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“You’re quiet tonight.”
Len has Barry by the hips, hands warm and possessive as he anchors him to the wall. He’s crowding him, they’re in the corner, like they have to keep out of sight even though it’s their own home. Barry indulges in it — always does, if Flash business doesn’t interrupt.
Barry’s only an inch or so taller, but with the line of his spine stretched straight he has to tip down to kiss Len on the lips, a unique vantage that he’s all too happy to exploit. Their kisses are deep, and Barry’s unfurling in Len’s grip, ready to come apart at the seams.
There’s no telling what had started it tonight. All Barry had done was pass Len in the doorway, and then he’d felt those nimble fingers on the knobs of his spine, hooking into the neckline of his shirt. He’d backtracked, and then he felt the grazing of Len’s knuckles underneath his chin as he directed Barry into a kiss. It’d been a whirl after that.
“Am I?” Len replies, a murmur, slick and low and dark in his ear. Barry shivers.
Len always was a talker when it came to intimacy. Had been since the beginning when kissing Captain Cold was Barry’s manic last-ditch idea to distract Len from icing him to the floor.
“Well, well, well, Red. Can’t say I’m not surprised.” Barry remembered rolling his eyes at the double negative, the chill way he’d reacted even though the sparkle in his eye told Barry that he really had managed to shock the unflappable Captain Cold.
Barry could never have guessed how Cold would respond in that moment. As guarded as the man often was, putting up a wall of puns to cover up all those complexities, a kiss and something was knocked loose. Barry had thought it was him playing Captain Cold and trying to get Barry to blush and tease him for his stupid ploy.
Which, was part of it. It just wasn’t all of it. Wasn’t most of it.
“Central’s own pretty little hero coming for a taste of the dark side?” He’d kissed him back in that moment, no teeth but a curl to his tongue and an insistency to his lips that had Barry breathless. Had broken apart again just to say with a wicked smile, “Can’t say I haven’t thought about this.”
Eventually they shed their alter-egos, did this for real. Captain Cold had been chatty during make-outs, during sex, but Len is the real talker.
But now Len’s not talking at all, and it’s strange, and Barry stammers out between breaks, “I’d say so.”
“You would, now?” Len asks, moving only millimeters away from the whole of Barry’s mouth. Kisses the corner of his lips, his cheek, his jaw. Barry knows where this is going, his neck already tingling and he arches to bare his throat just at the notion.
To be honest, Barry found his ability to be so talkative a little annoying at first. The way Len touched him drove him wild, and Barry couldn’t handle anything more intelligible than moans, panting into Len’s mouth and unable to kiss. So how the hell is Len able to prattle into oblivion while railing him into the goddamn couch? Even more irritating vice versa.
But as Barry surrendered himself to the unintended consequences of his impulsive plan — an oxymoron that Len despises and claims isn’t possible — Barry finds that he misses it on the rare occasions that Len is silent.
“Yeah, I would.”
Len could say the most sinfully dirty things. Murmuring into Barry’s sweat and breath-dampened neck turns of phrase and dangerous details that drove Barry over the edge. Painted scenes with that vile mouth of his about taking Barry and violating him in the best way, peppering in praise because that was Barry’s thing and he’d figured that out so fucking fast and exploited it even faster.
Fuck, Barry can hardly think about it now without becoming absolute putty in Len’s hands, without hardening at the most simple of Len’s touches. Len must feel it, too, because his grip gets firmer. Nails digging into Barry’s clothes, and Barry gasps.
“Don’t like the quiet, Barry?”
The teasing is typical. Len often cracks jokes. He’s remarked on silly, stupid things often.
The last time Len got in a bit more of a jesting mood, he’d wondered aloud what would happen if they tried to watch Jeopardy while having sex. Since they both are so stubborn and know far too much trivia, Len placed halfhearted bets on whether they’d even reach an orgasm or if they’d be too busy trying to outdo the other in the game they’d forget all about cumming.
There are times Len really goes down the rabbit-hole. That time with Jeopardy he’d said things like, “I’ll take nerdy fantasies that Barry’s definitely orgasmed to for 800, Alex,” but other times he’d started talking about ridiculous Stargate Atlantis scenes, or joking about getting Barry off in one of Barry’s old Forensics classes — “how’s that for voyeurism? After I was through with you, those nerds would never be able to look at a blackboard again without seeing the outline of your body,” — and while Barry was laughing raucously and orgasming at the same time — which was one of the weirdest sensations in Barry’s entire life, and that’s coming from the fastest man alive — while Len chuckled in his ear and Barry was just so gone for him it almost wasn’t funny anymore.
“We can put on Jeopardy,” Len teases.
That makes Barry laugh, but it’s short lived, because all his air gets pulled from him when Len swipes his thumbs along the indent of his waist. In response, Barry reaches down to cup Len’s hands in his own. He squeezes once before tracing up the tendons of his forearms, feeling the strength of his biceps himself, making it to the divots of his shoulders and pulling Len to kiss him again.
“No, it’s just that you’re usually much…” a hum of thought takes a much more erotic turn when Len sucks Barry’s throat, and Barry can feel the vibration about to burst form his skin. “Chattier,” he groans out.
Len huffs a laugh into Barry’s neck, which brings Barry to cup the back of his head and keep Len’s lips there for a moment longer. Len acquiesces, presses his tongue against Barry’s throat and Barry almost collapses into his arms. He laps at it, over and over and over, and Len has to feel how Barry’s heartbeat is making a racket in his chest.
Most of the time, Len just talks. Not about anything in particular. Switching from topics seamlessly, he doesn’t even need Barry to respond, seems content to know that he has Barry’s rapt attention in more ways than one. He’ll murmur compliments into Barry’s ear, honest things, not just about sex: he likes when Barry grins and even more when he laughs, how attractive he is when he’s rambling about science, or how amazing Barry feels when he vibrates against him and is completely unable to restrain himself.
Whatever Len wants to talk about, Barry’s usually hooked and reeled in so easily. Len never talks so much about nothing, never lets himself speak stream of conscious, every word out of his mouth usually so calculated. It’s rare that Barry has occasion to call Len earnest, but in bed there’s something raw and honest about how he talks and talks and talks.
It’s Barry’s favorite. Especially when toward the end, he can break that faucet of thoughts and get him to choke on his words, or forget his next sentence, or change it entirely because he can’t stop focusing on what Barry’s doing. Once Barry got him to just start saying his name, and that, that was heaven.
Right now, if Len’s not going to talk, Barry’s hoping he’ll bite, wanting to feel it, wanting this to last, but Len hasn’t gone for it yet. Instead he continues lapping at the same spot, which is good in a softer, sweeter way.
Len’s got him hypnotized. Barry’s mind’s all cloudy, and his fingers are starting to tingle from gripping onto Len’s shoulders too hard, so he drops them. Hooks his fingers into the loops of Len’s pants and pulls him closer.
“Oh? What’s this?” Len asks, smirking at the way Barry keeps tugging him closer by his jeans. Takes one hand off of Barry’s hip to cup his jaw, force him to tilt his head and he kisses him again. Fuck he’s warm, he’s so warm, and Barry wants.
“C’mere.”
“Don’t think I can get any closer Barry,” he says, teasing.
“Yes you can. I know you can. You know you can.” At that Len snickers. He’s such a nuisance, standing his ground when Barry’s making it so clear where he wants him. Eventually Barry abandons the belt loops, wraps his arms around Len and gets him into an embrace and runs his hands underneath his shirt, starts kissing along the tendons of his neck.
Len tangles a hand in Barry’s hair and Barry moans into his skin, which has Len’s breath stuttering. Barry smiles against him, and Len pulls them off the wall and starts walking him backward toward the bedroom.
“Seriously, why are you so quiet?” Barry complains once his calves bank against the edge of the bed. In lieu of responding Len opts to shove him, seating Barry on the bed.
Barry reaches for Len’s belt loops again which makes Len laugh — another reason why Barry’s glad they’ve gotten to this point, he’d never seen Len laugh so much in all the years he’s known him — and Len bats his hands away. Len’s got a funny look on his face and he reaches forward again, grazes his knuckle along the line of Barry’s jaw to tip his face up again.
Barry beams.
Tracing the shell of Barry’s ear, Len asks, “There something you want me to talk about?”
“Not particularly.” Barry catches Len’s hand, brings it to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Turns over Len’s hand and kisses his palm, and he can feel the way Len’s fingers twitch. Gentleness always makes Len a little hesitant, a little antsy. Usually Barry’s a little too impatient to delve too much into the soft and slow on his own, but he likes to carve out little moments of dawdling affection. “Usually I’m not the one picking subjects,” he murmurs into the thin skin of Len’s wrist as he kisses a path up his arm.
Len straddles Barry’s legs, knees pressing against Barry’s ribs. He grabs Barry by the shoulders and pulls him so he’s sitting up straight, and then he’s got a hand in Barry’s hair again and Barry could die right then and be happy.
“Maybe I’m taking requests tonight,” Len says, pulling on Barry’s hair to get him to lay down.
Barry follows Len’s lead, but makes him work for it. He’s always liked that tugging feeling, and Len is really good at giving it to him.
“Oh really?”
“Mmhmm. Say the word, I can be Scheherazade.” He lets go of Barry’s hair and scratches a path down Barry’s neck, drawing down Barry’s sternum. “What story would you like?”
Len splays his fingers against Barry’s ribcage, making him giggle, before going underneath Barry’s shirt and pulling up. Barry raises his arms to help get it off.
“Scheherazade? Why have I heard of that?”
Len chides him. “Barry, Barry, Barry, we’ve got to get you some culture.” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, and yet the sound makes something hot coil in Barry’s gut. Len’s got to feel Barry’s hardening length from where he’s straddling him. When Barry catches his eyes, his pupils are bright and blown, and Barry gasps at the sight.
Barry pulls up at that, placing his hands on Len’s waist and pressing underneath his shirt. He tips his face up to kiss Len’s jaw, noses at Len’s temple.
“Tell me.”
With a bit more reluctance than Barry had — Len’s always more reluctant in this — Len pulls off his shirt and tosses it behind him. Barry doesn’t let him bask in any sort of shame long, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him down. Barry’s on his back once again, and this this time Len on all fours caging Barry in, and there’s nowhere to look each other but in the face.
Len’s eyes are a crescent moon in winter, the sliver of his irises eclipsed by his pupils glow that icy blue halo and Barry can’t stop himself from staring. Len’s lips are quirked up in a small little smile, and he’s devious. Barry can see him thinking, his gaze flittering all about Barry, formulating a plan.
Part of Barry wants to kiss the expression gone, but he’s seen this face before in bed, and it’s always been worth the wait.
“One Thousand and One Arabian Nights,” Len says slowly, and oh. Oh, is Barry in for it tonight.
His heart’s stuttering in his chest and his brain’s on a tether to Len’s mouth. He remembers the story now, but he’s not going to say anything, because he can see Len’s going to tell him. And he wants to hear Len tell him.
Barry skates his hands down Len’s shoulder blades, feeling the salt of his skin, scraping his nails softly against the divot of his spine. Len shivers, and his voice is tremulous as he begins the story.
“The ruler, the Sasanian King, discovers his brother’s wife is unfaithful.” Len reaches behind him and grabs at one of Barry’s wrists, pulling it up and over, pinning it above Barry’s head on the bed. “He gets suspicious.” He grabs the other and fuck, god, fuck, Len pulls it off of him and places it over the other, catching both wrists in one hand. With his free hand he grabs Barry’s chin, runs his thumb over his bottom lip. “He learns his own wife is no better. She’s having her own colorful series of affairs. Sentences her to death. Decapitation.”
Only Len can tell a story about beheading and somehow make Barry feel a fluttery feeling in his heart. And it wouldn’t be Len if this wasn’t the point where he decides to lean down to kiss Barry, so unbelievably soft, on the mouth.
At the same time, he begins to grind slow against Barry’s crotch, and Barry’s damned because he should have made sure they got rid of their pants before they started this but now he’s pinned and stuck and going to die from friction alone.
The devil’s smile stretches across Len’s mouth and Barry could kill him. Len knew. Len already had the thought considered and filed away, and Barry groans just at the expression on his face. There’s no changing the trajectory now, so instead Barry tries to move with him, grinding his hips up into Len’s every drag of his pelvis. He’s half-successful.
“The King decides that all women are the same. As punishment, he begins to marry a succession of virgins, only to sentence them to execution shortly after. To be his queen is to be damned.”
Len leans down to kiss behind Barry’s ear, and Barry’s going to shiver out of his skin at this rate.
“That’s nice,” Barry chokes out because he knows Len will bite at the intrusion. He does, a light pinch of his teeth at the base of his neck, and it makes Barry’s toes curl. Len looks at him, gaze sharp as those teeth that nipped him, and Barry laughs.
“Finally, he gets to Scheherazade.” Len grinds down particularly rough at that one, the line of his zipper running torturously up Barry’s length, and Barry wheezes. “And she was as beautiful as she was clever.”
The way Len’s looking at him, the way Len reaches for him, Barry can’t help but think that Len’s going for a double meaning here. He swallows, and his face feels so warm and Len’s becoming blurry with the tears in his eyes.
Despite the rough grinding racking up Barry’s breathing, the rest of Len’s movements are gentle. It’s hard to keep track. The deliberate slowness of Len’s hips, the desperate and burning feeling in Barry’s thighs, paired with the way Len’s free hand reverently cups Barry’s face. His fingers smooth underneath Barry’s eyes, trace down his nose, draw along the line of his lips. Barry’s face tingles, and Barry smiles, because Len’s looking at him criminally fondly.
He’d say something, but Barry doesn’t want to interrupt again. That, and his breaths are starting to get quick — he’s not sure he could speak anyway.
Len squeezes at Barry’s wrists, an okay?, and Barry nods even though he has to tuck his face into his arm to quiet down the sound of his own breathing. Len’s free hand takes the invitation to Barry’s jaw, travels down his neck and lets his palm rest there.
“She staved off her execution by telling her new husband stories.” His grinding is getting faster, and Barry’s shaking like a candle flickers, can’t even keep his hips up to grind anymore. At the same time he can feel the pressure of Len’s hand against the tendons of his neck, and Barry can’t stop himself from whimpering.
“She’d get him enraptured by the tale,” he says, moving the hand from Barry’s throat down his chest, to his nipple. Len strums it with the pad of his thumb, and Barry shouts, clenching his eyes tight.
“But.” Len strums his nipple once more before moving his hand away from his chest entirely. “She never finished the story at the end of the night.”
Then he slows his grinding down again and Barry’s cock is so hard, and he’s going to die, he’s going to die. He’s vaguely aware of the way he’s groaning, the way he’s writhing underneath the pin of Len’s legs, but there’s nothing he can do but just take the teasing.
Barry hears a quiet little coo of sympathy, but it’s not enough to get Len to continue touching him. Barry finally gets in control enough to open his eyes and glare at Len, who is grinning like Cheshire.
“Cliffhanger after cliffhanger.” He grinds down on each word, and Barry’s going to vibrate any second. His thighs are already trembling. “Night after night.” Len puts more weight on Barry’s wrists, and his other hand is moving and Barry’s heart skips a beat. “The King was so compelled by her stories he couldn’t bring himself to end her life before he heard the story end.”
At that, Len circles Barry’s other nipple and Barry yells, his hips jerking upward, and then he’s vibrating but he’s not able to let go and just find release, not yet, and he knows Len knows it, and it just makes him more out of control.
There’s a brief moment where Barry worries Len is going to do the same to him; get him all riled up and then leave him cold. It would be his wont, but looking into Len’s eyes, he doesn’t think this tale will have such a cruel end.
“Fuck.” Barry’s breath is punched out of him, and he knows he must look absolutely out of his mind. He presses against the grip Len has on his wrists and Len immediately lets go.
“Okay?” he mouths and Barry nods, but reaches up and starts grabbing at Len, urging him closer. He never should have let go of the belt loops, should have kept Len close this whole time because he needs him, and Len lunges down in response.
He kisses along Barry’s collarbones and runs his hands along Barry’s body, and Barry loops his arms around Len’s back.
“Keep going,” Barry murmurs. He wants to hear the end of the story. Wants to hear Len tell the end of the story.
Laughing, Len asks, “You sure?”
Barry closes his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. Fuck, Len.”
Len smooths his hand down Barry’s stomach, mapping his abdomen before laying his palm heavy just above his waistband. Barry’s attention beelines to the feeling of Len’s hand so close to where he wants him, but it’s also solid and stable so Barry can keep track and try to slow down.
“She makes it to one thousand nights, but she’s on her final story. Scheherazade believes this is it, her last night alive. She scrambles, tries to think of another tale with a cliffhanger she can adorn. But she doesn’t have one. She has to accept that her story is about to end.”
At this, Len’s hand dips underneath the waistband of Barry’s pants. At the barest touch to him, Barry’s hips shoot off the bed, bucking Len up and he lets out a startled noise.
“Sorry, sorry,” Barry says, but his voice is so high pitched and quiet he’s not sure if Len’s heard him. He must have, though, because a hand trails through his hair.
“When the King prompts her, however, she admits she has no more stories to tell.”
Len kisses his collarbone as though that will calm him at all. He takes his hand from Barry’s hair and instead wraps around Barry’s back, holding him close.
“Scheherazade awaits the king’s calling for her execution. And this is where the legend sometimes splits off.” Then he curls his hand around Barry’s length. “Some legends find that she’s had another lover, and the King still executes them both.”
At that, Len’s hand twists and tightens, and Barry’s grip on Len becomes that of steel, clenching his jaw tight.
“But most of the legends find that Scheherazade proves herself.”
Len starts to slowly pump him, and Barry moans. His vibrating begins yet again, a thrumming under his skin, and his body feels electrified by every point his and Len’s body makes contact.
“Len.”
“And more, the King has fallen in love with her,” Len whispers, and the tone of his voice is aloft and dreamy, and Barry can’t stop himself from — he’s so fucking close, and Len’s just — he’s not teasing but he’s not finishing and—
“Len, I —“
“He decides to spare Scheherazade, and instead keep her as his queen.”
He curls his hand tighter, and Barry’s hips stutter against the feeling, and he swears he’s going to scream but no sound comes out.
“C’mon Barry, you’re good, you’re so good.”
And just like that, Barry can’t hold back anymore. He scrabbles at Len’s back as he completely comes apart in Len’s hold, and his breathing is rocous and desperate. Then he’s pulling at Len’s shoulders, bringing his hands to cup his face because he needs Len to kiss him, even though he’s still shaking, maybe even still a little blurry, he needs.
“Len, shit, I —“
Len keeps pulling him through the aftershocks, but he kisses him, too. His tongue dangerous in the way it curls against Barry’s, and Barry arches against him, because he will never not need Len closer.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Len says against his lips, and Barry can’t imagine how the hell that’s possible right now.
“Me?” Len’s all composure and strong angular features and full lips that Barry wants to kiss. Meanwhile, he’s a frayed wire, sweating and crying and disastrous, but he reaches forward to kiss Len anyway. Len ducks, and he ends up kissing Len’s shoulder. Not that he minds, he just wants his mouth on him. “I mean, you — God, what was that?”
“You wanted me to talk,” he says nonchalantly, like Barry could have ever imagined that would be the outcome.
“Do you got a middle name I don’t know about?” Barry gasps into his collarbone, laughing breathlessly as Len collapses on the bed next to him.
Barry’s convinced that Len was this woman in another life. Barry can’t believe that just happened, that he came from Len telling him a legend.
Len chuckles and reaches behind him to grab a tissue, wiping off his hand he had in Barry’s pants. Then he reaches back again and grabs another, handing it to Barry, who promptly takes it to clean himself off a little. It won’t get it all, but he’s not leaving this bed until he absolutely has to.
“Glad you wouldn’t behead me either, in similar circumstances.”
Barry belts out a shout of a laugh. “At least not for the first night.”
Len snorts. Places his hand on Barry’s heaving chest and rubs his thumb against Barry’s sternum.
Barry brings an arm over his eyes as he tries to get a bearing on the world once again. “I mean, holy shit, Len. I’ve never… That was…” After a few breaths, he stirs. “And you? Wait, you…”
Barry’s a bit too out of it to be completely coherent, but he reaches for the waistband of Len’s pants and Len scoffs, grabs his hand and pins it to the bed again.
“I’m plenty satisfied, Scarlet.”
“I’m more than happy to —“
“Another time.”
Barry removes the arm over his eyes to look at Len, and he sees Len’s big smile on his face. His true smile. No Captain Cold villainy, not mocking nor snide. He’s looking Barry up and down, looking pleased with his handiwork.
“I guess I got a little wound up.”
Len hums.
Barry blushes under the weight of his gaze, but challenges Len anyway, raising an eyebrow. “Proud of yourself?”
“I try to be humble,” Len starts, and Barry rolls his eyes. “But this was quite the achievement, I’ll say.” Len traces a path from Barry’s sternum down to his navel and Barry shivers again.
“Yeah, no kidding. Think you can keep it up for a thousand and one nights?”
“Looking to be spoiled, your highness?” Len asks as he flicks Barry’s temple.
Barry pulls himself up onto his side and looks over Len, feeling warm in his gut all over again. He reaches out and slides his hand up Len’s bicep to his shoulder, bringing them closer together.
“Just encouraging you to use your talents.” He leans in and kisses Len soft on the mouth, and he can feel the rumble of Len’s amusement in the kiss. Barry doesn’t even know how to begin to describe how impressed he is, or how to even describe why. He just knows that that was amazing. He breaks apart and says, “You’re really very good.”
“At sex or talking?”
“There’s that modesty you were talking about,” Barry teases, and Len responds with a halfhearted shrug and no shame. Barry laughs. “We’ll call it both.”
Barry slumps against the bed onto Len’s pillow this time, pulling Len down with him. Usually Len wouldn’t go so willingly, but high off his success, he’s easy to maneuver Barry guesses. “Though if we do this again, next time, we’re not wearing pants.”
Len waggles his eyebrows, far too amused by Barry’s plight, but Barry’s serious. “That can be arranged.”
“Perfect.” Barry curls into Len’s side, and Len slings his arm lazily along Barry’s side. His hand is possessive once again on Barry’s back, and Barry burrows into him further, nuzzling into his chest. “That was — you’re just — you’re perfect.”
“It helps that you’re easy to please.”
Barry shakes his head at that, and hums a happy sound when Len’s hand makes its way back into his hair.
“One thousand and one nights, huh?” Len asks softly, and Barry knows he’s still sarcastic, still teasing, but there’s also this undercurrent to his voice that makes Barry’s breath catch… “I’m sure I can think of something.”