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Hal doesn’t try to define it.
'Fuckbuddies' is too hollow, too casual—
the first time they kiss, Hal still has adrenaline roaring in his veins, still breathless from the fall, the inside of his mouth bloody and bruised. Bruce tastes like ozone and rainwater, and thunder crackles somewhere in the distance, but there are cool, slick, leather-gloved fingers cupping his jaw, and all Hal think about is biting into that soft, hungry, demanding mouth like he’s starved for it—
'Friends-with-benefits' doesn’t work either; it implies they’re friends, which, hell—
“You cannot keep calling us a team if you don’t trust us, you cocksucking paranoid fascist motherfucker, do you have any basic goddamn understanding of—“
“It’s called compartmentalization, Jordan.”
“You know who else runs organizations like that? Taliban! Al-Qaeda! Pablo Escobar!”
“If you have problems with how I run the League—“
“When are you going to get it through that psychotic rat maze of a head - You don’t run the fucking League, Palpatine!!”
Carol likes to leer at Hal and waggle her eyebrows and call it ‘stress relief’ but that’s not quite right - where’s the relief?
—afterwards, Hal braces a fist on the mattress, pulls out slow and gentle. Batman- Bruce- Wayne, Wayne’s face is half-buried into the pillow, hair gleaming with sweat, a body like a god’s all stretched out beneath Hal, the fragile, line of back, the massive shoulders, narrow, impossible hips, bruises blooming on either side where Hal had gripped too tight, had fucked too hard, had red blaze over his vision when Bruce made a high, broken sound, and begged, “Harder,” like he wanted to be hurt, like he needed it-
Christ, and Hal’s eyes drop to his hole, the rim puffy and pink and abused, leaking come.
“Bruce,” he whispers, horrified, hands skating along the damage he’s wrought, thumb making a gentle, shaky pass against the perineum, and Bruce twitches, cats into the touch, so maybe…? Maybe. Hal does it again, and again, slips one finger past the rim, and Bruce tightens on it greedily. Hal chokes back a desperate sound, cock hardening painfully again- again-
“God, I could fuck you forever,” he confesses, against Bruce’s back, and lets his index glide against the soft, fleshy bulge of his prostate, lets the answering groan wash over him like wildfire, and he wants, and wants, and wants—
Clark knows, Hal’s pretty sure, even if he’s never so much as blinked funny in Hal’s direction, and Barry knows too. Sort of. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks, quiet and sincere and serious, because Barry’s a good friend, a great friend, better than Hal deserves. ‘Do you know what you’re doing,’ he asks, and—
“Come on, you son of a bitch,” he snarls, eyes screwed shut, arching his ass up higher, and Bruce’s thrusts stuttered a little, just a second, “like you mean it.”
And Bruce, contrary bastard that he is, Bruce pulls out, the absolute motherfucker, and Hal’s saying some of that out loud isn’t he? Except his whole body feels thin, stretched out, too much bone and not enough skin, and when Bruce flips him over, with gentle, careful touches, it feels like too much, a live wire running under his teeth, and he’s pliant, all ragdoll-limbs, letting Bruce push his thighs up gently, folding him in half, working that hard, thick cock into his hole again, feeding it to him inch by slow inch, and Hal’s making these broken, half-formed noises, ‘please, please, baby, please’ and that’s new- he’s never-
“Hal,” Bruce whispers, bottoming out, bending over, brushing dry, chapped lips against his bruised mouth, “Hal.”
—he has no god damn idea what he’s doing, alright.
Only that he is, and he doesn’t know how to stop.