Coldflash, Morning After
“Are you sneaking out on me?”
Barry glances guiltily up at his one-night-stand through a gap in the bedsheets tangled around his lanky, wayward limbs. The guy is somehow even more handsome than he was last night in the forgiving darkness of the club… and the taxi… and his bedroom. Lots and lots of in his bedroom.
One-Night-Stand shifts on his elbow, and Barry flushes as the motion draws his eyes to the other man’s groin, bared now that Barry’s gone and pulled all the blankets with him to the floor in his mortifying feat of clumsiness.
“Obviously not very well,” Barry chuckles, high and strained, as he darts his eyes to much safer ground, a ball of fuzz on the duvet cover wrapped around his shin.
The man stretches out again, more brazen this time, almost inviting (or so Barry tells himself to justify the way his eyes flicker back where they really shouldn’t be.) “You don’t have to run off, kid.”
“It’s Barry,” Barry huffs, picking himself out of the blankets to his waist but thinking twice before kicking his bottom half free, opting instead to root around the floor for his underwear with his modesty intact.
The man chuckles, sharp and smooth like ice, sending shivers up Barry’s spine just the same. “I remember,” he says. Then, his head tilts sideways and his eyes narrow as he scrutinizes Barry, like he could pick him apart with a look. The shivers that wrack Barry’s frame this time around aren’t so pleasant.
“But you don’t,” he realizes.
Barry flushes bright red. Response enough, it seems.
“Len,” One-Night-Stand supplies.
Barry clears his throat. “Nice to meet you, Len,” he says on instinct, than winces when his brain catches up with his mouth. “I mean, not meet you.”
“Certainly not after how… acquainted we got last night.”
Finally, Barry finds his underwear wrapped around the foot of the bedframe, and he yanks them on as fast as he can while still keeping the blankets around his waist.
“Where’s the fire?” Len asks. He’s still watching Barry with those sharp, calculating eyes, and it raises gooseflesh on his arms.
“I have to get home,” Barry replies. He finds his T-shirt next, on the corner of the dresser.
Len’s eyes narrow. “Barry, Barry, Barry,” he sighs. “You aren’t seeing someone, are you? Naughty boy.”
And back to the pleasant chills.
“No,” Barry snaps, hackles up at just how much the sound of Len’s voice makes him want to ignore the world and crawl back into his bed. “I live at home. Told my dad I wouldn’t be out all night.”
Len rolls his eyes. “What, are you worried he’ll ground you?” he asks. When Barry doesn’t answer right away -- wrestling his pants free from where they’re caught under the closet door -- Len stiffens. “Unless you got a real expert on that fake ID.”
“What?” Barry asks, brow furrowing as he tries to process Len’s question, jump into his jeans, and not puke all at the same time. “No,” he says. “That’s my real ID. I’m twenty-one. College is just expensive. So what if I want to live at home and save a little money?”
Len’s still watching hi with those eye, and Barry gets his back up even more. “Why am I even justifying my life choices to someone who seemed genuinely concerned a minute ago they’d had sex with a teenager last night.”
Len’s body language immediately closes up, and Barry knows he’s gone and put his foot in it. But what does it matter, anyway? It’s not like he’s ever going to see Len again. Shame as that is to say about someone who looks that good.
“You’re the one going on about running home to Daddy,” Len snarks. He gets out of bed in a huff and roots around for his clothes, too. And yeah, Barry’s ticked off, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t steal a glimpse of Len’s ass every time he bends over.
“You’d be just as concerned if you grew up in a house where an APB went out every time you missed curfew,” Barry says.
Len freezes with his shirt halfway up his arms. “Your dad’s a cop?”
Barry bristles, too. “Is that a problem?” he asks.
Len unfreezes just as quick, scoffing and rolling his eyes, but it all seems a little too forced to Barry now that he’s seen the man falter.
“Why is that a problem, Len?” Barry tries again.
Len gets his shirt and his pants on faster than Barry would expect of someone nursing the kind of hangover he must have. Barry hardly has time to open his mouth to ask another question before Len has him pressed against the wall with his tongue down Barry’s throat.
Despite himself, Barry whines into Len’s mouth, high and embarrassing. He ruts against Len’s thigh as Len gropes his ass and almost starts pulling at their clothes again, rational thought dimmed by the heady fog of arousal rolling up from his gut.
Before he gets the chance, Len pulls back with one last nip at Barry’s lips as Barry keens in disappointment and tries to chase his mouth.
“Because,” Len replies with a devilish smirk of which Barry only catches the tail end as his eyelids flutter open. Len leans in for one more hard, dirty kiss, then pulls away completely, grabbing his leather jacket off the door handle and backing out of the bedroom, leaving Barry flushed panting and stupid horny in his wake.
“This isn’t my apartment.”