“Negotiate terms? What does that even mean?”
Barry saw Len raise an eyebrow as he turned to gather up an armful of blueprints, and he made the conscious effort to lower his voice. As far as Barry was aware, there was no chance of them being overheard; he’d swept the old, burned-out factory that he’d found Len in, and it was empty. Still, he doubted shouting was going to get him anywhere.
“Snart,” he tried again, pushing a bit of a plea into his voice. He’d known Len long enough to know that he was usually willing to hear him out if he thought there might be something in it for him.
It worked, and Barry had to push down a triumphant smirk when Len paused, then slid the blueprints into a waiting filing cabinet. Len still didn’t meet his gaze, but the slight turn of his chest towards him as he opened another drawer was sign enough that Barry had his attention.
“You know why I’m here,” Barry said. “You can’t just say you’re negotiating terms with the Romanellos in an hour and expect me to be okay with that.”
Len rolled his eyes, and he shifted his gaze to Barry at last. He looked, despite the bravado, a little rough around the edges. He seemed to have gone a couple days without shaving, and the faint shadows under his eyes suggested sleep had been hard to come by.
“As flattered as I am that you care,” Len said, his tone suggesting otherwise, “I don’t need your help.” He flicked his fingers dismissively and turned his back on Barry again. “Now, run along. The grown-ups need to talk.”
“Talk?” Barry gaped at him. “They threw a bloody parka down in front of City Hall, Snart! I thought—”
Len cut him off with a scornful glance.
Barry lifted a hand to his mouth, fingers curling into a loose fist as he willed himself not to lose his patience. “They’re threatening you.”
“Excellent police work, Barry. CCPD’ll make a detective of you yet.”
“This isn’t a joke!” Barry snapped, stalking forward. “These people want you dead, and you’re going to talk to them? I thought you were smarter than that.”
Len’s fingers twitched as if to curl into a fist, but he seemed to catch the gesture, and he flattened his hand over the workbench in front of him instead. “Our deal,” he said, dropping the Captain Cold drawl so abruptly that the hair on the back of Barry’s neck stood on end, “limits my options in this situation.” His gaze flicked up, and he pinned Barry to the spot with the simmering violence in his eyes. “So, yes. I’m gonna talk to them.”
Barry bristled. “And if that doesn’t work?” he asked. “The Romanellos are dangerous, Snart. I’ve seen their records. These guys make the Santinis look like a high school clique.”
The cold gun made a nasty scraping noise as Len pulled it off the workbench. He didn’t aim it at him, though, only slid it into its holster on his thigh. Then he turned and gave a pointed look at Barry’s chest. “Which is why they’ll run, first sign of”—he flicked a dismissive hand towards his suit—”that.”
Barry crossed his arms over the lightning bolt insignia. Then, realizing how defensive the gesture was, he straightened up and shifted his hands to his hips.
“I don’t need to be in the suit,” he said. “But I am gonna be in that room, one way or another.”
Len tilted him an unkind smirk. “So you finally learned not to trust me,” he said. “Detective West must be proud.”
The blow glanced off, though Barry had to resist crossing his arms again. Joe didn’t, strictly speaking, know he was there. He definitely didn’t know that Len was getting ready to “negotiate terms” with the largest crime family to move into Central City since the thirties. Barry may not have told anyone on his team where he was going, actually; he’d seen the blood-stained parka at the crime scene, made his stumbling excuses to Captain Singh, and run.
“Sorry, Barry,” Len said, taking advantage of his guilty silence. He started to shrug out of the parka. “Afraid I’ll be handling this one on my own.”
The words took a moment to make their way into Barry’s brain; he was abruptly distracted by the feline grace of Len’s movements as he pulled the coat off and tossed it among the debris of broken tools and rusted padlocks that had evidently been collecting on the tool bench for some time. The dark, long-sleeved shirt Len wore beneath it showed off lean, dangerous arms and strong shoulders. The material was thin, made for movement, and left no shift of muscles to the imagination.
Barry caught himself staring and pulled his gaze away. He started reaching up to run a hand through his hair, then remembered he had his cowl up and dropped his hand, fingers flexing in the beginnings of frustration. “That’s not an option.”
Len pried an old padlock free from the metal workbench and turned it over in his hand. He sifted through the discarded bits of tools with idle fingertips as he spoke. “Good thing I didn’t ask your opinion.”
“Snart.” Barry knew he was slipping into what Cisco called his “big damn hero” voice. It was the wrong approach to take with Len, always was, but he couldn’t help himself. Len wasn’t like him; underneath the brash and bravado, he was human. And no amount of sarcasm was going to make him bulletproof.
Len, true to form, ignored him. He tipped the padlock in his hands up towards the dim light and peered at the locking mechanism, his long fingers curved around the rough hunk of metal with the same delicate attention he gave to Draycon keypads.
Barry could feel his frustration tipping into anger, and he willed himself back under control. Len was winding him up on purpose, and he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it was working.
“This?” Barry said. “Your attitude? Is why I can’t let you walk in there alone. If the Romanellos decide you’re more trouble to them alive—”
Len’s eyes flashed, and Barry found himself staring down the barrel of the cold gun before he could blink. He took an involuntary step back.
The core powered up with a familiar whine, its bright blue light flickering into life as Len settled one finger on the trigger.
In his ears, Barry’s coms were silent. Backup was a long way away.
“If you’ve forgotten that my bite is worse than my bark,” Len said. “I’d be happy to remind you.”
Barry couldn’t help the icy crawl of fear up his throat at being so close to the gun’s muzzle. Len’s gaze on the other end of the barrel was flat and hostile, his eyes gone electric blue in the reflected glow.
The body count of those steady hands came unbidden to Barry’s mind. He knew that Len hadn’t gotten to the top of Central’s criminal underworld by playing nice; his record spoke for itself. His climb had been blood-stained and brutal, even if he had agreed to reel in the outright violence in recent years for the benefit of their arrangement.
Another part of Barry’s mind, the part that’d had him dreaming about those blood-stained hands in a very different context since the first time they’d met, sent a shiver of heat up his spine. He slammed a lid down on the feeling, hard and reflexive.
He forced himself to put his hands up, palms out in a placating gesture. “Look,” he said. “There’s got to be a way we can do this. We’ve worked together before.”
He remembered a moment too late that the last time they’d worked together, Len had killed his own father in cold blood and let himself be dragged to Iron Heights for it.
Len’s wry glance told him that the irony hadn’t been lost on him, though he didn’t voice whatever comment he obviously had ready on his tongue. Len had, after all, served a full six months of his sentence before he’d broken out; all things considered, he probably thought he’d repaid his debt to society and then some.
Len studied him for another moment, head cocked, then rested the gun back against his shoulder. “Power is about optics,” he said. “Your little Flash get-up isn’t gonna open any doors for us.”
“I told you,” Barry said, relieved to have the cold gun pointed somewhere other than him. “I don’t have to wear the suit.”
Len flicked him a scathing look. “You wanna strip down to your mask, drape yourself all over my chair?” He swung the cold gun down and fitted it back into its holster with a click. “Be my guest.”
Barry had spent more time than he cared to admit trying not to think about sitting in Leonard Snart’s lap, and he nearly blushed at the suggestion. There was a voice in his head—one that sounded suspiciously like Iris—telling him that the situation was slipping out of his control, and that he should run while he still had the chance.
Instead, he propped his hip against the filing cabinet and crossed his arms. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Len didn’t bother meeting his gaze as he pulled a leather jacket off the edge of a nearby shelving unit and shrugged it over his shoulders. His stance changed with the new outfit; the exaggerated swagger disappeared, replaced with precise, controlled movements—a snake, coiled to strike.
“Much as I would enjoy that, Barry…” Len swept his gaze over him with a smirk before turning away. “Meeting starts in an hour. I don’t plan on being late.”
At the sound of Barry pulling off his gloves, Len paused, then turned slowly back around.
Barry tossed the gloves to join the parka on top of the workbench. “If it gets me in the room?” he said. “Count me in.”
For a brief moment, Len closed his eyes—annoyed, Barry was sure, given the tense set of his shoulders.
When he reached up to unzip the cowl from the top of his suit, Len’s annoyed gaze cut away from him, then back.
“Look, it makes sense, alright?” he said. “I get to sit in on negotiations, you gain a bargaining chip. If the Romanellos think you have the Flash on payroll, they might reconsider moving against the Rogues.”
“Payroll ain’t exactly what you’re suggesting.”
Barry felt a blush threaten, and forced himself to focus. If he got caught up in the details, he’d never be able to go through with it. “You want to keep your people safe. This is how we do it.”
He had Len’s full attention. “And when word gets around?”
“I deny it,” Barry said. “You will too, of course. If you want our agreement to stand.”
When Len didn’t answer, Barry unzipped the front of the suit’s chest piece. The sound echoed in the cavernous room.
After a long moment, Len said, “Gonna need a signal. If you need to tap out.”
The statement took Barry aback. The only thing he could think of worse than him allowing Len to negotiate in a closed-door meeting with the Romanellos, was for him to wrestle his way in and then leave halfway through. He ran around the city in a skintight tripolymer every day; it was a little late to start getting modest.
But Len’s expression was serious, and he cut him off when he began to say as much. “You want to do this?” he said. “My terms.”
“I don’t need a safeword, Snart,” Barry snapped. “We’re not actually...”
Len let him flounder, and he raised an eyebrow when Barry gave up and gestured vaguely instead.
“Didn’t say safeword,” he said. “Said signal. You wanna play mob wife, fine. Means you keep your mouth shut. Which is why,”—he leveled Barry a glare, daring him to challenge him—“we’re setting ground rules now.”
Barry rolled his eyes. “Look. This is your world, not mine. Just… do whatever you need to do to sell it. I’ll be fine.”
Len crossed his arms.
Barry dragged an annoyed hand down his face, then held out his hand, palm up. When Len’s hands remained tucked under his arms, Barry tipped his head back in frustration. “This was your idea,” he reminded him.
A muscle ticked in Len’s jaw as his gaze settled on the far wall, but after a moment, he unfolded his arms and held out a hand.
Barry reached out, watching Len’s face carefully for any sign of imminent bodily harm. When he saw none, he turned Len’s hand over with careful fingers so his palm was facing down.
A muscle jumped in Len’s jaw, but he didn’t pull away.
Barry tried not to think too much about the novel feeling of Len’s hand in his but it was hard not to. In the years Barry had known him, he’d never seen Snart let another person touch his hands. It wasn’t hard to guess the reason; they were his livelihood, after all. But he seemed protective of them even beyond that, and it felt like more trust than Len had ever shown him that he was letting him touch them now.
Barry broadcasted his movements as he shimmered the speed force into his right hand, then caught a spark of lightning between his fingers. When Barry tried to touch the spark to Len’s palm, Len retracted his hand an inch, his fingers curling protectively.
“It won’t hurt.”
When Len didn’t open his hand, Barry tipped his head to try to catch his eye.
“You said I needed a signal?” he said. “You can’t miss this.”
After a long pause, Len uncurled his fingers.
Barry palmed the spark, then slid his hand over Len’s. The speed force wouldn’t hurt him, not in this form, but Barry knew how alien it felt to non-speedsters. His friends had described it in turns as sharp, as warm, as alive.
Len didn’t pull his hand back, but it was a near thing.
“It’s a trick I picked up from Kid Flash,” Barry explained. “The energy, you feel it, right?”
Len inclined his head, gaze focused sharply on where their hands met.
“I do that, you back off,” Barry said. “Does that work?”
Len nodded again, then pulled his hand back and turned away. “Forty-seven minutes until our guests arrive,” he said. “I need to get ready. And unless you change your mind…” He gave Barry’s suit another slow once-over, then smirked. “So do you.”
His confidence in the plan had waned to almost nothing by the time he found himself waiting around the corner from the large open room Len had prepared for the meeting. The Romanellos had already arrived; he’d dodged them easily as they swept the place for traps, and now they were getting settled in the meeting room.
The alcove he was in looked like it had been half-furnished in some misguided attempt at converting the factory to loft apartments. Len had made a smirking comment about a boudoir, and indeed the room had an area rug, an empty wardrobe and full length mirror, plus a bare metal frame where a bed had once been.
Barry glanced sideways in the mirror again, and pulled, embarrassed, at the edge of his underwear. Cisco had designed the shorts for use under the Flash suit, which Barry had stashed at the back of the empty wardrobe. He’d never given them much thought before, but now that he was confronted with them in the mirror, they seemed unnecessarily short. And tight. And red. God, was his whole suit that red?
He stepped onto the concrete floor, moving toward the wardrobe to check, and backpedaled with a hiss. The floor was so cold it almost burned; clearly, no labors had been taken to insulate it from the frozen ground beneath. He glanced around for some solution, and his gaze caught on his boots. It wasn’t what they’d agreed on, and he would probably look ridiculous, but their plan left a lot of room for improvisation.
Barry suspected Len would disagree with that assessment, but Len wasn’t the one barefoot.
So Barry crossed the small rug and tugged the boots back on, trying to ignore the oddity of not having his tripolymer on underneath them.
It was just another costume, he reminded himself. He still remembered the nerves he’d felt, standing in front of his friends and family in the first iteration of the Flash suit. The suit meant something; it told people who he was and what he was there to do. In a way, the outfit he and Len had agreed on was the same thing: just another disguise, just another role to play. The only thing different was the message he was trying to send.
Barry glanced at the mirror again, and tugged fruitlessly at the edge of his shorts. The amount of skin he was showing was different, too.
He was about to turn away, steeling his spine, when a splash of white in the background of the reflection caught his eye. A second glance, and he recognized it for what it was: the fur trim of Len’s parka. When he turned, he saw the jacket hanging—rather accusingly, he thought—off the side of a metal shelving unit just beside the door. He hadn’t noticed Len leave it behind.
Barry flashed across the room to pick it up before he could think too much about the implications. The last remnants of warmth were still clinging to it, along with the scent, surprisingly strong and unsurprisingly expensive, of cologne. He glanced around, then gave in to the urge to lift the collar to his nose for a second whiff.
He’d caught the scent on Len before. Once, when Barry had pressed him hard against Joe’s fireplace, the night Len had come to warn him about the Trickster’s ambush. Other times, when they were tangled heart-stoppingly close as they scuffled over the cold gun. To Barry’s continued frustration, Len usually managed to win those fights; a carefully placed touch to his side or neck was usually enough to startle him into releasing his grip. Len always grinned at him afterwards, sharp and wicked, like he knew perfectly well why the tactic kept working.
Barry forced the memories aside and pulled the parka on. It was heavier than he’d thought, but it was warm, and the scent of Len’s cologne was a welcome anchor in the present.
Then Barry glanced at the mirror again and lost his nerve. He couldn’t remember why anything about the plan had seemed like a good idea when he’d agreed to it. He looked—well, he looked like what Len had said he would. The parka was a size too large on him and kept slipping to one side, revealing a bare shoulder down to his collarbone. With only his mask and underwear on, the result looked like a strip-tease in progress. The knee-high boots only added to the effect.
Barry clawed the jacket back up onto his shoulder and turned away from the mirror, pulling the parka shut with one hand.
He was considering fleeing when he heard Len’s voice float in from the other room and remembered why he had agreed to all of it. He couldn’t leave Len alone without backup, not when he’d promised to help. Staying could get the Romanellos out of Central by the end of the night, if they played their cards right. The outfit was just one of their cards.
Barry took a deep breath. It was a role, nothing else. He inched towards the door to listen.
Down the hall, a gruff voice demanded, “Where’s Rory?”
“Business trip,” Len said, glib as ever. “Hope you boys don’t mind, I brought a different plus-one.”
Barry felt one last wild impulse to run. Instead, he held the jacket tight over his shoulders and sped into the room.
He heard guns draw as he came to a stop beside Len’s chair, and he had to force himself not to look around the room. Len had told him to keep his eyes on him, whatever happened, and Barry was grateful for the advice now.
Len, on the other hand, took his time dragging his gaze over to him. He seemed to be enjoying the momentary chaos they’d created in the room.
The first person to speak had a rough smoker’s voice, thick with an East Coast accent. “The Flash wasn’t supposed to be part of this.”
“Don’t worry, I know the terms,” Len said. “Flash isn’t here to negotiate.”
“Can Flash speak for himself?”
“When I say he can.” Len tilted his head, his tone perfectly even. Then, finally, he looked at Barry. “Drop the coat.”
The command hit Barry low in his stomach. Just a role, he reminded himself.
The sound of the parka sliding to the floor seemed loud in the quiet room. Barry could feel everyone’s eyes on him. He forced himself to keep his spine straight and his shoulders back, despite the chill in the room and how badly he wanted to cross his arms over his chest or in front of his groin. He didn’t look at the others, gaze still locked on Len.
It was the only reason he caught the way Len stilled, attention arrested just for a moment. Len’s gaze stripped him bare, long and lingering as he looked up from the parka on the ground, his gaze moving up his legs so slowly that he could’ve been counting his freckles. It was a heated look, heavy as a touch. When Barry met Len’s gaze, the unmistakable darkening of his eyes behind his carefully bored expression kindled an answering interest to life in Barry’s veins.
Then he remembered where they were, and he felt his cheeks flame. He scrambled to get himself under control; if he got any more— interested—it was going to be impossible to conceal in his current state.
Len swept his gaze back to the men around the table and gestured Barry closer with a lazy curl of his finger.
Barry stole a sweeping glance of the room at super-speed before he moved. Other than Len, there were half a dozen men seated around a scarred oak table, the family resemblance between them clear. Barry recognized two of the men from CCPD files. The first was Riccardo Romanello, a grizzled statue of a man in his late sixties who was wearing a three-piece suit. The other was Vito Romanello, his youngest son: somewhere in his thirties, with dark hair and dark eyes that Barry would’ve called handsome if he didn’t know the extent of the man’s rap sheet.
The chairs around the table were mismatched, and Barry noted with amusement that Len had claimed the most impressive one for himself. It was a massive chair at the head of the table, with ornately carved arms and a towering back. It had probably been a dining chair at one point, but compared to the other seats in the room, it was practically a throne. Len looked pleased with himself, sprawled decadently across it with his thighs spread, and Barry thought, with a trace of hysteria, that at least he had chosen one with room for him to sit in his lap.
When he hesitated a moment too long, Len curled a possessive arm around his middle and tugged him toward him.
Barry couldn’t contain a flinch at the sudden feeling of Len’s hand, solid and abruptly real, resting flat against the bare skin of his stomach.
Len fanned his fingers in warning, and Barry forced himself to relax even as his pulse tripped out of control in his chest. He settled sideways in Len’s lap, where the rough denim of Len’s jeans against the backs of his thighs brought a fresh blush to his cheeks. When he leaned back to rest against Len’s chest, the zipper of Len’s leather jacket pressed in a cool line down the length of his spine.
Len stroked the back of his knuckles over his side in a lazily pleased gesture.
A reward, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
Riccardo Romanello broke the silence again. “So you’ve got the hero of Central City in your pocket. Is that supposed to impress me?”
“Couldn’t care less if it did,” Len said. The flat drawl of his Captain Cold voice was back in full effect. “Just thought I’d help you keep track of all the…” Len cocked his head to look at Barry as he considered his words, then stroked his thumb absently over Barry’s bottom lip. “...key players.”
Len ticked his gaze back to the others, mercifully missing the way Barry turned a shade darker even as he moved his hand away.
“Well. I suppose when you move to a new city,” Riccardo said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers on the table in front of him, “it always pays to get to know the locals.”
The offer of a bribe was so transparent that Barry was almost insulted.
His disbelief must’ve shown on his face. There were nervous murmurs moving through the room, and Barry was mollified to find himself on the receiving end of some wary glances, even dressed how he was.
He opened his mouth to speak, and Len placed a hand on his bare thigh, just above the knee. Right. What had he said? “Flash isn’t here to negotiate.”
Barry pulled his gaze away from the table, and looked off at the far side of the room, trying to keep his expression neutral. His job was to bat his eyelashes and look bored. The first part he could do; the second was easier said than done. It had been years since anyone had touched Barry the way Len was touching him now. His schedule hardly lent itself to casual relationships, and the circle of people who knew about his powers was small—despite what some members of his team might say—and increasingly coupled off.
Then Len curved his other hand over his hip, his thumb settling just above his waistband as his other fingers found purchase on the jut of his hip bone, and Barry had to shut his eyes and will himself not to react.
If he were being honest with himself, no one had touched him the way Len was now: slow, appreciative, brazenly possessive. Len’s cool reserve made him feel like a kept thing, like a prized object that Len was enjoying putting on display. Barry still tripped over his own two feet and ran into door frames when he got flustered; Len’s covetous touches were disorienting and distracting.
And Barry was distracted. He wanted to be involved with the meeting; sitting still was further out of his comfort zone than his revealing outfit. But he trusted Len, despite Len’s best efforts. And the ploy seemed to be working already: a quick glance at the Romanellos found them in various states of anger and distraction. Barry nearly grinned.
When Len gave his thigh an appreciative squeeze, Barry flexed the muscle under his hand, and gave him his best estimation of a coy look as he dropped his head back against his shoulder and tipped his face up to glance sideways at him.
Len didn’t acknowledge the look, busy drawling a response to some question Barry had missed, but he swept his thumb in a lazy arc on Barry’s inner thigh in an unmistakably pleased gesture.
The praise sent a small thrill up Barry’s spine, and he let himself enjoy the feeling for a moment. Len thought they were pulling it off. He might've even thought Barry was doing well.
Then Len’s hand drifted higher on his thigh, and the confidence dropped out of the bottom of Barry’s stomach.
He was hyper-aware of the feeling of Len’s sleeve where it brushed his leg, of the callous on the base of Len’s thumb where he was tracing slow circles up his inner thigh. His muscles jumped under the touch, and he risked a glance down. The sight of Len’s hand on him sent a kick of heat to his groin, and he looked desperately away towards the far wall of the room as he scrambled for composure.
When he felt Len press the toe of one of his boots to the inner arch of his foot, nudging him to spread his legs, Barry dug in his heels. He knew he was sitting stiffly, but there was a reason for it, and keeping his thighs pressed tightly together was his only chance at holding onto even a shred of his dignity.
His boots were designed to be low-friction, though, and they slid apart easily when Len nudged them again.
Barry felt glances from around the room follow the movement, and he was grateful for his mask to hide the blush that he knew must be ravaging his cheeks. His body apparently hadn’t gotten the message that they were supposed to be acting, and he knew the evidence of that was on full display. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears; the conversation was going on without him, but he was almost dizzy with want, and it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking.
Len let go of his hip to cover one of Barry’s hands with his own, and Barry’s heart leapt into his throat at the thought that he’d somehow said the last thought out loud. But Len only lifted his hand and moved it to rest on one arm of the chair. Distractingly, he left his hand on top of his, the weight of it a not-unpleasant anchor for Barry’s spinning thoughts.
Then Len brushed a touch over Barry’s bottom lip, and Barry realized that Len was pressing their fingertips together with his other hand. A question.
Barry curled his fingers over the arm of the chair by way of an answer. They needed to keep going; the plan was working, better than he’d thought it would. Even if he was getting embarrassingly turned on, Len was doing all the actual negotiating; it was the least Barry could do just to stick it out.
When Len moved his hand away to stroke a confirmation against Barry’s neck with the backs of his knuckles, Barry had to dig his nails into the arm of the chair to keep from dragging Len’s hands where he really wanted them.
Len swept his thumb over his bottom lip, pulling his attention back up. It was an echo of his earlier touch, but there was an intention behind it that hadn’t been there earlier.
Barry paused, then parted his lips and dragged the tip of his tongue over the pad of Len’s finger. He couldn’t even pretend to be listening to what the Romanellos were saying, though Len seemed to be following just fine.
Len ghosted his thumb away again, but before Barry could miss it, he replaced it with his first and second fingers.
Barry hesitated. He knew that if he stayed still, Len would move his hand on without drawing attention to it and find somewhere that Barry was obviously more comfortable with it being. But it wasn’t that Barry was uncomfortable with the idea of putting Len’s fingers in his mouth; in fact, the thought was so far off-base that he had to swallow the nervous laughter that threatened. The issue was… well. The issue was.
He wasn’t sure how much experience to give away.
Len flirted with him, sure; it had been one of the few constants in Barry’s life since becoming the Flash. But Barry had seen Len turn the same charm on everyone: a well-crafted suggestive comment here, a flash of bedroom eyes there. It was obvious that Len knew what he looked like, and he enjoyed toying with people. And, usually, Barry didn’t mind. He’d even let himself be flattered sometimes. But the comments had always been prodding, another of Len’s tests as he sought out a reaction that Barry had always refused to give him. Barry wasn’t sure if he could bear for the comments to become targeted instead.
Then Len started to move his hand away, just as Barry had known—had trusted— that he would. And Barry, remembering their audience, caught Len by the wrist before he could pull away completely.
He had to broadcast the gesture; he couldn’t risk alarming Len, or make any sudden movements that might spook the Romanellos into drawing their guns again. So he kept his movements slow, and looped his fingers in a loose grip over Len’s wrist as he guided his hand back up and brushed his lips over his knuckles. He let his cheek graze along the backs of Len’s fingers as he turned his head, then he parted his lips and his tongue found Len’s fingertips again.
Heat fanned through his body at the clean salt taste of Len’s skin, cut through as it was an unmistakable trace of gunmetal. He forced himself not to draw his knees back together in a futile attempt to disguise his arousal. If the Romanellos knew he was enjoying it, fine; he was. It wasn’t like he and Len were trying to play it off as some kind of blackmail.
Feeling a little foolish at his earlier uncertainty, Barry realized there was no reason to pretend he didn’t know what he was doing. As far as the rest of the room was concerned, he was getting on his knees for Len on a regular basis. If something in him recoiled at giving away something so personal to a man he’d once considered his nemesis, well. He’d already entrusted Len with the secret that could bring his life down around his ears at any given moment; that he’d given enough head to put on a convincing show of it hardly registered in comparison.
So he licked a stripe up the length of Len’s fingers, then slipped them into his mouth. He could feel the eyes of some of the mobsters on him, and felt a flush of embarrassment climb the back of his neck despite himself. He remembered what Len had said—”eyes on me”—and forced himself not to look at their audience. He threw a glance up at Len instead, just as he hollowed his cheeks around his fingers, and he saw Len blink, twice.
It was slight enough that the others wouldn’t notice. Len wasn’t even deigning to look at him, after all, and Barry didn’t doubt that he was the one with their full attention at the moment. But Barry knew Len, and the realization that he wasn’t as unaffected as he had been acting sparked a hot twist of arousal low in Barry’s stomach.
He was supposed to be acting, he reminded himself. The entire point was that Len was unaffected by all of it: the Romanellos, yes, but also him. He was meant to be a plaything—a trophy, even. Nothing else.
The thought should’ve been enough to quell the reckless desire chasing through Barry’s veins.
Because, despite every ounce of self-preservation in his head screaming at him otherwise, those two quick blinks had felt like a challenge. Barry’s pulse raced in his ears, and his whole world narrowed to pulling another reaction like that from Len. He twisted a little in Len’s lap to get a better view of his face, then pulled off from his fingers. He dropped his lashes and waited for Len’s glance.
After a moment, Len turned his gaze on him, expression almost bored. He raised an expectant eyebrow.
Barry glanced up through his lashes, triumph pulling his lips up into a slight smirk. He held Len’s gaze as he dragged his tongue up the length of his fingers, kissed the tips, and then took them down in one practiced move.
His fingers were still curled around Len’s wrist, and he felt it when Len’s pulse jumped. The strength of the reaction almost made him moan around Len’s fingers. Some last shred of sanity tried to remind him that it was just a physical response to stimuli; it didn’t mean anything, just because they were having simple, biological reactions to the way they were touching each other. He might’ve been more convinced if he didn’t know that the reason he was practically vibrating out of his own skin had little to do with how he was being touched, and everything to do with the person touching him.
He saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision. When he followed it, he found the eyes of the Romanello heir, Vito, trained on him. He almost flinched back; Vito was practically purple with rage. But Len’s other hand settled on his thigh again, cool and grounding, and it made Barry feel daring. So he he held Vito’s gaze as he licked his lips, then pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Len’s fingertips again.
Vito tore his furious gaze away, and adjusted his pants with a sharp, annoyed movement.
Barry ducked his head to hide his smirk. Their plan was working; the Romanellos were distracted and fractured, seething under the disrespect of Len’s inattention.
When Len pulled his hand smoothly from Barry’s grip, Barry let him go. He wondered, for a moment, if he’d pushed too far. Then he felt Len trace slick fingertips over one of his collarbones, and Barry’s mouth went dry.
Len clicked his tongue with a carrying tsk that Barry felt in his toes, and he used his other hand to guide Barry's hand back to the arm of the chair. His fingers continued downwards in the meantime, taking a low, teasing path down his chest. But he was projecting his movements, and his hand lingered questioningly on top of Barry’s for a moment longer.
Barry knew he should’ve stopped him. They’d gone far enough. In fact, they'd probably passed far enough several minutes back, and were well on their way into too far territory. But his body was practically thrumming under Len’s touch. It felt electric to be played by him, to let Len tease him apart as easily as one of his locks.
He found the divots he’d made in the arm of the chair earlier, and fitted his nails into them again.
Len dragged the slick pads of his fingers over one of Barry’s nipples, already pebbled and sensitive in the chill room, and Barry’s thoughts scattered. He didn’t have to fake the way his breath stuttered, and he arched his back into the touch with a moan, uncaring of the way it put him on display.
Around him, the room fell silent.
Len smoothed his hand flat against his chest and fanned his fingers. He tilted his head, addressing him without looking at him, and said, “Sit still.”
Barry shivered, and barely had the presence of mind to keep it from turning into a vibration.
Across the table, one of the Romanello cousins Barry didn’t recognize shifted in his seat, eyes averted.
Len kept his hand flat over his chest for another second, and Barry realized with a flush of embarrassment that he must’ve been able to feel the way his heart was racing, inhumanly fast against the inside of his ribcage.
He took an unsteady breath and forced himself to relax back against Len’s chest. Satisfied, Len left Barry’s hand on the arm of the chair. When he slipped his hand between his legs, Barry jerked in surprise and nearly reached to stop him before he realized that Len was only resuming his lazy touches up his inner thigh.
His legs shifted further apart without permission from his brain, tipping his hips up in what he knew must’ve looked like a wanton invitation.
Riccardo had been speaking, something about “water under the bridge” and “money on the table,” but he broke off mid-sentence. When he recovered, his voice was tight with annoyance.
Barry knew the blush was probably halfway down his chest by now. He was supposed to be following Len’s cues, sparking a distraction whenever Len nudged him to, not interrupting unplanned. The move had put him on display: he could feel his underwear pulled tight over the aching line of his cock. Even if Len couldn’t see it from where he was sitting behind him, he had to know from the way other eyes in the room kept flickering down to his groin and then away.
But Len only grazed his nails a little higher, taking advantage of the new room to work with, and Barry saw a flicker of irritation cross Riccardo's face when he didn’t bring him in line.
Len let the fingers of his other hand wander over Barry’s chest as Riccardo continued talking. He drew shapes over his freckles before moving lower, trailing his touch over the tense lines of the muscles of his abdomen. Then Len hooked his chin over Barry’s shoulder, stubble rough against his neck, and pressed his fingertips under the waistband of his underwear.
Barry had to flash his hand to his mouth at super-speed to stifle a breathless noise of surprise as his hips bucked, desperately seeking the friction of Len’s hand just an inch or two lower.
The unsteady panting of his breath was the loudest thing in the room for a long moment.
“I told you,” Len murmured against his ear, voice dangerous, and loud enough to be heard across the table, “to sit still.”
For a fleeting moment, Barry was positive that he was going to come untouched. He squeezed his eyes shut as he clawed himself back from the brink, then nodded mutely.
When he didn’t open his eyes right away, Len brushed two fingers against his bottom lip in a silent request for his attention.
Barry knew his role, and he parted his lips to let Len press his fingers between them again. When he looked up, he almost jumped again, surprised to find Len’s gaze on him at last.
Barry hollowed his cheeks around his fingers, then curled his tongue over them. When Len pressed down against his lower teeth, watching him with an expression of lazy interest, a shiver chased up Barry‘s spine. He opened his mouth obediently, and Len pulled his fingers back only to press them into his mouth again, a pornographic imitation of blowjob.
“Afraid you’ll find this city inhospitable to your kind of operation,” Len said—whether to one of the Romanellos in particular or the room at large, Barry really didn’t care. “There are rules in Central, gentlemen. When civilians get hurt…” He curled his fingers to press obscenely at the inside of Barry’s cheek, then dragged them over his lower lip as he drew his hand back again. “Interested parties take issue.”
Barry was having a hard time breathing through it, even with the careful way Len was leaving his airway clear. He could barely contain the breathless moans that threatened, every inhale coming shallower than the last. He felt electric under Len’s gaze, that thin ring of blue around his pupils the only hint of ice in the heated way Len was watching his lips work around his fingers. He was—god, he was thinking it too, and Barry’s eyes dropped shut as he took his fingers deep again, imagining the weight of Len’s cock on his tongue instead.
A sharp clatter as a chair was shoved back from the table startled Barry back to reality.
“—making a fucking fool out of my father—“ Vito Romanello was snarling, and his hand dove under his suit jacket.
Barry realized with a shock of adrenaline that he was going for a gun, and he sat sharply forward. But Len shoved him back down with a hand flat against his chest, and he had the cold gun out and leveled across the table before Vito could fumble his own weapon free.
Vito went still, and Barry saw a flicker of fear cross his father’s face.
Len had drawn the gun with his left hand, putting it between Barry and Vito. It was a risky gesture, one that left Len’s right side exposed as the cost of covering him. It made Barry's heart flutter traitorously even as he wished he could chastise Len for the unnecessary chivalry. He could’ve caught the bullet easily, after all, no matter which of them Vito chose to fire at. But Len was concerned about the optics of the situation, not practicality, and optics couldn't get much clearer than the choice Len had just made.
Len powered up the core, and Barry felt the dangerous hum travel up Len’s arm, strong and solid where it curved protectively around him, all the way to the place that his shoulder blades rested against Len’s chest. He remembered, with a chill, when Len had turned the gun on his father after he’d told him to shoot the Flash.
For a long moment, no one seemed to breathe.
The easy control Len was exerting over the room despite being outnumbered shouldn’t have been turning Barry on more, but there was no fighting it. Len was dangerous— it was obvious that the Romanellos were afraid of him—and Barry was lying to himself if he said that hadn’t always been part of what drew him in. He was helpless against the way Len could flip a switch and radiate danger, radiate sex. It was a confidence born of knowing he was the best at what he did, and what he did was violence.
When Len’s hand settled calmly over his hip, Barry didn't fight the urge to arch closer to him.
“I’m not gonna sit here and let you disrespect my family like this,” Vito said. His hand was still hidden inside his jacket, but his voice betrayed uncertainty behind the anger. “Sitting there, petting your kept whore when my father is talking—“
Len pressed his thumb to a switch on the side of the cold gun’s grip, and the pitch of its whine climbed higher. “Language.”
“Vito,” Riccardo said. His expression had returned to its earlier grim mask of irritation, but his voice was tight with urgency. “Sit down. You’re embarrassing me.”
He’d shown his hand, and they all knew it. The split-second of fear was all Len would need; he’d exploited Barry’s own weaknesses with far less to go on in the past.
“You heard your old man,” Len said. He flicked the cold gun in a dismissive gesture. “Sit down.”
Vito’s lip curled, but he pulled his hand out from beneath his jacket without the gun, and he dragged his chair back to the table with an angry screech of wrought metal against concrete. He dropped into the chair.
“Happy?” he sneered.
“As a clam,” Len drawled. “Now. Apologize.”
Vito’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna apologize to some puffed-up supervillain wannabe in a—“
“Not to me,” Len said. He dragged his knuckles pointedly up Barry’s ribs.
Barry knew he should’ve met Vito’s gaze with the same cool challenge he could hear in Len’s voice, but he didn’t trust his expression not to betray the want and adrenaline coursing through him.
“Get fucked,” Vito snarled.
Len depressed the trigger the barest amount, and blue light sparked into life at the cold gun’s muzzle.
Barry moved before the situation could escalate any further. He traced his fingers down Len’s sleeve, slow enough to let the others in the room follow the movement. When he was sure he had their attention, he laid his hand over Len’s wrist, and flicked him an insolent look under his lashes. When Len met his gaze, Barry lifted his chin and said, “No killing.”
The words carried, as he’d known they would. It was the first he’d spoken since he'd entered the room.
Len kept the gun trained on Vito for another moment. Then, he rolled his eyes and lifted his finger off the trigger.
“Like I said.” Len placed the powered-down gun on the table. He stroked his hand down Barry’s stomach, fingers now cool to the touch, and Barry made a show of allowing it. “Rules.”
Barry didn’t lean back even as everyone else settled, resolved to follow the negotiations better. Tensions were reaching a breaking point. He needed to be alert if he was going to keep the meeting from devolving into bloodshed. He also realized, with a prickle of embarrassment, that he had no idea what Len had already agreed to.
Then Len dragged blunt nails up his stomach and drew him roughly back into his lap. Barry knew without looking that he had raised vivid red scratches on his skin, and he had to swallow a moan. His heart was pounding, and he was missing the side conversations that were beginning to crop up around the room. Someone mentioned Star City; Len countered with something about the casinos down-river needing new management.
But Barry had bigger problems than a table full of contract killers. The new position had brought him flush into Len’s lap, and he could feel the unmistakable hardness of Len’s cock through his jeans.
His pulse was hammering in his ears, drowning out everything around them. He’d never wanted so badly in his life. He felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin, that he was going to die if Len didn't just touch him soon. It was nearly impossible to remind himself that Len wasn’t going to cross that line. He was supposed to be flushed and eager in Leonard’s lap, just like Len was supposed to be unaffected by it, except for maybe an unpressing interest in fucking him later.
Barry swallowed a moan at the thought. Half out of his mind with the effort of keeping his powers under control, he was struck with the realization that he would’ve let Len do anything to him. He didn’t care if they had an audience. He would’ve let Len reach down the back of his underwear and press those teasing fingers into him with every eye on the room on them; he would’ve turned his back on half a dozen armed mobsters just to kneel on the cold concrete if Len so much as touched his shoulder to guide him down. He wanted Len’s hands in his hair, cowl and secret identity be damned, holding him still as he thrust into his mouth the way he’d teased at earlier. The idea of it pulled a noise from him, something he was too proud to call a whimper.
Len traced his thumb in a careful circle over one of his nipples, already flushed and sensitive, coaxing another sound out of him. His touches were controlled, methodical, and Barry was distantly grateful that at least one of them was being a professional. For all he was aching for it, he couldn’t imagine Len actually moving his hand up from where it was stroking his thigh to cup him through his underwear. His Len—the real Len, not the Captain Cold persona he’d pulled around his shoulders for the negotiation, might play dirty, but what they were doing was business. If Len wanted something more, he wouldn’t take it now.
Len’s teeth grazed his shoulder as he hummed a vague agreement to whatever was being said, and Barry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping his name. His cock jumped, and he could feel precome dampening the front of his shorts. He wasn’t, hadn’t been listening in too long; all pretense that he would weigh in on the terms Len was negotiating had long gone out the window. With Len’s hand tracing up the crease of his thigh, Barry couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Then we’re in agreement.”
Barry gave a guilty start at the words spoken so close to his ear. The movement jerked his hips into Len’s touch as he was ghosting his hand from the top of one thigh to the other, and the brush of Len’s knuckles against his aching cock wrenched a surprised moan from Barry’s lips. Pleasure sparked up his spine and it splintered his control, his powers shimmering through before he could think to stop them. A vibration wracked him, and the rattle against the carved arm of the chair echoed in the cavernous room.
Where half a dozen men had just been in the process of pushing their chairs back from the table, there was now only ringing silence. Behind him, Len had gone perfectly still.
Barry tightened his grip on the scarred wood under his hand. His chest was heaving, and he was trembling minutely all over. He hadn’t meant... There was personal, and then there was personal, and losing control of his powers in a way he hadn’t since he’d first gotten them was so deeply personal that Barry felt, for the first time, like bolting out of the room.
Len brushed the back of his hand again.
Jaw tight, mortification painting the back of his neck, Barry twisted his fingers and pressed a spark into his palm.
Len pulled his hands away from him smoothly, leaving Barry unmoored by the sudden absence of his touch.
“You’ll forgive me for not seeing you out,” Len said. He rested a hand lightly over the base of Barry's throat, grounding him and drawing the Romanello’s attention back up without encroaching on his space. His sleeve didn't so much as brush his chest. “I have… other business to attend to.”
Someone muttered something nasty under their breath, but Barry didn’t care enough to see who it was. The dismissal worked, in any case; movement resumed, and chairs moved, and Riccardo came over to shake Len’s hand without looking at Barry once.
“Enjoy Star City,” Len drawled.
“I’ll send a postcard.”
Len stroked his thumb up the side of Barry’s neck. “Better you didn’t.”
Riccardo shook his head, but there was something like grudging respect in his eyes, and the rest of his men followed him out of the room.
When they were gone, Barry pressed the toe of one boot to the floor to steady himself, and he closed his eyes on a shaky inhale.
“Well,” Len said. “Certainly sold that.”
Barry couldn’t help a surprised laugh; it was the understatement of the century.
“Now, if you don’t mind—”
Len moved to lift his hand from his throat, and before Barry could think, he caught Len’s wrist in a burst of speed. He half-expected Len to pull free anyway, and maybe dump him off his lap for good measure. If he did, Barry knew he’d end up on the floor; his knees were jelly, and there was no way they’d support his weight.
But Len didn’t move. He sat still at Barry’s back, letting him hold onto his wrist. Waiting.
After a tense moment, Barry exhaled on another laugh, then gingerly released his hand.
“My cowl,” he said. “Can you?”
Len paused—probably taking another moment to listen for lingering guests—then reached up with careful fingers and pulled it off for him.
It felt good, the sudden cool air on the back of his neck. As if reading his thoughts, Len ghosted a touch over the sensitive skin there, then threaded his hand into his hair where it had been flattened by the cowl. He carded his fingers through it, and Barry tipped his head gratefully into the touch.
Barry found one of Len’s hands and guided it back to his stomach. Len didn’t hesitate, and he stroked his fingertips over the dark trail of hair that, until that moment, Barry hadn’t realized he’d been keeping respectfully clear of.
Barry arched into the touch. He reached up to slip his hand over the back of Len’s neck, then turned his head and parted his lips as he pulled Len forward.
Heedless of his impatience, Len only brushed their noses together as his fingers worked their way lower, his breath warm against Barry’s lips.
“Don’t have to do this, you know.”
He stopped when he reached his waistband, and Barry twisted under his hands with a tight, frustrated noise.
“You tapped out,” Len continued. His voice was unfairly even. “Can walk away, right now. None of it ever happened.”
“If you don’t touch me in the next ten seconds,” Barry said, tightening his fingers over the back of Len’s neck, “I’m gonna do it myself.”
He felt as much as heard Len’s answering huff of laughter. Lips curving up into a grin, Barry leaned in to press their mouths together. He had exactly nine seconds to enjoy the soft brush of Len’s lips on his, and then Len slipped his hand down and curled it over the front of his underwear.
Barry pressed into his hand with a sharp, surprised noise, nearly biting Len’s lip at the sudden surge of pleasure. Len wrapped his fingers around him through the thin material, solid and sure, and Barry scrambled to get a foot back on the ground. He succeeded, and pushed half out of the chair to meet Len’s lips behind him. He dragged his teeth over Len’s lip, too hungry for more to take the time he should’ve to map the curve of his mouth properly.
Len twisted his hand into his hair and pulled his head back, licking into his mouth when Barry gasped at the sharp tug. The first slide of his tongue against Barry’s sent heat sparking up his spine, and he rocked into Len’s palm with a desperate whine.
Len hummed an agreement against his lips and gave Barry a slow, teasing stroke up the length of his cock.
Barry’s foot slipped, losing purchase, and he caught himself on the arms of the chair before he could slide gracelessly onto the cold floor. Len’s laugh was at least half at his expense, but Barry dropped his head back against his shoulder anyway and pushed his hips up into his hand. It was almost too much, after so many glancing touches and breaths ghosted across his neck, on his neck, and his whole body was verging on another vibrating shiver.
“We’re not exactly in private here,” Len reminded him, his lips brushing against his ear.
“I don’t care,” Barry said. He barely recognized his own voice, gone breathy with desperation. “I didn’t care. I would’ve let you, even with the Romanellos right there.”
Len made a low, approving noise in the back of his throat. “Should’ve known the Flash had an exhibitionist streak,” he said. “Tell me, Barry. What did you like best?” He tightened his hand around him, wringing a moan from Barry’s lips. “Knowing they wanted you? Or watching them talk, knowing all I was thinking about…” He rolled his hips up against him, like Barry wasn’t already hyper-aware of the hard press of his cock against him. “...was fucking you on the table?”
Barry rocked back against him with a broken groan.
“Liar,” Barry breathed, and he smirked when Len’s hand stilled. “You heard every word they were saying. You don't mix business with pleasure.”
Len nipped the shell of his ear, and the reprimand made Barry’s cock jump in his hand. But his voice was agreeable when he said, “I am ever the consummate professional.”
Barry wanted to laugh but moaned instead; Len had found the damp spot on his underwear over the head of his cock, and he circled his thumb there until Barry’s hips were hitching helplessly up against him.
When Barry tightened his hand over Len’s wrist in warning, Len slipped his hand away. But he was back before Barry had time to curse at him, reaching with his other hand to slip his underwear down his thighs as he gave Barry his fingers to suck on again.
Barry had put on enough of a show the first time. He laved his tongue over Len’s fingers, filthy and impatient, and shifted in his lap to kick his underwear down over his boots and onto the ground.
As soon as they were off, Len wrapped his slick fingers around him again, and the skin-to-skin contact had Barry cursing and thrusting into his grip before he could stop himself. He scrambled for a grip—on Len, on the chair, anything—and it earned him another low chuckle.
Len guided his hand up to curl over the back of his neck again, then got a rough grip on his hips and pinned them back against him. He pressed his teeth to his bare shoulder, and Barry gave up on containing the vibration that shimmered under his skin.
He was suddenly and intensely aware that Len was still fully dressed underneath him, all rough material against his bare skin. And they were completely exposed. Anyone who came back to get another word in would’ve found them that: Barry, naked and panting, arching desperately into Len’s touch, and Len, moving his hand hard and sure over him as he ground his hips against his ass through his jeans. The thought of it twisted a new heat through Barry’s veins, and he scratched his nails over the back of Len’s neck as he gasped his name.
“Off,” he said, eloquently. “Your jeans. Take them off.” There was a beat of silence, and Barry twisted, impatient, and said, “Down, at least.”
He got a foot on the ground and pushed up, bracing himself on the arms of the chair as he waited for Len to get his belt undone. But Len went still as his gaze traveled over him. His dark eyes widened a fraction, and Barry was pretty sure he was the first person to see Leonard Snart speechless in a very, very long time. He knew what kind of figure he must’ve been cutting in only his boots, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be self-conscious.
Barry flashed him a cocky grin, then pulled the jeans out from under his still hands and dragged them, together with his underwear, down his thighs.
Len’s cock was thick and curved and gratifyingly hard, and Barry went a little lightheaded with relief at knowing Len wanted it just as badly as he did. There was a bead of precome at the tip that made Barry’s mouth go dry, and he gave up trying to stand in favor of sinking to his knees between Len’s legs.
Len caught him by the elbow and growled, “Later,” his voice so dark with promise that Barry was pretty sure his knees would’ve given out if Len didn’t have such a tight grip on his arm. Len pulled him back up and around, and dragged him back down into his lap the way he’d been sitting before. The zipper of the leather jacket Len was still wearing dragged cool against his back, and Barry already knew he’d never be able to look at it the same way again.
Then Len pulled Barry’s hips back, and the feeling of his cock nestled against the crease of his ass made Barry’s heart stutter in his chest. Thankfully, Len seemed to be on the same page; he bit out a curse, and his grip tightened on him as his hips twitched forward, like he was trying to hold back but couldn’t help himself.
Barry pressed back against him with a broken groan. Len’s hand guided his hips in a cautious roll, and his cock slid obscenely against him. It sent a spike of heat through Barry, and he couldn’t help the shiver that wracked him, even as it edged into a vibration.
“Please,” he breathed, and it was all Len needed to hear.
He caged his fingers over Barry’s cock again and moved over him intently, working into a rhythm that had Barry dragging his nails helplessly over the back of Len’s neck.
Barry spread his thighs further apart and arched his back, trying to press closer to where Len was thrusting against him and give him better access to his cock at the same time. The position let Len hit him lower, and the head of his cock brushed against his entrance on the next roll of his hips.
Len’s hands tightened on him, and he didn’t manage to swallow a groan. The unguarded sound made another vibration skip under Barry’s skin, and Len dragged him closer with a low, encouraging sound against his neck.
The possessive grip Len had on his hip was going to leave bruises, and just the thought of it made it impossible for Barry to pull his powers back under control. He dropped his head forward with a ragged breath and Len’s hand sped on him, the frequency of his vibration coiled higher as Len brought him closer to the edge.
Barry was moving desperately under his hands, trying to press in two directions at once. He clenched around nothing when Len rocked against him again, and he bit back a high noise of frustration at how badly he wanted Len to just take him. They didn’t have lube and Barry was far too impatient for prep, but it didn’t change how much he was aching to feel Len inside him.
Len quickened to a pace that he couldn’t outlast. Barry tried to warn him, but could only throw his head back with a breathless cry and beg for Len not to stop. Len’s rhythm stuttered for half a second, and his next thrust against him was slick with his precome.
Barry made a broken sound in the back of his throat. That Len was close, that it was turning him on just as much? That he liked him shamelessly offering himself to him—
Another sharp vibrating ripple dragged through him, and he bit out a sharp, “Fuck, Len, please.”
Len’s breath went ragged as he rutted sharply against him. Barry wanted to hold out until he could feel Len come on his back, but Len’s hand on him was relentless, and he chased him closer to the edge until Barry couldn’t hold back any longer, and he bucked into Len’s grip with a wordless cry.
Len’s hand was slick with his come when he closed it around the other side of Barry’s hips. Barry didn’t have to work to keep the vibration humming under his skin, pleasure still sparking up his spine. Len thrust against him three, four more times, and then his grip went bruising and he spilled hot against his lower back, face pressed to Barry’s neck to muffle a groan there.
The feeling of it managed to bring a fresh blush to Barry’s cheeks. The flush must've reached to the back of his neck, because when the sweat began to cool on Barry’s skin and he regained his senses enough to realize what a mess he was, Len dragged his teeth over the top of his spine and murmured, “S’a good look on you.”
Barry tried to roll his eyes, and found he didn't have the energy for it. “Covered in come?” he asked.
Len bit the skin just under his ear. “Mmhm.”
His breath was warm on the back of his neck, making Barry shiver. When Len snorted in response, Barry twisted peevishly to dislodge his hands. Len let him go, but it was with an amusement that Barry wasn't used to seeing in the cool, closed-off blue of Len's eyes.
Barry took advantage of his new freedom of movement to look down at himself in consternation. He had his own come striped over his stomach and slicked over one hip where Len had grabbed on to him, and he tried without success to look over his shoulder to where he could feel Len’s come on his back.
He pulled his gaze up and gave Len an exasperated glare when he found him watching him with lazy satisfaction.
Len lifted his hand to drag his thumb over Barry’s bottom lip. Barry made a face at the wetness of what must be his own come, but it only made Len smirk. When he leaned in and kissed him, Barry was helpless to kiss him back. He felt another blush creep up his neck when he tasted himself. But Len kissed him slowly, intently, and when he brushed his tongue over his bottom lip, Barry knew he was chasing the taste of him.
Barry felt a fresh knife’s twist of arousal in his gut. He really didn’t want to get hard again, not when he was still half in Len’s lap. But Len was merciless, kissing him long and thorough. When Barry swayed toward him, Len took advantage of his distraction to slip a hand over his waist again and trail his fingertips through the come on his back. Len sharpened the kiss, so brazenly territorial that Barry couldn’t help a soft, wanting noise from slipping past his lips.
He knew he should’ve pushed Len off and gotten cleaned up. Len was enjoying his embarrassment far too much; he could feel it in the knowing curve of his mouth against his. His team would be missing him, too, and Barry nearly groaned when he remembered he'd been halfway through a shift at the CCPD when he'd left. He had no idea what excuses he was going to make to explain his absence.
But Len’s hands were cool and gratifying against his feverish skin, scattering any thoughts Barry had of leaving.
As if he could sense Barry's straying attention, Len coaxed him around with light touches to his hips and thighs until he understood and twisted in Len’s lap to straddle him properly.
Len smoothed a hand over his side in an absently pleased gesture that made Barry a little lightheaded, then pulled back to look him over. His gaze caught on his calves, sparking heat in his eyes. “Gonna think about this, every time I see you in those boots,” he said.
His thumb was tracing distracting patterns over his hip bone, and Barry had to remind himself to be annoyed. “Are you saying you’re not gonna respect me in the morning?”
Len raised an amused eyebrow by way of answer.
“I’ll add it to my list of reasons this was a bad idea,” Barry said, with a pointed glance down at the mess on his stomach.
When Len all but preened, Barry had to turn his face away to hide the smile that threatened.
“I need a shower before I get back to work,” he said. “So, whenever you’re done… marking me, or whatever.”
Len’s answering smirk was sharp. “If I’d been marking you,” he said, pressing his thumb against one of the fading bruises on Barry’s hip and making Barry’s breath catch, “you would know.” Then he reached up, and traced his fingers up the line of his neck, considering. “Not a bad idea, though. When terms come up for re-negotiation.”
Barry opened his mouth to argue, found no objection on his tongue, and clicked his jaw shut again.
Len's smirk tipped toward knowing, making Barry's heart skip dangerously in his chest.
He remembered the rough way Len had said “later” as he'd pulled him up off his knees, and he scratched a nervous hand over the back of his neck. “Speaking of, uh. Renegotiating terms.”
Genuine surprise flickered across Len's expression, and Barry almost lost his nerve.
“Would you…” Barry hesitated, casting around for the right words. “Do you think there’s room in our, uh, agreement? For…” He started to gesture between them, glanced down at himself again, and winced. He had to fix his gaze on the far wall before he finished: "For this?”
“If this is how you negotiate,” Len said, after a long moment, “I woulda got better terms if I’d let you take care of the Romanellos instead.”
The implication sent heat scorching up the back of Barry’s neck, and he whipped back to face him. Len was waiting for him, and he didn’t see the trap until Len reclaimed his mouth in a filthy kiss that ruined any chance he might’ve had of not getting hard again.
Len curved his hands over his ass and pulled him closer, then paused when Barry’s cock brushed against his stomach. Barry blushed, and he started to pull back with an embarrassed explanation about his powers and how they affected his refractory period ready on his lips.
But Len’s fingers curled only around him again, and Barry groaned.
“Barry, Barry, Barry,” Len murmured against his lips. “Thought you’d know by now.”
His hand started up a slow, teasing rhythm, and Barry knotted his fingers in the front of his shirt and dropped his head against his shoulder with a helpless curse.
“I don’t like to share.”