Barry never thought that he would end up at a college party.
Maybe it’s because he’s always been too focused on his studies and his goal of just finishing up his degrees so he can begin working for the police and solving cases.
Or maybe it’s because there is actually a ridiculous amount of alcohol at college parties and, since he’s attending Central City University and still living at home with Joe the Detective, going anywhere where there’s gonna be any kind of underage drinking sounds like a legitimately terrible idea.
But he has to make the most of his college experience during his first year (or so says Iris, the Living Life to the Fullest Extraordinaire) so here he is. At a college party. Another check off his list of 100 Things To Do Before You Graduate (Half of Which Barry Isn't Interested In Anyways But Iris Made Him Add It).
Barry leans back against the couch cushions and raises his plastic red cup to his lips, taking a sip of the apple juice that is suspiciously frothy enough to pass for beer—he’s actually not convinced it’s entirely non-alcoholic, so he’s been nursing it like it’s vodka. (Vodka’s really alcoholic, right? It probably says something about him that he’s in college now and still not really sure.)
He stops focusing on the froth of his “apple juice” to look around the room for Iris. The party’s in one of the frat houses near CCU; Iris had heard about it from her new friends and had dragged Barry along, promising a good time. And it’s definitely a good time for her, judging by the way she’s laughing and dancing in a circle of friends—and how she’s smiling at one of the men in the circle in particular.
Barry’s not jealous.
Okay fine Barry’s jealous. But Iris is a grown woman who can do what she wants (and what she wants is obviously not Barry) so that’s that and Barry’s just gonna keep sitting on the couch in the corner and moping in peace.
He’s considering getting another, less questionable, drink when someone with a blatant disregard for Barry’s personal space plops down next to him, his thigh warm against Barry’s and his arm thrown half on the back of the couch and half on Barry’s back. “Mind if I sit here?”
Barry turns to him and the obvious retort withers and dies in the back of his throat because, well—the guy’s hot. He’s got dreamy blue eyes, the kind they talk about in movies, and wispy dirty blond hair that Barry wants to run his fingers through. He’s wearing a tight grey T-shirt with a dark blue zippered hoodie and dark jeans that show off his physique—he’s not super built or anything, but not unpleasant to look at either. Far from that, actually. Just looking at him is filling Barry with an uncomfortably pleasant feeling.
It surprises him. He can’t remember the last time he’s had such a strong reaction just to someone’s physical appearance.
“Don’t worry,” the other guy says, leaning in and smirking like he knows exactly what’s going through Barry’s mind, “I tend to have that effect on people.”
Barry’s not sure if the guy is showing off or trying to hit on him. He just knows that their faces are really close, like all Barry has to do is tilt his head up and lean in a bit more and they’d be kissing kind of close. It’s making the uncomfortably pleasant feeling in his gut more pleasant so Barry leans back and away.
The guy follows.
“Um,” Barry says because now it’s clear there’s some flirtatious intent here but he can’t understand why this guy would be hitting on him of all people. “I think you have me confused for someone else.”
The guy leans back, not completely out of Barry’s space but also not quite as close, and lets out a short bark of laughter like he’s surprised. “Why would you think that?”
“Um, because I’m me and you’re… you?” Barry says.
The guy raises an eyebrow. “I’m…?”
“I don’t know, generally Adonis-like?” Barry says. He’s not really sure what the guy is asking. Is he fishing for compliments? You’d think a guy like that would get enough of them.
“If we’re going the mythological route, I’d rather be Zeus,” the guy says with a salacious grin. “Then you can be my Ganymede.”
Barry doesn’t think he’s heard a worse pickup line in his life. “You want to turn into an eagle and kidnap me.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” the guy says, pulling his face into an actually adorable pout. “I was thinking more metaphorically, you know, hot young lover that I show a whole new world. Over, sideways, under, magic carpet ride?” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“That’s from Aladdin,” Barry says, unable to keep the mild horror out of his voice. The guy’s trying to pick him up while perverting songs from Disney movies. That’s gotta be some kind of crime.
The guy shrugs, completely not acknowledging the sacrilege. “Shapeshifter eagle, magic carpet, what’s the difference?”
“Aside from the fact that Jasmine at least willingly got on the carpet?”
The guy’s face turns serious and he draws back completely, legs moving away and arm tucking into his own body. “Sorry, that’s not what I was trying to say,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “If you’re not into it, just say the word. You never have to see me again.”
But Barry’s already missing the warmth and says, “No, sorry, that’s—I wasn’t trying to imply anything. Other than the fact that the whole Ganymede line is, like, the worst possible thing to say to someone you’re trying to hit on. Assuming you’re trying to hit on me at all in the first place, maybe I’m just reading too much into everything. I do that sometimes.”
The guy’s lazy smirk returns and he leans in, resting his arm on Barry’s shoulder. “I’m hitting on you.”
“Good to know,” Barry says in a squeak. This is—well, as far as he's aware, there's really only one reason to hit on someone at a college party and he definitely has not planned on going home with someone for the night. Actually, he's never even considered that it would be an option, seeing as the farthest he’s ever gone physically has been an awkward make-out session at prom and he’s been pretty sure it would stay that way.
But just because he’s never had the chance before doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to. Because he wants to.
And now he's here and there's a very attractive someone practically propositioning him. The heat in the guy's eyes as he looks at Barry is doing bad-good things to Barry's insides and his pants are starting to feel uncomfortable. He adjusts how he's sitting, which just serves to draw the guy's attention downwards. Barry turns red when the guy's smirk becomes more pronounced.
“Barry,” Barry breathes.
Oliver crooks his arm around the back of Barry’s neck and pulls him closer. He leans in so there's only inches between their lips, then stops there. “So, what do you say?" he asks quietly, hot breath against Barry's lips.
Barry ignores all the reasons he should say no (Joe will kill him, they’re in public, he’s never done this before and has never thought about doing this), and just gives in to what he wants, reaching up to grab Oliver’s shoulders and closing the gap between their mouths. He feels hands grip his waist and before he knows it his back is against the couch cushions, Oliver a solid weight on top of him. A hand leaves his waist to clutch at his hair and there's a yank back the same time Oliver nips at Barry's lip. Barry gasps from the sensation and then there's a tongue in his mouth. He bucks up and makes a startled noise.
Oliver draws back, holding himself up off Barry's chest on his forearms and gasping for breath. "Too much?"
"No, I—I was just surprised, sorry. I do that. Make, uh, noises I mean."
"I think we're going to have to figure out a way to tell when you actually want me to stop," Oliver says, smiling wryly.
"Red, green?" Barry suggests. It's the first thing that popped into his head, but it's probably also the easiest for him to remember in the moment.
"Works for me," Oliver says. He leans down, puts his hands back on Barry's waist and hair, and lowers his face by Barry's ear. “Color?”
Oliver’s breath on Barry's ear is sending tingles down his spine, the low vibrations of Oliver’s voice going straight to Barry’s dick. Barry grabs Oliver’s back, hands fisting in the material of his hoodie. "So green," he groans.
Oliver wastes no time in capturing the shell of Barry's ear between his teeth, tugging lightly and then harder when he learns that it makes Barry groan and grind his hips. Oliver brings both his hands to Barry's waist and presses him down as he sucks on Barry's earlobe. Barry hears himself making desperate whining noises and his fingers are scrabbling at Oliver’s back but God it feels so good and he thinks he’s going to die of asphyxiation from all the gasps and moans that Oliver is tearing out of him.
Oliver releases Barry's ear, drops his head to Barry's shoulder, and groans. “You're so hot."
"I can't say I really see the appeal," Barry says through his panting. He's pretty sure he's not doing anything but laying there and making noises.
But Oliver apparently disagrees. “You’re missing out,” he says.
A hand moves from Barry’s hip to press against the fabric covering his dick and Barry lets out a half-choked moan. He realizes how R-rated he must look and sound right now and he grabs Oliver’s arms to stop him. “We should—If we’re gonna keep doing this we should go somewhere else.”
Above him, Oliver's eyes darken. “I have a place. Five minute walk."
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Barry says even though he knows it's a terrible idea to leave the public party and go somewhere with a stranger. Joe's expecting him and Iris home and—Iris! He sits up with a start and nearly hits his forehead against Oliver's. "Sorry, sorry! It's just—I just remembered, I came with someone, we’re supposed to go home together,” he says as he searches the room for her. Her circle has dispersed since Oliver sat down and he doesn't see her anywhere. He pulls out his phone and there's a text from Iris, received five minutes ago.
Hey Bear, I'll be at 425 Wayne St tonight. I'll call you by 9 tomorrow. Sorry to leave you with dad! XO
"Something wrong?" Oliver asks. His expression is strange and unreadable to Barry.
"Yeah, uh, guess she's not coming back tonight," Barry says, "and she left me to make the call."
"Ah," Oliver says, expression clearing. He stands up off the couch and holds out a hand to help Barry up. "Come on, you can do it on the way."
Barry dials Joe the moment they step outside. It’s colder than he thought, even under his wool coat, and he huddles closer to Oliver as they walk.
"Barry, is something wrong?" Joe asks as soon as he picks up.
"Ah, no, nothing's wrong, sorry for worrying you, I guess I should have thought about that," Barry says quickly. "Just wanted to let you know that Iris and I are gonna stay out tonight, but we'll be back tomorrow morning."
"You two getting yourselves into trouble?" Joe asks. The tone of his voice sounds more suspicious than teasing, so Barry knows he and Iris are going to have to be very careful tomorrow.
“No, um, we're just gonna be here pretty late and it's probably safer, you know?" Barry says.
Oliver lets out a little chuckle at that and Barry frowns at him.
"Well, alright, Bar,” Joe says, the suspicion still in his voice. "Stay safe, I'll see you two tomorrow."
“Good night, Joe,” Barry says and hangs up. He clears his throat and distances himself a bit from Oliver. “So, I never asked where we were going,” he says with forced casualness, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he's heading to an unknown location with a near-stranger and this sounds like every sketchy scenario he was told not to get himself into.
"Hey, relax," Oliver says, slinging an arm around Barry's waist and tugging him back to Oliver’s side. "Promise I'm not a serial killer or anything. We're going to the Merlyn on Fourth."
“The Merlyn?” Barry asks as he shoots off a message to Iris with the location and a similar promise to contact her by 9am the next morning. The Merlyn Towers are part of a popular chain of ritzy hotels. “Are you not from here?”
Oliver shakes his head, looking relieved for some reason. “Starling City,” he says. “I’m heading back tomorrow morning.”
“Far way to go for a party,” Barry says. He looks sideways at Oliver—he really hopes the guy’s actually not a serial killer.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Oliver says with a scowl. “I’ve just been having some trouble at home, so I was driving around, taking a break from everything.”
“Oh.” Barry bites his lip and doesn’t mention how six hundred miles is a pretty far distance to just drive around. “Do you wanna, I dunno, talk about it?”
“Like confiding in a stranger,” Barry says. “I don’t really know you or anyone you know, and we won’t see each other again after tomorrow, so you can just, you know, say whatever you want without worrying that it’s gonna come back and bite you.”
“Not so sure about that.”
Barry lightly elbows Oliver in the side. “C’mon, who would I tell anyways?”
“You’re not the first one to say that,” Oliver says. He’s smiling, but Barry can’t help but think that Oliver’s general expression looks sad. “It’s never turned out well for me.”
Clearly Oliver’s been trusting the wrong people, but Barry doesn’t think that’s a good point to bring up. Instead, he just sighs and says, “It’s up to you. If you ever wanna talk, though, I’ll listen and swear not to blab.”
“Thanks,” Oliver says. He stops walking and turns to face Barry. “It means a lot, really. But right now, I can think of better things to do.” He looks up.
Barry follows his gaze and sees that they’re in front of the Merlyn Towers.
Oliver waggles his eyebrows. He apparently really likes waggling his eyebrows at innuendos.
It’s so not sexy.
“Ouch,” Oliver says.
Barry’s confused. Then he realizes that he had said the not-sexy thing out loud. Oops. “Sorry. It’s really not, though.”
“I’ll show you sexy,” Oliver mutters.
He sounds so childish that Barry just has to smirk. “Looking forward to it.”
“Tease.” Oliver pushes Barry lightly towards the revolving door and Barry, laughing, stumbles through it. He leads Barry by the hand through the elaborately-decorated lobby, into the elevator, and down the red-carpeted hall on the twentieth floor. They stop in front of room 452 and Oliver fumbles around in his pockets for the key card.
“Hotel, sweet hotel,” he says as he opens the door and extends a gracious arm.
Barry steps through. He’s only been in two or three hotel rooms his whole life, but this room could probably fit both of them (and a possible third) inside it. Like the rest of the hotel, it’s ostentatiously decorated, all red velvet trimmings and gold gildings. There’s a full kitchen by the entrance, a little dining area, and a living room space with couches and a television. Barry doesn’t even see a bed yet.
“Do you want a drink?” Oliver asks as he closes the door. There’s a soft thud as the deadbolt slides into place and for some reason it makes Barry shiver.
He’s really doing this.
“I’m, uh, I’m okay, thanks,” Barry says around the lump in his throat.
Oliver finishes hanging up his hoodie (who does that?) and walks closer, slides his hands onto Barry’s hips. “Okay.” And then they’re kissing, soft and light at first, then more insistent, until Oliver’s worrying Barry’s lower lip with his teeth and Barry’s moaning and whining at the feel of it, fingers grasping weakly at Oliver’s biceps and God could he look any more desperate?
Oliver pushes Barry’s arms down and shoves Barry’s coat off, letting it hit the floor. Barry gasps at the rush of cool air on his skin and gasps again when Oliver’s teeth latch onto the junction of his shoulder and neck. Strong arms wrap around his back, pressing him closer, and his eyes flutter shut. Barry can’t do anything but push and massage with his hands as Oliver licks and nips his way around Barry’s throat.
He doesn’t even register that they’re moving until the back of his legs hit something and Oliver pushes his shoulders down so that he’s flat against the bedspread. Oliver climbs onto the bed, straddling him, and Barry lets out a low and heartfelt, “Oh fuck.”
“Scoot up,” Oliver says, and Barry slides himself up the bed until his head hits pillows. Oliver kisses him again and wrangles Barry’s shirt off, then everything else, until Barry is laying naked under Oliver’s fully-clothed body.
There’s something unfair in that, so Barry reaches over and tugs at Oliver’s shirt until Oliver smirks down at him and helps him pull it off.
Oliver leans in closer, and Barry lightly places his hands on Oliver’s hips. His original assessment was right—while Oliver’s by no means a bodybuilder, he has the kind of nice physique you get from doing casual sports (otherwise known as More Muscles Than Barry, At Least). The yellow light of the beside lamp casts nice shadows across the ridges of his abs. Barry has a random and strong urge to lick them.
Oliver strokes a hand from Barry’s hip to his chest to his throat to his face then back down to his hip, leaving a hot trail that makes Barry shiver and forget his train of thought. “What do you like?” Oliver breathes.
“Um, what would you do if I said I don’t know?”
Oliver quirks an eyebrow and a corner of his lip. “I’d ask what you don’t like.”
“Um. And if I still don’t know?”
Oliver gives him an odd look that soon morphs to one of realization. His grip on Barry’s hip tightens. “This is your first time, isn’t it?”
Barry smiles wryly. “That obvious?”
Oliver closes his eyes and groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I think you have that the other way around,” Barry says with a laugh. He runs his hands up the length of Oliver’s body, stopping at his shoulders. “What do you like?”
“Nope,” Oliver says, taking Barry’s wrists and pinning them above his head with one hand. He lays down, chest to chest, and teases Barry’s ear. “This is about you tonight. Is there anything you’re not okay with doing?”
“I literally have no idea,” Barry says, and because he gets the feeling this isn’t Oliver’s first go-around, he adds, “We can—you can try things. Just, if I say stop—”
“I’ll stop,” Oliver finishes. “No questions asked.”
“Thank you,” Barry says quietly.
Oliver rubs his thumb on Barry’s wrists, still pinned above his head. “Is this okay?”
Barry tugs, testing the hold. It’s firm, but not restricting. He could easily break out of it if he really wanted to. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.”
“Good,” Oliver says. He kisses Barry gently, and when he puts his tongue to the seam of Barry’s lips, Barry lets him in. It’s nice, sweet, and feels like it goes on for hours though it’s probably really only minutes.
Oliver eventually pulls himself away. “You’re so—” he cuts himself off, kisses Barry again, licks Barry’s lips and watches Barry tremble. “I’m gonna take you apart, piece by piece,” he says, tweaking each of Barry’s nipples in turn, “until the only thing you’ll remember is my name and how to beg me for more.”
“Fuck,” Barry says. He thinks he has a thing for Oliver’s voice, low-pitched and rough during sex, because it keeps going straight to his dick. “How—” Barry cuts himself off to breathe because Oliver’s leaning over doing the earlobe thing again and Barry has no self-control. “How do you say stuff like that with a straight face?”
Oliver draws back and looks him in the face. Their noses are almost touching, and Oliver’s mouth is downturned in his little pout. “Stuff like what?”
“You know, like… everything,” Barry says, and he tries to make a gesture with his arms but they’re still trapped above his head.
Oliver tightens his hold. “You know, you’re being awfully rude when I’m just trying to give you the best first sex of your life.”
“There’s only one first sex of my life,” Barry says before he can stop himself.
“Okay, that’s it,” Oliver says, and in one smooth move he lets go of Barry’s wrists, grabs Barry’s jaw, and shoves something into Barry’s mouth.
It’s thick and soft, with a familiar red-black pattern—his own boxers, Barry realizes, and fuck that’s a lot hotter than he ever thought it would be.
He moans through the fabric, and Oliver smirks, raking his fingers across Barry’s scalp. “Like that, do you?” He reaches up to Barry’s hands, still hanging limply above his head, and pulls one down to Barry’s side.
Barry lets him, blinking in confusion all the while.
Then Oliver pulls out a set of keys from his pocket. “Hold this,” he says, slipping the ring onto Barry’s middle finger and closing Barry’s palm around it. “Shake it if you need to stop. Try it.”
Right. Barry can’t speak clearly now, can’t protest verbally or say his colors. He opens his hand and shakes his wrist. The keys jingle in response.
“Good,” Oliver says, smiling, and Barry feels a burst of something warm—affection? he’s not sure—blooming in his chest because Barry had followed this guy on a whim, but Oliver’s clearly experienced and kind and careful and Barry’s not sure he could have picked a better first partner if he’d tried.
“Is this okay?” Oliver asks, bringing Barry out of his thoughts. Oliver’s holding up his own crumpled shirt by Barry’s face, making a gesture like he’s going to put it over Barry’s head.
Barry’s heart is pounding in his chest as he nods slowly.
He nods again, more surely this time.
Oliver leans forward. “Close your eyes,” he says quietly, and Barry does.
He feels the cloth against his eyelids, lightly at first, then with more pressure as Oliver wraps and rolls the shirt around to keep it in place. It’s dark, and even darker after he hears the soft click of the lamp turning off.
“Hey, you all right?” Oliver asks, voice sharp. He’s pulled out the gag and his hands are around Barry’s forearms, grounding him.
Barry tries to respond and realizes that he’s hyperventilating. He’s not sure why; he’s not afraid of the dark anymore. But maybe it’s just everything put together. He feels like he’s on fire, overwhelmed with the reality that this it, he’s having sex for the first time and it’s impossibly and statistics-defyingly probably the best sex he’s ever going to have. He thinks he’s about to spontaneously combust with pleasure at any moment. It’s stressful on his body. He forces himself to take a moment to slow his breathing. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah, I’m good.”
There are lips against his cheek, then his throat. His chest is warmer—Oliver must be lowering himself down. “Relax,” Oliver says against his skin. Fingers stroke Barry’s hands, and he relaxes his grip on the keys he forgot he was holding. “You can stop this any time you want,” Oliver continues, his hands smoothing their way up and down Barry’s sides rhythmically. “Breathe. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m gonna take care of you, okay?”
“Okay,” Barry says after a few more lungfuls of air. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Oliver repeats softly. He presses the cloth against Barry’s lips until Barry opens his mouth to take it back in. “Fuck, Barry, you’re so hot,” he groans, sliding his lips and fingertips down Barry’s chest.
Barry groans too, muffled. It’s the first time Oliver’s used his name since they tumbled into bed, and he discovers that he likes hearing it in Oliver’s rough, sex-addled tenor. Oliver continues murmuring dirty sweet nothings into his skin, “do you like that” and “fuck, you’re so sensitive” and “God, Barry” all blending together as Barry writhes and moans, one hand tight on the keys and one hand clawing at Oliver’s shoulder while Oliver licks and kisses and massages his way up and down Barry’s body. At first Barry’s on edge, anticipating the path that Oliver’s following and arching and twisting to meet him, but Oliver puts an end to that quickly by being everywhere at once. A hand scratching down his back, kneading at his ass, hot breath on one nipple, then the other, hands down his thighs and caressing his stomach and pulling at his hair while teeth scrape at his throat.
It’s too much, too much, too fast and Oliver keeps moving and talking and Barry can’t keep track of it all. It feels so good but Barry isn’t used to it, the feelings or his reflex reactions, and he can’t focus, can’t move, can’t think. All he can do is drift, losing himself to the sensations, grounding himself with his nails in Oliver’s back and feeling comforted by the fact that his desperate sobs are being muffled by the fabric in his mouth. He’s so, so turned on and even though Oliver’s being careful not to touch his cock, Barry thinks he can come just from this. He barely even registers that Oliver has turned him over until he feels hot breath on his ass, at which point everything comes sharply back into focus as he jerks away, all feelings of arousal gone in an instant of panic.
He forgot about using the keys, but Oliver is on him in an instant anyways, helping him to a neutral sitting position and removing the makeshift gag and blindfold. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Barry says, panting. “Fine, I—Sorry, just—that’s gross, don’t do that.”
“It’s not gross,” Oliver says.
Barry just gives him his best disapproving look, though considering Barry is naked and sweaty and sex-mussed, it’s probably not very effective. “You don’t even know when the last time I showered was.”
Oliver smirks. “Good kid like you, probably right before you left for the party.”
Damn, he’s right.
“Well, you don’t know what I’ve been up to since then,” Barry says, red in the face.
“Okay, okay, but just to be sure—you don’t actually mind if we try it, you’re just worried because we haven’t showered?” Oliver asks.
Barry fidgets. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I mean not that I care, and I’m the one doing the licking, but if that’s all you’re worried about,” Oliver says, standing up from the bed. He pulls Barry to his feet and maneuvers him into the bathroom, turning on the shower before tugging off his own belt and making quick work of his jeans and boxers.
Barry is, for some reason, blatantly staring at Oliver’s very erect dick and he’s hyperaware of the fact that he’s getting hard again from seeing Oliver naked.
Oliver, of course, notices. “Like what you see?”
“You’re shameless,” Barry says.
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” Oliver says. “Actually, that’s not true, it’ll get you everywhere.” He waves Barry towards the shower. “Water’s warm.”
The shower itself is, like the rest of the hotel room, larger than anything Barry’s used to, with a small space for sitting at one end. He actually has elbow room. The water is just the temperature Barry likes it, warm and soothing as it soaks onto his skin. It’s nice.
But then Oliver steps in and the shower becomes anything but relaxing.
Oliver’s only somewhat broader than him and not much taller, but his presence is powerful, suffocating. Barry wants to shy away from it and bask in it all at once.
He forces himself to turn away from watching rivulets of water stream down Oliver’s back to grab the bar of soap but he fumbles it, sending it clattering to the shower floor.
Oliver is quick to scoop it up. “Let me help with that.” He uses one arm to hold Barry in place, hips to hips, and the other to run the bar across Barry’s body. Barry grinds his ass against Oliver’s dick, and Oliver pinches his nipple in response.
Barry yelps and arches away.
Oliver smirks against his neck.
After soaping Barry’s front, he puts down the bar and uses both hands to rub everywhere, working the soap into a lather.
“I do-on’t,” Barry says through a moan, “I don’t really see how you’re going to soap my ass like this. Which kinda was the point.”
Oliver grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around so they’re chest to chest and cock to cock. Barry’s body is slick with soap. Oliver smirks, insufferable, and squeezes Barry’s ass with both hands. “Better?”
“You’re—fuck,” Barry says at the sting of Oliver’s palm against his ass. He drops his head onto Oliver’s shoulder, not having it in him to care that it puts the top of his head in the shower spray.
“What were you about to say?” Oliver asks pleasantly as he massages the sting away.
Terrible. Terrible is what Barry wants to say. “Some kind of sex god or something,” is what Barry says instead.
“Speak for yourself,” Oliver says. He slaps Barry’s ass again, on the other side, causing Barry to whimper into his shoulder and grind their cocks together. Oliver grunts. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything you don’t like. Other than lack of hygiene, apparently. Speaking of which.”
Barry breathes while Oliver soaps him down. It’s an embrace, one arm wrapped securely around his shoulders and the other stroking and cleaning in the cleft of his ass. It feels good, but foreign, like it should be invasive but it’s intimate instead. He distracts himself by running his hands up and down Oliver’s back and shoulders. He tries pinching Oliver’s ass, but Oliver just smirks at him.
He only gets a reaction when he tries threading his fingers through Oliver’s hair and pulling back. That elicits a low moan. When Barry follows it up by latching onto Oliver’s neck and sucking, he gets desperate hands grabbing at his body and the sounds of Oliver gasping for air. He reaches down with his other hand to wrap around Oliver’s cock and jerk him off. The angle is awkward and his rhythm somewhat off, but Oliver’s hands stop moving and just hold on while Oliver thrusts into his fist, so Barry figures he must be doing something right. After a long moment, strong hands push him away and Barry is treated to a view of a wrecked Oliver, pupils blown, hickey blossoming on his neck, and panting like there isn’t enough oxygen in the world.
“Fuck, Barry, you—” Oliver maneuvers him under the showerhead, rinses him off, and pushes him out of the shower and against the bathroom counter. He uses a hand between Barry’s shoulderblades to press him against the countertop.
Barry yelps. The granite is cold on his chest and cheek. His nipples especially do not appreciate the quick transition from warm, steamy shower to ice cold surface.
Oliver slaps his ass, quick, light swats on both sides that leave nothing more than an echo of a sting, but leaves Barry gasping anyways. “God,” Oliver says, and his voice is still wrecked.
Hands are smoothing over Barry’s ass and stroking the insides of his thighs. His legs are shaking from arousal and anticipation and he can’t get them to stop.
“Barry, can I—”
“Yes,” Barry says. “Please.”
He’s tense, waiting for it and half-afraid that he’s not going to be able to overcome his disgust even though he’s still dripping wet from the shower, but it all goes away with the first stroke of Oliver’s tongue. Everything goes away except for that one point on his body and the feeling of Oliver pressing, stroking, tasting. He feels his mouth open but he can’t control what’s coming out; feels his arms reaching, flailing for something but he doesn’t know what.
It lasts for an eternity.
He comes back to himself when Oliver stops his assault and he finds that both his arms are being held down against his back. There’s a tug on his hair, pulling his head up.
“Look,” Oliver says.
Barry looks. He sees himself in the bathroom mirror, looking filthy and very thoroughly debauched. His face is flushed and sweaty, hair still damp from the shower and the exertion and lips still red and kiss-bitten from earlier in the night. He sees Oliver standing behind him, one hand in his hair and one hand holding his arms down. His chest is heaving and his face is just as wrecked as before. Barry can feel Oliver’s cock now, hard and pressed against the cleft of his ass, and he groans.
He knows what Oliver wants, and he wants it too.
He trusts Oliver, he realizes. Barry doesn’t know anything about Oliver, but he knows that Oliver’s been taking care of him, has been letting Barry set the boundaries every step of the way and respecting them, has been legitimately getting turned on by turning Barry into an incoherent mess.
“Fuck me,” he says, and once it’s out there the dam opens. “Please, Oliver, please fuck me, please—”
“Fuck,” Oliver says, and grinds against Barry’s ass. “You don’t even know what you’re asking me for.”
“Oliver, please,” Barry says because even though he doesn’t know what it feels like, he knows what it is and knows mostly what it entails and knows that he’s ready for it, ready for it with Oliver. “I know, I trust you.”
Oliver groans. “Stay there,” he says, and leaves the bathroom. He returns a moment later, touches a finger to Barry’s ass and—
“That’s cold,” Barry gasps, jerking his hips away from the offending touch.
Oliver’s finger follows him and Oliver’s other hand comes up to press down on the small of Barry’s back. “Sorry, lube,” Oliver says. “It’ll warm up.”
“I hope so,” Barry mumbles.
Oliver swats his ass lightly. “Whiner.” The finger comes back, wetter and colder, and Barry tries not to squirm too much as Oliver spreads the lube around.
“Have you ever experimented?” Oliver asks casually.
Barry can feel one hand massaging the small of his back to relax him while the other hand starts working a finger in, so he knows Oliver’s just trying to distract him. He’s thankful for it. “Not even a little bit,” he answers.
“This should be fun then,” Oliver says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Barry look at him in the mirror.
Barry gets the feeling this is about to end with him being an incoherent mess. Again.
He’s proven right when Oliver manages to slide the finger in—surprisingly it doesn’t hurt at all—and touches… somewhere. Barry’s not sure where. All he knows is that at first it kind of makes him feel like he has to pee (and he really hopes he doesn’t) but then it gets more and more pleasurable until it’s sending electricity screaming across all his nerve endings, making him shake and writhe on the countertop, and he feels hot all over, like he’s just on the edge of coming but can’t. Oliver’s touch is too careful, too light, even when he puts more fingers in, and when Barry tries to push back for more, Oliver grabs his hips and holds him away.
“Oliver, please,” Barry gasps. He’s not sure what he’s asking for.
The fingers leave him and he whines, hips pistoning back, seeking contact.
“Jesus, Barry, just hang on a second,” Oliver says, sounding strangled.
There’s a tearing sound and a condom wrapper lands on the counter by Barry’s face.
Hands stroke Barry’s sides. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Barry says, pushing his hips back to rub against Oliver’s cock. “Yes, please, Oliver, do it, fuck me, please—”
Oliver doesn’t have to be asked twice. He takes hold of Barry’s hips with both hands and slides in, smoother than Barry thought possible.
It hurts a little, but he’s boneless and aroused enough that it mostly just feels full. Oliver pulls out and in once, twice, then he’s fucking Barry in earnest, hitting that spot with every thrust and Barry—Barry actually can’t take it anymore. His hands slip out from under him and his knees lock together and he’d be falling if Oliver wasn’t holding him up.
“Fuck.” Oliver pulls out, grabs Barry by the waist, and manhandles him to the bed. Barry’s legs are so shaky that he thinks they won’t make it, but they do, and Oliver puts him flat on his back, ass right on the edge, holds his legs spread, and slides right back in.
He’s hitting that spot again, even harder now, and Barry’s eyes roll into the back of his head before his eyelids flutter shut. “Fuck, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver—” He keeps chanting Oliver’s name and he can’t stop because fuck he’s going to come and Oliver hasn’t even touched his dick once and he can’t decide if it feels good or if it just hurts.
“Come on, Barry,” Oliver says, leaning over to nip at Barry’s earlobe as he speaks. He keeps his steady rhythm going. “Come. Come for me. You’ve been so good tonight. Just let go.”
He comes all over himself, screaming and sobbing and writhing. Oliver is holding him, holding him down, and Barry is both bucking up and twisting, both trying to get closer, get more and trying to get away because it’s too much too much too much.
“Fuck, Barry,” Oliver says, and he pulls off the condom and jacks himself off until he’s groaning and coming too, white hot stripes painting Barry’s chest.
Barry squeezes his eyes shut and moans at the contact, moans more when Oliver’s lips land on his, kissing him sweetly, and Oliver’s hand lands on his torso, spreading their come together across Barry’s chest and abdomen. Barry can’t understand why he likes it—objectively, it seems pretty gross—but he does, he really does.
Oliver gets them more fully on the bed and they lay there, kissing softly while the mess of come dries on Barry’s chest, until Barry starts dozing off.
“Are you falling asleep on me?” Oliver asks, voice soft as he pokes at Barry’s cheek with what’s probably a come-stained finger.
Barry makes a noise and turns his head away. “I told you you’d kill me.”
Oliver laughs quietly and the bed shifts, indicating he’s stood up. There’s the soft padding of feet away from the bed, then Barry thinks he must have drifted off, because the next thing he remembers is the feeling of a warm, wet towel wiping him down.
“Of course you’d be a starfish,” Oliver’s voice grumbles. He shoves at Barry’s shoulder until Barry gives in and rolls over to one side of the bed. The bed dips with Oliver’s weight. “Well, you didn’t have to go that far,” he grumbles as an arm wraps around Barry’s middle and pulls him back towards the center of the bed.
“Thank you,” Barry says blearily, and Oliver pulls him closer and kisses the back of his head in response.
Barry falls asleep to the steady lull of Oliver’s breathing, Oliver’s body warm and soothing behind him.
When Barry wakes, he’s alone. He hasn’t been for long, judging by the way Oliver’s warmth still lingers on the sheets next to him. Barry would almost think that Oliver had just gone to the bathroom or something if not for the fact that he can see an envelope with his name written on it on the nightstand next to him.
The envelope’s thick, which Barry attributes to the considerable amount of money stuffed inside. There’s a note on top of the cash, written in the same distracted scrawl as on the front: Please don’t tell anyone once you find out. He counts the money. $5000.
Barry’s not really sure who would pay $5000 to keep their one-night stand a secret (or who would just have $5000 in cash in the first place), but it’s probably someone who he would regret having a one-night stand with in the first place.
Strangely, though, the regret’s not hitting him. Yeah the money thing’s weird and he doesn’t think he has it in him to do anything with the cash other than take it back and let it sit in a drawer, but as for the night itself—he had gotten what he wanted. And more.
And as Barry lays under the plush covers, warm and still pleasantly tingly, he knows that if he could go back and do it all again, he would make the same choices.
He doesn’t regret a thing.
(A few weeks later, the sinking of The Queen’s Gambit is breaking news everywhere. Barry and Iris are sitting in the living room on their laptops while Joe watches the evening news. Then Barry catches sight of Oliver’s picture on the television and is instantly distracted. His first thought is that he thinks he can understand why Oliver didn’t say much about himself, and why he would want to keep their night a secret. Then he registers what the rest of the coverage is about and rushes into the bathroom to throw up.
Joe and Iris ask what’s wrong and he makes bad excuses about a stomach bug and being sick and he’s going to bed early. They don’t buy it, but it doesn’t really matter—Barry knows there’s no way they’re going to make the connection.
He spends the night laying in bed remembering Oliver—his smile, his laugh, how he was just so full of life—and thinking and thinking about the whys and hows and what could have beens. Once his mind is done racing, he realizes that he’s crying, mourning the loss of someone whose life he’s touched for less than twelve hours.
He falls asleep, feeling tired and empty and trying very hard not to think about the fact that he knows exactly what Oliver’s face looks like when he’s struggling to breathe.)