Chapter Text
It was the grin that finally undid Oliver. The grin that had been unwinding him this whole time, slowly but surely. That grin… the corners of his eyes crinkled, the bridge of his nose. The grin that came so easily to his face. Barry was so radiant. Oliver felt like he could taste that radiance. Barry's lips were soft, his tongue gentle. His responsiveness was intoxicating. The way Barry's lips parted, meeting Oliver. Matching yet also conceding, somehow. Breathless, chest heaving, heart pounding, little gasps. Barry scratched playfully at Oliver's stubble, grinning out of an open-mouthed kiss.
"I've never…" Barry gasped, pulling away, heart racing. "I've never kissed… a… man." His growing erection hinted he might be enjoying himself. Energy, excitement, joy rushed through his body like electricity. Already he missed Oliver's lips achingly. Their absence was a pounding rush of blood on Barry's mouth.
"Neither have I." Oliver replied, admiring Barry's adorable flushed cheeks before pulling him forward again, lips and tongue searching, aching, tasting. Without realizing it, they had walked each other over, step by step, to the stainless steel table, the one they used as a standing workspace, that hovered about mid-thigh for Barry. Oliver's thumb ghosted over Barry's hipbone, just barely exposed as his brown sweater rode up. Barry unconscionably leaned back, resting some of his weight against the table, and bucked his hips instinctively, flushing a deep crimson at the impulse. Oliver chuckled against his mouth, closing his hand around Barry's hip and squeezing gently.
Flushing deeply, eyes squeezing shut, Barry reached out. Oliver stiffened, his breath hitching. Barry froze, terror and arousal sticking him in place. Their lips were frozen in a kiss that was paradoxically chaste— no tongue, not even parted. Just… touching. They slowly parted, faces hovering a hands-breadth apart. Fear soared through Barry. Had he crossed a line from which there was no retrieval? He had never been particularly good at this (in fact, he could probably count the times he'd had sex on both his hands, if he even needed so many fingers). But skill and wanting were two very different things. Right now he was wanting, oh so badly.
"Barry." Oliver's tone was calm, in control, even though he definitely wasn't feeling that way. He was fighting the urge to grind into Barry's tentative hand, his rapidly hardening cock aching. Barry's eyes were squeezed shut, trembling in fear the way one did right before the drop of the roller coaster. "Barry, look at me."
Barry slowly peeped through one eye, relaxing just a touch when his hesitant peer showed that Oliver's face was soft, calm, not tight or angry. Oliver rubbed his thumb softly along the curve of Barry's hip, callouses adding a tantalizing friction. Barry's timidity was endearing, adorable. "Ollie…" Somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Oliver's gaze was intense. Barry flexed his thighs, shifting against the warm bulge in his pants. Oliver just looked, painfully aware of their points of connection.
Something in his gaze must have empowered Barry, because he added a touch more pressure, touching Oliver in earnest now. Barry rubbed Oliver through his jeans, reveling, stunned at the feeling of his erection, considering sex like he'd never considered before. Considering a man like he never had before.
He'd lost his virginity as a college sophomore rather on accident (although the girl had been pretty and very sweet). Even at that point, it hadn't seemed a particularly momentous occasion. Not that it wasn't pleasurable, or that he hadn't had a good time. It was just that, by the end of the experience, it was just sex. Not bad, but nothing to go to war over (since he would never, ever write home about something so personal). Something he would repeat when he felt like it, but nothing to obsess over. He'd never felt himself particularly pre-occupied with sex before. Even as a teen, going through puberty, he'd never experienced that infamous "one track" mind. Sure he'd had his crushes and his moments (he wasn't a stranger to masturbation, anyway). But he'd always felt estranged, distant, from that infamous sex-obsessed teen-boy culture thing, much in the same way he'd felt estranged from most people to begin with.
Barry had always been more on the nerd side of things. Sex was cool and all, but he was just usually thinking about other things. His one-track mind, teenage obsession had been proving his father's innocence. Getting into a good college. Becoming knowledgeable. Helping people get justice for their loved ones, his own mishandled tragedy a decade-old murder board on his bedroom wall. For him, sex was a profound connection— one that was sometimes challenging for him because he felt so isolated in so many other ways. He had trouble having mindless sex and he had trouble having mindful sex. Through much of high school and college, he'd felt isolation far more keenly than connection.
Oliver was sucking on his neck, his stubble fireworks on Barry's nervous system, a little nip here and there sending arousal straight to his cock. Oliver was practically grinding into his hand now. He moaned as Oliver pulled away, tugging Barry's sweater and undershirt off in one smooth motion, one sweater arm threading through the inside-out shirt's sleeve. Oliver's draw hand ghosted across Barry's rib cage, his nipples pebbling between the cool air and Oliver's warm presence. Oliver's tongue traced across Barry's jawline, teeth nipping at his neck and along his collarbone, a firm stray kiss on his upper chest, before fastening his lips around the perked nipple, his hand moving to the other one, pinching, stroking, tugging, teasing.
Barry's fingers clawed uselessly at the space between Oliver's shoulders, bunching and tugging his shirt. He was breathless, pushing his hips into Oliver's chest, pulling at the shirt and almost whimpering, practically ready to burst then and there. Oliver must have sensed this, as he suddenly pulled his head back, tweaking his nipple harshly one last time before completely separating their bodies. His saliva cooled on Barry's chest quickly.
Oliver grinned— honest to God grinned— as he took an almost theatrical step back before reaching down to pull his own shirt up, toss it to the side, and then sink forward on his knees. Barry threw his head back, dizzy. He felt the cool table cutting into his thighs even through his jeans, which Oliver was now pulling at. His belt jangled as it came undone, and the scratch of the zipper was explosive in the silence. Oliver's closeness, and his yet not touching him, left Barry throbbing, dangling at the edge of discomfort. Oliver kissed Barry's belly, right below the belly button.
"Ollie—"
"I've never… touched another man. Or his cock." Oliver said wonderingly, undoing the button slowly. Barry felt suddenly bashful as Oliver looked, tugging at the flaps of his jeans. He was hyper aware of his penis, the way it must look outlined in his briefs. He'd never felt so… exposed before, Oliver's almost pensive gaze staring at his still-clothed cock. Slowly, delicately, Oliver leaned forward, kissing Barry through his briefs, sitting back on his heels to reach out with his hand, touching. Barry was clenching every inch of his body and soul to avoid bucking his hips at that point.
"You don't… you don't have… to… I was maybe… just… I—"
Barry's fumbled breathy words cut off abruptly at Oliver fished him out, his cock standing erect, jutting between them. Tentatively, Oliver lightly grasped the shaft, squeezing just slightly, feeling, experiencing. He rubbed his thumb across the head, and Barry swore he was on the verge of passing out at the sensation. He moaned, slamming his hips forward, unable to restrain himself any more.
"Sorry! Sorry—" Barry gasped, now leaning his full weight against the table, bracing himself with his hands white-knuckled firmly on the edge.
Oliver gave a few tentative pumps down his length before kissing the tip of his penis. Barry fought the urge to giggle at the slight absurdity of the gentle peck. That was, struggled not to giggle right until Oliver's tongue emerged, meeting the head firmly before moving away again. Oliver hummed.
Stroking, Oliver rather suddenly took Barry into his mouth and Barry gasped at the sensation, the rush of air into his lungs intoxicating. He pumped, groaning, slowly taking more and more of Barry into his mouth until any further would make him gag. As deep as he was able to take Barry, Oliver moaned, shifting on his knees, swallowing. The vibration left Barry speechless, soundless. Oliver tongued his shaft, practically swallowing his head, before pulling back. Gradually, Oliver bobbed his head slowly, working his tongue, fumbling at the unfamiliar task but doing so in a way that was so incredibly hot.
Barry didn't know what to do with himself. One hand squeezed the table in a death grip and the other stroked through Oliver's hair, coming to rest lightly and lovingly on his cheek. Barry groaned as Oliver nearly bottomed out again, taking him as far as the was physically able, the twin sight and sensation nearly sending him over the edge. Unable to form a coherent word, he pushed lightly at Oliver's lower neck, indicating his wish for him to back away. A small burst of precum erupted as Oliver's lips passed his head, the sudden loss of sensation and the rush of cold air another burst of stimulation. Oliver daringly stuck his tongue out, lapping up the precum and humming at the taste. The hardness was almost painful— Barry didn't think he'd ever been this turned on before. He felt like he could practically see the throb (although that was a bit gross of a thought-image to him).
Oliver stood slowly, tongue working in his mouth, catching up to Barry, who was helplessly struggling to recover conscious thought. Their lips crashed together, mouths open and ravenous. He tasted himself on Oliver's tongue, and all of it— Oliver, his aching cock, the taste of himself, the straining bulge between Oliver's legs— swirled dizzily in his sex-scrambled brain.
Barry flashed away, back so quick Oliver could only blink and startle. Barry held up a little metallic yellow square. Oliver felt his eyebrows lift, surprised, shocked. He tentatively reached out and took the small packet, starting at it stupidly. What Barry was saying with that packet… What Barry was practically begging for as he tugged and pulled down Oliver's pants.
"Are you… sure? This is… a leap from a hand or a mouth. For you, especially." Barry nodded almost frantically, trying to school his face, to appear serious and not painfully horny and achingly wanting. He wanted Oliver to touch his cock again. He wanted Oliver. He wanted Oliver close. Close. He felt a pounding want he had never experienced before and had no way to explain or even to understand.
Oliver tore the wrapper with his teeth, a well practiced gesture. A gesture which had become so well practiced that it had almost felt like it had become him, even when he was questioning why, what the point was, who he was. Why he was even still fucking. Still breathing. Oliver Queen had become synonymous with sex to the point that it had become him more than he was. He had become an image, a concept, not a person. That single gesture snapped him back to the boy he used to be.
The first time he'd had sex with a girl, it had been a revelation to him. Kissing her, entering her. It was like waking up, his nerves alive. She had crooned and moved against him and it had been intoxicating. He'd loved it, become nearly obsessed with it, thinking of her as he stroked himself out in bed the next night, and the night after, and the night after… The last two years of high school, and then his spiraling stint in university, had been sex. Chasing that feeling, orgasm a revelation. Unfortunately, it had been a revelation to the paparazzi, too. They had named him, assigned him a trope, a roll, a title. Billionaire playboy. An act for him to preform. An act everyone expected him to, wanted him to, told him to. An act the girls at the club ate right up. Girls spread rumors about him being a good lover and not, about him eating out and not (he did, although it didn't really matter anymore, but he did have his pride and reputation to contend with, hot in his chest). He was a figure in the newspaper, a subject of gossip, a beautiful thing to use: not a person. He walked through parties, through drugs and alcohol and hookups, numb, asleep on his feet, his name a title and not a self. Sex was less pleasurable, less intimate. He raced after Laurel (and then, unfortunately, Sara) aching for that intimacy, for a foolish renewable of himself through the other. The boat had been what felt like a last chance at that, even at the same time that the act condemned him. Something that named him typical even as he did it, screaming out to the universe for mercy for himself even as he committed grave harm to people he genuinely loved. Kissing Barry felt like frantic grasping at straws for a lost self. How good that grasping felt.
Barry gently took the condom from Oliver, pinching the tip and placing it over Oliver's head, scooting the condom down with his hands, eyes wide. He was trying not to pay attention to how big Oliver was, even though he had realized the second his hands had ghosted over that bulge. He swallowed, rubbing, marveling in the tactile sensation while trying not to feel anxious. Oliver poured lube in Barry's hand before placing it back over his cock, and they stroked him together, Oliver's warm hand comfortingly on the back of Barry's.
"Turn around." Oliver husked while Barry stepped back, shucking his pants after rubbing the sticky lube on them. "Have you ever been…" The sentiment hung heavy in the air and Barry just raised an eyebrow before turning, placing his chest firmly on the table, stretching his arms out, feet flat on the ground. He felt unsteady on his feet, and was trying not to show that while he positioned himself. He was nervous— many people described how painful penetration could be, particularly anal. But his trembling was more than half from need, from desperate and abandoned want. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Oliver's hand lighted gently down on his lower back, massaging lightly.
"Stop me. If it hurts. Or if you don't like it." Oliver whispered. "Okay?" Barry nodded, chin propped on the table, but Oliver just grunted, his rubbing hand slowing to a stop. "Okay?"
"Okay." Barry affirmed verbally, and suddenly he felt a nudging at his hole, a gentle rubbing that began to probe.
A slick finger slowly rubbed along his crack before coming to his hole, lighting, ever so lightly, pushing in. Barry squeezed, legs shaking. Oliver's finger retreated and he used both hands to massage and squeeze his lower back, hips, and buttocks until some of the tension and anxiety dissipated. Unknowingly, between the rubbing and squeezing of his ass, Oliver's finger had reappeared and entered him.
Oliver moved slowly, gingerly. Barry moaned with the pleasure of it. Oliver edged his second finger in slowly, Barry cursing at the stretch and basking in the tenderness and gentle movements. The rubbing hand slowly disappeared and Oliver slowly, almost lazily, pumped his two fingers in and out while his other hand busied adding more lube and stroking himself before lining up.
Barry shuttered at the removal of the fingers, starling at the replacement of Oliver's cock, lined up. Seeing the touch of tension and apprehension return, Oliver slowly massaged the cleft of Barry's ass again. He placed his head gently but firmly against Barry, took a deep breath, and began to push.
"Ollie…" Barry moaned, one leg nearly spasming. Oliver was spreading him with one hand, thumb pressing bracingly right above his hole as his other hand held his cock, pressing forward with a glacial slowness and inescapably. Barry's hips canted forward, almost trying to avoid, but Oliver continued to bare down. He felt the slight pop of the head clearing, moaning at the openness of his body as that moment.
Barry placed his forehead on the cool steel, trying to ground himself on that. He was huffing short, gasping breaths, his stomach muscles constricting. "Shhhhh." Oliver soothed, moving his hand up to stroke Barry's back, his shoulder, squeezing. "You're okay. You're okay." Barry moaned again, tears leaking from his eyes. The sensation was so, so much. "You're doing so well." Barry's cock leapt at the praise, at the pressure, at the squeeze of his own ass against Oliver's relentlessly pushing cock. He wasn't forcing, but he wasn't letting Barry's body shut him out, either— the pressure was continuous, and Barry would have been stunned to know that Oliver was advancing bare centimeters when it felt like rapid inches.
Oliver was watching, rubbing and murmuring and soothing, keeping a close eye on the tension in Barry's body. Barry was burbling and murmuring and groaning. And God, was he so fucking beautiful.
The tightness of Barry's ass had Oliver taking deep breaths, his eyes rolling back, little moans escaping from his bit lips. He was exerting every ounce of self control he'd ever felt as he slowly pushed himself into Barry, gasping like he'd run a marathon when their balls met. Barry's eyes were squeezed shut and he was slightly tense but mewling. Fully inside Barry, Oliver leaned forward, laying his body fully over Barry's. The touch had Barry arching back, back to Oliver's chest, head to Oliver's head, hips to Oliver's hips. Connecting, touching, feeling.
"Shhhhhhhh. Shh." Oliver soothed, mouth right next to Barry's ear, kissing and mouthing at Barry's shoulder as his body adjusted, his own hips moving in frustration at Oliver's stagnant form. Oliver made soothing sounds in his throat as Barry cried out wantonly before slowly beginning to move his hips. His movement was a bare inch at first until Barry was whining, begging, thrusting his own hips back, one hand scrabbling back for Oliver's hips as his other fastened around Oliver's bracing forearm.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—" Barry groaned, whined. "Fuck me, please. Please. Pleeaseee." Oliver's next thrust was rougher, and the next used more length. Each thrust had Oliver ramping up until he was pounding into Barry, who was mewling, begging, arching himself into Oliver, each inch of their skin connecting a blazing fire. Oliver laid frenzied open-mouthed kisses at random intervals on Barry's back and shoulders, his body shaking with each thrust.
Oliver's cock rammed into his prostate, and Barry's next moan was closer to a scream. "Ollie! I'm gonna—" He stuttered, arching his hips back, slowing his own return thrusts, hips and thighs trembling. Oliver reached his hand around, taking Barry's cock with surprising gentleness, pumping lightly as he slammed roughly in again and Barry cried out, orgasm making his vision go dark for a moment. Oliver groaned in near harmony, his rhythm skipping once, twice. Oliver placed his forehead on the spot between Barry's shoulders, breath explosive, trembling, hips hitching wildly as his own orgasm sharply chased Barry's, both falling into blissed out oblivion together.