever, but Jaime trusts the other boy, he knows his limits—before pouring some of the liquid onto his hand to slick up his cock.
It’s cold for only a second before his movements warm it up, gliding down his shaft until he’s wet enough and gives Bart a short nod who quickly shimmies down to reach behind him to get Jaime in position.
Once more, Jaime can’t see anything because of the skirt, but he’s more focused on Bart’s facial expressions than anything else. His eyes are closed in concentration as he takes Jaime’s cock, lets it sink into his body, releasing a low, long, moan until he’s fully seated. It’s amazing. Feels amazing. Bart’s amazing and he’s fucking beautiful.
When he’s positioned, Bart opens his eyes again, looks down at Jaime with a little smirk before quickly drawing his shirt up and over his head, throwing it across the room and onto the floor. He’s completely naked except for the skirt, the floral pattern fluttering and shifting around him as he finally starts to move, hips simply jerking back and forth.
Bart’s lean and thin. His skin is a constant peach, without flaws except for the small peppering of freckles that are spread out over his shoulders, down his back. His waist is so small, especially when he wears a skirt. It pinches at his hips, shows just how thin, how small. Sometimes Jaime thinks he could wrap his hands around it and they’ll connect if he tries hard enough. He could break him so easily, he sometimes things, knows, because Khaji Da’s a constant reminder of when the voice in his head was flooded with advice on how to snap bones and blast and kill as efficiently as possible. Now, those feelings are always fleeting, but still there, buzzing around in his head. Khaji Da doesn’t so much say anything, but Jaime can feel it. Sense it. Even though he would never hurt Bart.
“Come on, hombre,” Bart’s grinning down at him, his Spanish accent still terrible, and Jaime can’t help but laugh. “You can do better than just lay there making me do all the work.”
Jaime grips his hips then, feels the soft cotton fabric under his fingertips, and squeezes until Bart gasps. Loves it. Moves his hips, pulling Bart up then down on him, meeting the movement with his own. The rhythm he creates is slow, but hard, just because he knows it’ll drive Bart complete crazy.
It doesn’t take long until Bart’s wriggling in his grip, whining for more stimulation. Jaime doesn’t give it to him right away, just lets him squirm in his lap as he keeps moving Bart up and down, fucking up into him hard enough that they both are left gasping with it. But the angle’s all wrong for Bart and Jaime’s too close to the edge himself to make Bart wait around, so after a short while he finally let’s Bart squirm enough to get at a better angle, let him fall down onto his cock, and this time the moan that escapes his lips is loud and broken.
Bart all but takes control then, one hand reaching back to hold Jaime’s thigh and the other gripping his shoulder to keep him steady as he rides his cock, speed picking up faster and faster as they go. The kid is completely lost and Jaime’s dragged along for the ride, the feeling of tight up-down heat making his head spin.
His orgasm is practically ripped out of him at the pace Bart’s going, hitting him like a ton of bricks as he’s suddenly moaning loud Bart’s name in a cry as he squeezes as his hips hard enough to leave bruises if it wasn’t for how fast he healed.
It’s all barely registered to Bart except for a quick shutter and half-bitten moan before he’s bouncing faster, harder, driving down to chase his own release. It’s only another minute before he comes, biting down his scream because a minute means he’s probably taken Jaime’s cock over and over again a few hundred times before he actually came.
There’s more blood in his mouth that is gone by the time Jaime’s kissing him, arms wrapped around his middle, pulling him close even with the mess made between them and inside of him, dripping now down his ass as Jaime’s soft cock slips free.
They fall back together onto the bed, entwined, with Bart on top, his head resting against Jaime’s shoulder. They’re just about to close their eyes, doze off for a bit—Bart’s already pretty much there—when Jaime’s eyes snap open in realization.
“Shit,” he breathes out slowly, frantic, as he sits up quickly with Bart in his arms, much to the speedster’s grumbled protests.
“Sleep—“
“Bart—“
“Sleeeep—“
“No!” Jaime hisses, the panic starting to rise in his throat because shit. “We need to leave and then probably not come back to the tower for a long time.” He’s already picking Bart up, eyes darting around for the discarded shirt. His pants are still completely undone, his dick still hanging out.
Bart yawns, “What? Why?” He’s on his feet, helping Jaime back into his pants, zipping up his jeans before moving to grab up his shirt and slip it on as the older boy can’t seem to focus much, too lost in his panic.
“Because, Bart, because—jesus!” He turns around, staring down at the bed and quickly rumples up the sheets before groaning and throwing them around in a different direction. “Because you decided to pick Conner’s room for us to have sex in!”
And Bart has to audacity to just stare at him, blink, and then shrug as if this wasn’t a big deal. “So? Better than the couch.”
“Only because now we have to deal with only him killing us instead of the whole team! We fucked in his bed!” Jaime hisses out, but is met again with a shrug.
“Oh well, deal with it later. He was the only one I knew who kept lube close at hand. Come on, I want a nap and spunk’s horrible to clean out of this fabric.”
The last thing he saw was swishing flowers before Bart was gone and Jaime could only groan heavily and follow after him, Khaji Da devising a tactical defense plan in his head the entire time.