The Flash - The Slow Dance of Madness
Jan. 15th, 2016 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Slow Dance of Madness
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Harrison Wells, Barry Allen, Harrison/Barry
Word Count: ~8200
Spoilers: None for current season, takes place immediately after S1.08 (Flash vs. Arrow).
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Rough sex, unsafe sex (barebacking)
Beta Credit:theatregirl7299
Summary: Part Three of The Seduction of Barry Allen. After Barry's encounter with Bivolo, he finds he can't escape the rage. So he goes to see the one person who understands the corrosive effects of anger.
Author’s Notes: I've pretty much finished watching Season One (okay - I skipped a few episodes and jumped to the finale) – so there are probably more than a few inaccuracies in canon.
To my White Collar friends who might be intrigued, this pairing presses all of my Neal/Adler buttons big time. A quick primer on Barry and Harrison can be found here.
__________________
Harrison Wells was alive.
And not just in the sense that Eobard Thawne has been wearing the man's skin for a decade and a half, or that the world that once considered him one of the greatest scientific minds of the era now sees him as nothing more than a reckless fool.
No, Harrison Wells – the man whose life and dreams and DNA he had stolen – still lived. There was a part of him that didn't die that night, the part that could not be killed, and that resided inside Eobard Thawne's mind. It had been there for fifteen years, and until recently, it had remained a quiescent presence – providing Thawne with background and personality traits, quirks to be exploited as he worked towards his goal. Wells rarely stirred, remaining wrapped in a cocoon of grief and shock. He mourned his wife, the life and future he'd lost on that empty road, and that suited Eobard Thawne perfectly.
But something had happened; something had stirred Wells out of his stupor, and he was making his voice heard. And what he was saying frightened Eobard as much as the thought of being trapped forever in this backward century, of failing in his quest.
Maybe even more.
Now that Harrison Wells was awake, he was trying to take back what had been stolen. Not through brute force, but in a subtle campaign - whispering to him in the dark night, telling him the greatest lie of all, "This Flash was not your enemy."
Thawne answered unwillingly, "Not yet. But he will be."
But Wells refused to be silenced, "If you stop now, that future will never happen. Barry Allen loves you, think what that means. You could have everything, if you just let your hatred go."
Thawne screamed his denial, but all he heard was Harrison Wells' bitter laughter.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It felt like the anger was still pulsing under his skin, waiting to erupt like some horrible infection, poisoning everything and everyone around him.
Joe had forgiven his harsh words. Oliver had understood, had forgiven him, too. But Iris – she hated him, now. She'd just made it clear that never wanted to see him – or at least a part of him – again. All his anger did was drive her closer to Eddie, make Eddie see him as a villain – the ultimate bad guy.
It all felt so hopeless. And that made the anger worse.
Barry ran. He tried to burn off the anger; he tried to find the joy in speed, in the lightning under his skin. He hoped it would burn away the poison. But it didn't.
He knew could go home, sit with Joe and eat pizza, watch old movies, let the breach between them heal cleanly – even if he still felt like a raw wound. He could go to the lab and talk with Cisco, with Caitlin. They were his friends, they'd offer laughter and companionship. They'd try to help without fully understanding what was going on inside him. He might feel better for a while, but it wouldn't last.
There were other options, too. He could chase down Ollie and Diggle and Felicity and work out his anger with them – hell, he'd already ran to Starling City and back twice since they left Central City. He could let Ollie administer a constructive beat-down, show him where his weaknesses were, prove that speed was only one arrow in his quiver. He could spend a few weeks with them, work with that team, do some good. Purge the poison from his soul.
But he couldn't do that – he had responsibilities here, in Central City. He had a job, he had this own team, his father rotting in Iron Heights; he couldn't just leave. As much as he wanted to.
Tonight, though, he could keep running, crisscrossing the country until he dropped from exhaustion. He felt close to it now. The corrosion was still there, threatening to eat him alive. If he could cut it out of him with a knife, he would.
Barry stopped running and realized he didn't have to do this alone. There was one person he could talk with, someone who understood anger, who knew about rage. And loss. And forgiveness. Someone who could help him, someone who always helped him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It felt strange walking up the front path to Dr. Wells' house without Dr. Wells in front of him – kind of like he was walking towards the forbidden.
With each step, Barry wanted to turn back and save himself the embarrassment. But he still kept walking. Two steps, five steps, ten steps, a dozen. Even before he rang the bell, the security panel activated and he saw Dr. Wells' face.
"Mr. Allen? Is everything all right?"
Barry shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah." Then he shook his head. "No – not really. I – I needed someone to talk to tonight." Heat blossomed on his cheeks. "Never mind – I'm going – " He turned and was about to speed off when the front door opened.
"Barry?"
He turned to see Dr. Wells framed in the light.
"I'm – I'm sorry I bothered you. Just going to go. Now."
"No bother – you're never a bother. Why don't you come in?" Dr. Wells rolled back, giving him space. "Come on – you look like you could use a friend. And we are friends, Mr. Allen – aren't we?"
"Yeah, we are." He went inside and shut the door behind him. This was the third time he'd been here, and once again, it seemed like a completely different place. Tonight the great room was warm and welcoming, despite the preponderance of glass and steel. There was a fire going in the hearth, and while it was gas-fired like the one in the library, it seemed to provide actual warmth to the room.
"Can I get you something?" Dr. Wells rolled over to a small bar area. "I was going to have some scotch – would you like a glass, too? We can continue your education in fine spirits."
Barry stood there, ill at ease, his hands in his pockets. Even though he didn't feel at all happy or amused or pleased, he forced himself to smile. "Maybe some other time?"
"Hmm." Dr. Wells didn't listen to him as poured two glasses of scotch and gave him that look, the one that always made him feel like he was about to step off a precipice. But as many times as he'd gotten that look, as many times as he'd taken that next step, he'd never landed hard. There was no reason to think that he would, now, so he took the glass and under Dr. Wells' watchful eyes, took a sip.
Like that night at Amaro's, Dr. Wells asked, "What do you taste?"
Barry let the alcohol linger on his tongue before he swallowed; he closed his eyes and opened his senses. The anger was still there, he could hear it like a screaming toddler in the distance, but he could ignore it for the moment. This scotch gave him a very different sensation than the MacAllen.
"Summer, apples, cherries, warm days and cool nights. A deep lake that's cold just under the surface." Barry took another sip, eyes still closed. "The smell of grass and leaves at the end of the day."
He opened his eyes, surprised at himself. "I feel a little … silly."
"Why?"
Barry shrugged. "Aside from some bad experiences with cheap whiskey in college, this is only the second glass I've ever had. I sound like a pretentious idiot."
"Why? I asked you what you tasted, you answered my question. Nothing pretentious about that." Dr. Wells looked up at him and Barry let himself enjoy the warm look of approval in his eyes. "I wonder, even though your metabolism processes alcohol too fast for your brain to be affected, if you have enhanced taste receptors. Maybe one day, when things are a little quieter, we could explore that."
Barry sort of liked the idea.
"So, what brings you here tonight?"
He moved over to the window and stared out into the dark forest beyond the glass. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Dunno."
"Oh, I think you do, Mr. Allen. I think you know exactly why you ended up at my front door tonight." Dr. Wells rolled up next to him. "You're still angry."
He whispered, "Yeah."
"It's not something so easy to get over."
"It's under my skin – like a rash, or something. I keep scratching at it, trying to make it go away, but it doesn't. Not for long." The confession was unbidden, unthinking – much like the anger he spewed out earlier.
Dr. Wells patted his arm, his hand lingering on his bicep. "I understand."
Barry stared out into the nothingness and shook his head. "I hurt too many people today."
"Ah. So the Golden Retriever turned into a badly trained Rottweiler?"
Barry turned from the window and looked at Dr. Wells, not believing what he'd just heard. Dr. Wells was smiling – smirking, to be honest – but there was something conspiratorial in his expression. Like they were sharing a very private joke.
He bit his lip. "Yeah, something like that."
"You know, now that I think about it, you're not a Rottweiler, more of a Doberman."
"Seriously? You're really doing this?" Barry couldn't stop his own grin.
"Okay, Mr. Allen, what type of dog do you think I am?"
Barry blinked. This was a game that kids played, but Dr. Wells was still grinning at him, daring him to answer. "Like I just asked, are you really doing this?"
"Why not?" Dr. Wells leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, his smile just a touch wicked. "Come on, Mr. Allen, you had to have had those thoughts. Everyone does."
Half on the verge of hysterical laughter, halfway to utter humiliation, Barry glared at the man. "You'd be a Border Collie." He'd seen an epic documentary about the breed on one of the science channels once and had been fascinated at the way those dogs could control almost anything.
That answer seemed to surprise Dr. Wells. "Oh? "
"You take charge; you do what you need to do to make sure we're all safe. You don't hesitate to bite us on the ass if we go the wrong way, you watch out for us." Embarrassment scalded his cheeks.
But Dr. Wells was far from offended. If anything, his smile grew broader, more pleased. "Thank you, Mr. Allen. I don't think I've ever been paid a finer compliment."
Barry chuckled. "You asked."
"Yes, I most certainly did. Please feel free to put a picture of a Border collie as my contact photo."
"I'll try to find one with blue eyes."
That earned him another chuckle.
"You hungry?"
"When am I not?"
"Haven't you eaten today?" The amusement in Dr. Wells' eyes was immediately replaced by deep concern.
Barry shook his head. "Haven't had time."
"So – you've spent two days fighting with Oliver Queen, taking how many arrows? Then the pair of you rounded up Bivolo? You've run across the country a few times? Tell me you at least had one of those nutrition bars?" Dr. Wells makes a sound that's a cross between an annoyed 'tsk' and a worried 'hrumph' before picking up his wrist and checking his pulse.
And made that sound again before dropping his wrist. "That's not going to tell me a damn thing."
Barry shoves his hands back into his pockets. "I'm okay."
"You like Chinese food?"
He blinked at the non sequitur. "Huh? Yeah. Who doesn't?"
"You'd be surprised. And I find I have a yen for mu-shu beef tonight." Dr. Wells rolled towards the kitchen. Barry was surprised to see the counters were at normal height – normal for someone who stood on two legs. But as Dr. Wells crossed the threshold, the floor just lifted up eight inches.
"Holy cow." Barry shook his head. "One of Cisco's designs?"
"No, actually – this one's all mine. Took some doing to get the hydraulics working right, and it's not perfect – I can't access the lower cabinets while the floor's raised." Dr. Wells demonstrated – pulling at a door that was blocked. But honestly, I don't do a lot of cooking anyway. He opened a drawer and pulled out a menu. "Ahh, this is what I want. You know what the problem is with take-out Chinese? It's always cold when it arrives. And living out here in the wilds, I'm lucky to get a delivery at all."
Barry nodded, still feeling a little whipsawed by the rapid change in subject.
"So, what do you want?" Dr. Wells gave him that look again, the one that would always make him leap without looking. "Actually - don't tell me, I'll just order everything that looks good – unless there's something you don't like."
"Not fond of mushrooms – you know, the ones that look like little …" Terminally embarrassed by what he was about to say, Barry wanted to crawl under the floor and lower the hydraulics over himself.
"No, Mr. Allen, I don't know what type of mushrooms you're referring to." But Dr. Wells' eyes were definitely twinkling and his lips were clearly fighting the urge to smirk.
"You're going to make me say it, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Allen. I am."
"Theonesthatlooklikelittlepenises, okay?" The words rushed out, all together.
"Okay – so no dishes with volvariella volvacea – straw mushrooms – in it. Anything else you don't like?"
Barry shook his head. "Of course you know the Latin name for those things. And no, I'm good with everything else."
"Even squid?" Dr. Wells gave him an arch look.
"As long as it doesn't taste like rubber bands, I like it."
"Okay." Dr. Wells lowered the floor and rolled out of the kitchen. "You up for one more short run tonight?"
"Flash delivery service at your service!" Barry joked, tipping an imaginary hat.
He listened as Dr. Wells ordered enough food to feed the entire Central City Police Department, or one very hungry speedster and his friend.
"Pick up in twenty-five minutes? Thank you." Dr. Wells gave the restaurant his credit card information, wrote down the confirmation number and hung up. He turned to Barry and asked, "So – what do you want to do for twenty-five minutes? A game of chess?"
Barry grimaced. "You know I don't play well enough to make the game anything other than an exercise in humiliation."
"Hmmm – that's something else for us to work on. Strategy is important. Understanding your enemy's – your opponent's - weaknesses, learning how to exploit them. Planning your moves ahead of time, knowing how your opponent thinks, what his plans are, how to be three steps ahead of where he'll move. I think your friend, Oliver, tried to impart that lesson to you the other day."
"Which was why I ended up with two arrows in my ass."
"Yes, precisely."
"Perhaps I should leave the strategic thinking to you."
"Perhaps, but that's also a weakness, Mr. Allen. What if I wasn't here? What if our line of communication was broken?" Dr. Wells paused and gave him an indecipherable look. "What if our intentions weren’t perfectly in sync?"
"Dr. Wells?" The very thought of that nauseated him. "What?"
"Assumptions are dangerous, and you're always doing dangerous things, Mr. Allen. I see you go out and risk your life every day, when I'd rather keep you safe. I worry too much about you. There may come a time when … that fear, that need … may supersede your desire to save the world."
Barry nodded, understanding. "Okay – but I don't think I'm quite up for a chess lesson tonight, though."
"No – perhaps tonight is not the time. Do you play gin?"
That he did. "Aces high? Turn card value is the knock point? Three games across? Two-hundred-fifty points a game, nickel a point?" Joe had taught him and Iris how to play when they'd both had the chicken pox as kids. Iris didn't take to it, but Barry loved the game and there were still nights when he played endless hands with Joe.
"Ah, I guess you do know how to play. I think we have time for a few hands." Dr. Wells produced a pack of cards and let Barry shuffle, raising an eyebrow as he smoothly moved through the process – the riff, the merge and then the bridge – all at normal speed, before slapping the deck and letting Dr. Wells make the cut before dealing.
They played three hands and to Barry's surprised delight, he beat the other man on all three. The mildly disgruntled expression on Dr. Wells' face was a bonus.
"Hmm. I may definitely be wrong about your lack of strategic skills. It's been a while since I've been bested quite so thoroughly."
Barry laughed and it felt so good. The happiness felt clean and pure, untainted by the anger that had been dogging him. "Think the food's ready?"
Dr. Wells glanced at his watch. "Yes. It's been about a half hour. Leave the door … open."
Barry whizzed off before Dr. Wells finished his sentence, and was back in two minutes, carrying three large bags of food. "Sorry I took so long, there was a line."
"But the food is hot?"
"Of course – what type of Flash delivery service would I be if I brought you cold Chinese food?"
They ate at a long, low coffee table and Barry sat on the floor next to Dr. Wells' chair. They shared all of the dishes, eating out of the cartons.
"These dumplings are soooo good." He reluctantly offered one to Dr. Wells.
"They are. Next time, remind me - a double order on the dumplings."
"Triple." Barry cradled the tin against his chest, dodging Dr. Wells' greedy chopsticks, and gobbling the last succulent morsel.
They moved on to the main courses.
"Here, try this." Dr. Wells held out a piece of pork with his chopsticks, and Barry didn't bother to take it with his fingers. Without thinking, he ate it off the utensils. He held up a piece of lamb and Dr. Wells did the same. They did this a dozen times with different dishes, and after each exchange, Barry felt the anger melt away.
Eventually, Dr. Wells leaned back in his chair. "Enough – I am done. The rest is all yours. You earned it."
Barry made quick work of the remaining food – if just to finish before everything got cold and nasty, then made quicker – Flash-speed – work of the cleanup, because the only thing worse than the smell of old Belly Burger containers was that of old Chinese food boxes. Satisfied, he collapsed back on the floor and leaned against Dr. Wells' chair, his head resting against the other man's knee. When he realized what he was doing, Barry chuckled. "Looks like you've got the stupid Golden Retriever back."
"It seems that way." Dr. Wells reached down and ruffled Barry's hair.
Barry couldn't help himself and said, "Arf."
Both men chuckled.
He could have stayed like that forever, Dr. Wells' long fingers carding through his hair, his nails gently scraping his scalp, as the very last of the anger faded away. The intimacy of the moment – the whole evening – wasn't lost on him. It wasn't like their dinner at the fancy steakhouse a few weeks ago, or even when Dr. Wells apologized for his behavior – and shared a terrible memory with him.
This was altogether different, and he liked it, a lot.
"You're not falling asleep on me?"
Barry looked up. Dr. Wells had taken off his glasses and if anything, removing that simple barrier increased the intimacy between them a thousand-fold. He shook his head. "No, just comfortable. Happy."
For a heartbeat, blue eyes seemed to burn into him and Barry wanted to shiver. But he didn't, and he didn't drop his gaze either. The intensity flared and died back, and Dr. Wells' lips curved into a smile. "Hold still."
Barry did and Dr. Wells reached out to touch his cheek – the corner of his mouth, really.
"You've got some sauce on your face."
He stuck his tongue out to lick it off, and would have made another dog joke, but his tongue touched Dr. Wells' finger and instead of withdrawing, he licked it, curling his tongue around it in a way he hadn't done to another man in years.
Dr. Wells didn't pull back either, nor did he freeze. Instead, he slipped his spit-slicked finger across Barry's mouth and rubbed his lower lip, as if he was seeking an invitation. Still staring at the other man, Barry sucked that finger in, up to the first knuckle, letting his teeth scrape lightly across the skin. He worked his mouth around the digit, mimicking what'd he'd like to do with another part of the man's anatomy.
Dr. Wells' – Harrison's – pupils dilated, the black almost swallowing the blue, before he pulled his finger free.
Harrison blinked, breaking the connection, and Barry waited for him to cough, to make some awkward comment and perhaps roll away. But he didn't.
"I see what you meant by teaching your fluid dynamics professor something about cock-sucking."
Barry licked his lips, savoring the salt from Harrison's skin. "I feel like I should apologize for that."
"Why?"
"Because that was … inappropriate?" Barry couldn't help the question.
"Maybe, but not unwelcome."
"No?"
"I see how you look at me; I'm just surprised you haven't noticed how I looked back."
"I – I wasn't sure. You were married. You loved your wife very much."
"And I told you, for many people – for you and for me – sexuality is fluid. The package is not as important as what it contains: brilliance, intelligence, a great soul. Those are very powerful aphrodisiacs."
Barry didn't say anything. He was afraid to break the moment.
But Harrison didn't seem to have any qualms in doing so. His lips twitched and his eyes glowed and his voice was deep and quiet. "Tell me, Mr. Allen, what precisely did you mean when you said you were a 'very bad boy' when you were in college. What did you do?"
Barry laughed, actually relieved that the intensity of the moment was shattered. "I was a go-go boy and lap dancer at a club in Old Town. Did some ensemble stripping, too. But that didn't pay as well as the private lap dances."
He almost wished he had his cell phone out, so he could take a picture of Harrison Wells looking absolutely and utterly dumbfounded.
"No, I don't believe you."
"Believe me. Occasionally pretending to have two left feet is a good cover, but I was on the pole for almost my entire undergraduate career. Paid for a lot of text books and lab supplies with the old bump and grind." Barry stretched, reaching towards the ceiling, before shifting around and facing Harrison. He leaned back, thighs spread, trapping the wheelchair between his legs, well aware of how provocative he looked.
They stared at each other and Barry felt a deep frisson of desire blaze through him. His nipples tightened and his dick – which had perked up when Harrison stuck his finger in his mouth – took even more interest in the evening.
"Prove it." Harrison's voice was rough, guttural. "Show me what you can do."
Barry got to his feet and fished out his phone. "I still have my favorite performance tunes on tap. Hope you don't mind, but I like the slow stuff." He found the playlist and handed the phone to Harrison, who laughed at what was there. "Here, take your pick."
"That's quite a collection."
"Different strokes for different folks. And I mean that literally. Some clients had some very – ah – unusual tastes." Barry hoped Harrison wasn't going to ask him to elaborate.
He didn't. "Let's see, I don't think I want to watch you bump and grind to 'Oh, Daddy' or something that might be more appropriate for a Sunday mass. And honestly, 'I Touch Myself' and 'I Want Your Sex' are a little, well …"
"Obvious?"
"Yes!" Harrison burst out – half appalled, half laughing. He handed the phone back to Barry. "You pick."
"Oh, that's easy." He moved the coffee table out of the way, and then pulled off his shoes and socks in preparation – because there was simply no graceful way to get out of skinny jeans with any footwear on. Barry took a deep breath, not quite believing that he was doing this in front of a highly skeptical Harrison Wells.
He was about to let the music play through the phone, when Harrison pointed to a stereo system with a convenient aux jack. A single tap and the opening guitar of his riffs of his favorite performance track filled the room. It had been a few years since he'd done this, but the music triggered the muscle memory and he went into a body roll as his hand toyed with the buttons on his shirt.
Baby, when I think about you, I think about love
Darlin', don't live without you and your love
If I had those golden dreams of my yesterdays
I would wrap you in the Heaven 'til I'm dyin' on the way
His body rocked and swayed and his clothes dropped to the floor. Back in the day, he rarely performed in real clothes – they were too difficult to remove – but he could certainly improvise. With each repetition of the bass riff, each time he heard the words "Feel like makin' love," Barry stepped closer and closer to Harrison.
He could smell his sweat – his own lust – and it was good.
Strip club dancing was all about artifice, all about selling the dream of desire, straddling a lonely guy who didn't have his own boy and making him believe that he was hard just for him. But tonight, there was no pretense, no artifice, no lies. He wanted Harrison Wells, and he wanted to make Harrison want him just as desperately.
Baby, if I think about you, I think about love
Darlin' if I live without you, I live without love
And if I had the sun and moon, we will shine them
I would give you both night and day of satisfyin'
He was in an almost continuous body roll, and if Harrison had been in a normal chair, not the heavy contraption with rails and arms and a damn joystick platform, Barry would have straddled him, rolling his crotch against him in a parody of copulation. He improvised, though – turning around to give the man a front and center view of his ass as he worked his jeans down his thighs and off.
He left his boxer briefs on – for the moment – although they did nothing to hide his massive erection and the damp patch as his cock leaked.
Barry looked at Harrison – just at his face and nowhere else. His normally pale cheeks were colored by a bright red flush, his nostrils were flared and those beautiful lips were red and bitten. Harrison's hands were restive, fists clenching and unclenching, as if he wanted to reach out and grab him.
Barry turned and balanced himself over Harrison's lap, grinding his ass against the other man as the refrain kept repeating, the singer's harsh voice in harmony to the guitar licks.
Harrison wrapped his arms around his waist and brought their bodies together and he was startled to feel the other man's bare chest against his back. When had he taken off his sweater?
Barry ground down harder, feeling the other man's cock jab thick and hard against his butt, between his ass cheeks. He rocked back and forth, letting the friction stimulate both of them. Harrison let go for a second to yank his thighs apart, to cup Barry’s cock through the soft cotton, to jam them together in absolute physical intimacy. Barry didn't come, but he could have – had Harrison shoved his hand into his shorts and stroked him bare.
He rolled his body back and forth to the music, to the rhythm of his desire, riding that perfect wave.
Feel like makin'
Feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love to you
Well I feel like makin' love
Well I feel like makin' love
Well I feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love to you
The song came to an end and the only sound in the room was their harsh breathing.
Finally, Harrison let go of him and spoke, his voice almost unrecognizable. "As you can tell, Mr. Allen, I am not a eunuch. Unless you want this to go to its natural conclusion, you should get off my lap."
Barry didn't move, "Harrison, considering that you have your cock practically jammed up my ass, I think you should call me 'Barry'. And I have no objection at all to anything you want to do to me."
"Do you always issue such open invitations?"
"No – never. I do have some sense of self-preservation."
"Really? I haven't seen much evidence of that." Harrison's right hand squeezed his cock, his left slid up Barry’s torso and found his nipple, pinching it hard.
Barry groaned and rocked his hips. "Am I hurting you?"
"You couldn't hurt me if you tried."
Harrison kept tormenting his tit and Barry started panting. He'd never really been into pain, but he loved what this man was doing to him. "Harrison…" Was that his voice? So breathy? So needy?
"What do you want from me, Barry?"
He panted, trying to make the words come out.
"Mr. Allen?" Harrison was laughing at him as he kept pulling and pinching and stroking. "You have to tell me what you want."
"Fuck me, please, please fuck me."
"Hmm, now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Harrison stopped tormenting his flesh and Barry whined at the loss. Then the world seemed to shift and suddenly, he was on his hands and knees, with a weight lying across his back - Harrison.
Barry tried to turn over. He figured that Harrison would want to be on his back, that he'd want him to ride his cock like an obscene circus pony. But he figured wrong.
"No, Barry – pull down your shorts and stay on hands and knees." Harrison panted into his ear. "I'm going to fuck you and you're going to like it. I'm not going to be gentle, either."
Barry shivered. There was such lust, such menace in the other man's voice. He managed – somehow – to get his underwear off. He could feel Harrison fumble with his own pants – undoing his belt, pulling down the zipper, and at last, the hot hardness of his cock.
"You know what the six simple machines are, Barry?" Harrison whispered in his ear. "Tell me which one is going to make this work tonight?"
Barry wanted to say "screw" but that was just a bad joke. He could feel Harrison's naked cock nestled between his cheeks. It had been a long time since he'd had sex with another man and although he wanted this so badly, he was shaking with it, his ass was tight and there was no way that he could take that cock …
Harrison was growling now. "Barry, you were a physics major – tell me, what are the six simple machines?"
He closed his eyes and recited, "Wheel and axle, pulley, inclined plan, wedge, screw and …"
The last one escaped him and Harrison slapped his flank. "Come on, Mr. Allen, think. What's going to make this work?"
The slap felt too good and Barry wished he'd do it again, but he finally did remember. "Lever – fulcrum and lever."
"Very good." Harrison purred. "Now straighten your arms and lock your elbows."
He obeyed and Harrison threaded one arm beneath him, gripping his shoulder in reverse. The other hand he held out in front of Barry's face. "Spit – unless you want me to take you dry as well as unstretched."
Barry shuddered – in fear, in anticipation, in pleasure. He gave Harrison what he asked for, even though his mouth was dry, and felt him work the moisture against his anus. And then Harrison started to penetrate him, pushing hard against his pucker. He tried to relax, but it didn't work like that – Harrison's cock was too massive, he was too tight. But Harrison didn't give up, he didn't stop and suddenly, Barry felt like his was being ripped apart.
Harrison grunted and panted. "Do you like that?"
Barry managed not to scream as more of that monster worked itself into his ass, but then Harrison hit his joy spot and while the pain didn't go away, it turned into something else. Something rich and soul-changing and Barry wondered if he'd ever feel like this again.
Harrison tucked his other arm under Barry’s and around his shoulder – and that seemingly random question about simple machines made sense. Harrison was using his torso like a fulcrum, levering himself back and forth solely through his own upper body strength.
When Harrison had first breached him, Barry had started to pant in quick, shallow breaths, to work around the pain, to rediscover the pleasure in this act. Now, his breathing slowed, deepened. He could feel Harrison's own breath against his skin, his mouth, his teeth worrying at his neck, and it was hot and sharp - another painful pleasure. Harrison used his body like a bar, like he was doing pull-ups, and his pace was torturously slow.
But it was perfect, too. Harrison's cock hit his joy spot over and over again, sending waves of such pleasure through him that Barry couldn't think, couldn't do anything but pray that this would never end.
Then he felt the lightning – the power that only came when he ran. It was like another layer of pleasure coursing through him. No, not through him – over him – like the teasing caress of a phantom hand playing at all his erogenous zones. Barry wondered if Harrison could feel it, too.
And it seemed that he could, because he growled, "Do you want more? I know I do." Harrison gripped him tighter and finally started moving faster. Barry splayed out his lower body and let the lightning take over. It crackled over them, through them, and even though Harrison couldn't touch his cock without this whole horrible-terrible-wonderful construct collapsing, it felt like there was another hand there, stroking him, squeezing his balls, touching and tormenting him like a quasi-sadistic lover.
It built – like orgasm – but only better, stronger, more powerful and then there was another delicious pain as Harrison bit down hard at the point where his neck and shoulder met. Barry screamed as he climaxed, as the world turned brilliant white, as the lightning pierced him all over again.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"Barry? Barry?"
"Huh?" Barry wondered when his bed became so uncomfortable – so hard and scratchy, like a carpet. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into an endless universe of blue. He blinked at that universe reformed into Harrison Wells' worried eyes.
"Barry?" Harrison's voice was soft and serious and it sounded a little like he was on the verge of tears. "Are you all right?"
Barry smiled, or he tried to. Everything ached, like he'd just run into a wall at a thousand miles an hour. But Harrison looked so devastated, so guilty, that he forced himself to sit up, instead of just lying there. I'm naked. "You're naked."
Harrison didn't make a quip or smirk or call him "Mr. Allen" in that cool, slightly derisive tone that Barry loved. "Just – please – tell me you're all right."
"I'm fine." Despite the aches, he felt like he could fly. "Really."
Harrison reached out, ghosting his fingers across his cheek. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For hurting you, for taking you so … brutally."
Barry shook his head. "No, no – you don't get to apologize for what has to be the best – " Barry let it all out, there was no point in denying it, "sex of my life."
Harrison pursed his lips. "Sex with a cripple? Seriously?"
"Don't you dare call yourself that." Then he laughed. "Really, you just used me like a fucking machine – it was incredible."
Harrison smiled – just barely.
"Yeah, it was rough, but I don't break easily."
"Yet, I feel like I've broken something between us. I should have been more considerate."
"Nothing's broken, but maybe next time, we can use a bed?" Barry stretched out his legs and examined his knees. The skin was red and raw, but healing almost before his eyes. "Or get me knee pads?"
Finally, Harrison relaxed. "You're pretty sure there's going to be a next time."
"Well, unless you didn't enjoy it. You did, didn't you?"
"I might need a few more samples before making a final decision – I am a scientist." Harrison was smiling, at last.
"And to a scientist, a sample of one is meaningless." Barry joked.
That got a chuckle and the tension between them eased, at least until Harrison shifted around and tried to sit up. Instead, he got tangled in his pants, which were caught around his knees. "Damn. I hate this." He moved his legs manually, but kept falling to one side or the other, unable to keep upright without support.
"Can I help you?" As much as he hated watching anyone struggle, particularly someone he cared about, Barry knew the worst thing he could do was interfere without asking.
Harrison didn't answer right away; he just stared at Barry with grave eyes. Finally, he said, "That would be … appreciated."
Rather than deal with getting the man's pants back on, Barry stripped them off completely. "Can I put you in your chair?"
"Please."
Barry stood and all of the aches and pains made themselves known. He stifled a grimace at the stickiness between his ass, the burning soreness, too.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Harrison sounded so worried again.
"I'm really fine." He carefully picked his lover up and set him – bare assed – in his chair. "Are you okay?"
Harrison reached up and grabbed his hand. "As long as you have no regrets, I'm perfect."
"No regrets, ever."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, until Harrison cleared his throat. "I think we could both use showers."
Before Barry could agree, Harrison added, "And for this, I'm going to ask you for some privacy." He sighed and looked down at his legs. "Maybe in a little while, I'll get used to letting you see me in less-than-optimal situations."
Barry thought that was a little ridiculous. He'd seen Harrison so drunk he had passed out, face-first, on a table in a dive bar. He'd held the man while he puked his guts out on the side of the road. Seeing him naked and bathing was certainly not going to bother him. But he didn't say that – Harrison Wells was a man who took a lot of pride in himself – and Barry understood that he needed to retain that pride. "That's okay. Do you have another bathroom I could use?"
"Yes, follow me."
They passed the library where Harrison had poured out part of his heart – Barry hoped to have a chance to spend more time there – and pointed to a room. "There's a bathroom attached to that bedroom. When you're done, come join me – my bedroom's at the end of the hall."
Barry nodded.
Harrison reached for his hand again. "Don't be long." He squeezed it and let go. Barry watched him go into his suite. He went into the bedroom and found a bathroom that was almost as big as his apartment. There were piles of fluffy white towels and a basket of toiletries waiting, as if this was a fancy hotel. There was a tub that looked big enough to accommodate two, and his destination - a shower that could hold an orgy.
Barry lingered in the shower, taking time to wash away not only the residue of the so-spectacular sex he'd just had, but the grime and grief of a long and terrible day. He searched for the anger, but all he could summon was a memory of the rage – not the rage itself. Satisfaction, joy, and something else that he couldn't quite name, had wiped it away.
Clean in body and soul, Barry got out of the shower. Never particularly vain or interested in his appearance, nonetheless, he spent a few minutes in front of the mirror. The arrow wounds were long gone, but he was still marked – by Harrison's teeth. A deep oval bruise decorated his shoulder and Barry couldn't help but push at it. That pain sent up a corresponding ache in his groin.
He hadn't told Harrison – and he never would – but he'd done a hell of a lot more than strip. He wasn't ashamed of doing outcall. He'd been careful and very selective with his clients, and had played the pain game, but it never, ever did for him what tonight's experience had.
Maybe it was because Harrison wasn't a client, because Harrison was his friend. More than just a friend, he was someone he trusted absolutely and without question. He’d let himself go and the lightning came, as if from god's own hand.
Barry laughed, feeling a little ridiculous, but there really was no other way to describe it. He finished drying off, brushed his teeth and found a white terry cloth robe to wear instead of a towel and padded barefoot to Harrison's bedroom.
Not sure of the etiquette and mindful of his lover's request for privacy, Barry knocked.
"Come in."
Barry opened the door and it felt like his life was about to begin.
Again.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He closed the door behind him, but didn't get out of the wheelchair. As long as someone else was in the house, this pretense had to be maintained.
Let it go.
The voice in his head was too loud, too persistent.
Let it go. Let the hatred go.
"No. Go away."
But Harrison Wells wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't shutting up. If anything, he was louder, stronger, so close to taking back what was his.
Eobard couldn't let him, he wouldn't.
Even with Wells' voice whispering in his head, he had things he had to do. No, not checking the timeline - that was too dangerous with Barry Allen under his roof. No - he had to get clean, get Barry's blood off his dick. He had to wash the stain away.
The bathroom door was firmly locked and only then did Eobard get out of the chair. He felt … strange. He felt something he hadn't in so long. He felt filled by the Speed Force.
"You see what I mean - you could have it all back. Just let everything else go."
"Shut up."
"Barry is not like you - and he's not like the man you've hated for so long. Barry is generous, he'll share it all with you. All you have to do is let it go."
"No."
Eobard tried to summon the memories of home - his golden family, the riches, the power. But all he could remember were shadows and shapes, not even names.
Under the pouring water, he screamed his despair.
"Let it go."
The water scalded his skin, but the helpless rage wouldn't wash away. It did serve a purpose. Harrison Wells retreated - he went back to that dark, empty place and watched. He'd be back, Eobard knew that, but for now, he had some peace.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Barry found Harrison sitting up in his bed against a pile of pillows, reading. The wheelchair was close by and the room illuminated by lights embedded in the walls. His lover looked tired and something in Barry just melted at the sight of the mussed hair, a spare pair of glasses perched at the end of his nose.
Harrison Wells looked so beautiful and so vulnerable that it terrified him.
"Barry?"
"Hey there." He came over to the bed, but paused a few feet away, hands buried in the robe pockets. "How are you doing?"
Harrison smiled. "Very well." He tossed his reading material onto the wheelchair. "Come closer."
Barry joked, "Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly?"
That got a laugh. "Sometimes it does seem that way. Now, come here and take off the robe."
Barry obeyed, up to a point. Harrison glared at him when he started hummed the opening to "Feel Like Making' Love" and was toying with the robe's sash.
"Mr. Allen, when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it."
That tone, it pressed so many buttons – the need to obey and the need to defy. Every part of his body was electrified again and the front of the robe started to tent.
Harrison chuckled. "Ah, the joys of youth."
Barry refused to be embarrassed. "And a speedster's metabolism."
"Will you please take off your robe – I promise that my intent is not salacious."
"Aw, damn." Barry finally unknotted the sash and stripped, tossing the robe on the foot of the bed. He held his arms out, letting Harrison get a good look at his naked glory.
"Very nice, Mr. Allen. Now turn around."
Barry turned and was startled when Harrison pried his cheeks apart. "Give a guy some warning?"
"I hurt you, Barry - and if you weren't a speedster, you'd be bleeding very badly right now. You might even need stitches."
"But I don't - I'm perfectly fine." Barry turned around. "Why are you making such a big deal of this?"
Harrison shook his head. "Because you are more to me than a man who was struck by lightning and ended up with some pretty spectacular gifts. " He ran his hand up Barry's flank. "You - Barry Allen - are the most important person in the world to me. And nothing will ever change that."
Barry nodded, overwhelmed.
"Now, the rules. If you want this to continue, you'll agree to them. Otherwise it ends tonight, and we go back to what we had before."
"Rules?" Barry swallowed, imagining all sorts of things - limitations and boundaries that he'd have to observe.
But Harrison surprised him. "You never, ever, ever let me do what I did to you again. Understand? No lube? No penetration. Full stop. I don't get to rip you apart like that - even if you are a speedster with meta-human healing powers. And what about condoms? How do you know I'm clean? How could you take such risks?"
"You can't help yourself, can you?" Barry grinned. "You can't stop being such a Border collie, can you?"
Harrison sniffed, trying to appear stern and miffed, but only managing to look utterly adorable. "No, apparently not. But I'm serious. You need to watch out for yourself, Barry."
"With you, I don't have to." Barry smiled and knelt on the bed. "This - " He touched a oval bruise on his shoulder. "This is a badge of honor - it'll be gone by morning but I'll feel it for the rest of my life."
"You're rather determined, Mr. Allen, to get the best of me."
Barry took off Harrison's glasses and tossed them aside. He leaned in and rested his forehead against his. "I have had the best of you, and I'm looking forward to having it again. And again. And again. If you don't want to fuck me without lube and a condom, you can come all over my face. Or down my throat, or on my chest or ass or anywhere. I trust you."
Harrison cupped the back of his head, holding him close. "What did I ever do to deserve you, Mr. Allen?"
Barry smiled and ignored the question. "You have rules, I have a rule, too, Dr. Wells."
"Oh? Just one?"
"Yup, just one - you have to be very, very careful how you call me 'Mr. Allen' over the comms. It's kind of difficult to run at the speed of sound with a massive erection."
Harrison laughed and wrapped his arms around him. He laughed and Barry could feel the man's joy like it was another kind of lightning. Then he kissed him. At first, it was just a gentle brush of lips, almost an accident of proximity. There was hunger there, but need, too. The kiss was a moment of perfect intimacy, perfect understanding.
This kiss was a promise of everything that could be between them.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Harrison Wells was laughing at him again. The sound was worse than the most discordant siren.
"Give it up. No matter how hard you try, Barry Allen will never be the man you hate."
"Yes, oh yes he will. When I rip everything he loves from him, when I show him the truth, he will hate me. As much as I hate him."
"You are such a fool, Eobard Thawne, to know love and to spit in its face. I've hated you and feared you, but now - now I only pity you." Harrison laughed again. "You say you despise the Flash, that you only wish him ill, that you want to destroy him. If that's true, then why are you holding him like he is the most precious thing in the world?"
Thawne closed his eyes, screaming his denial. But he didn't let go of Barry.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: The Flash (2014)
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Harrison Wells, Barry Allen, Harrison/Barry
Word Count: ~8200
Spoilers: None for current season, takes place immediately after S1.08 (Flash vs. Arrow).
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Rough sex, unsafe sex (barebacking)
Beta Credit:
theatregirl7299 Summary: Part Three of The Seduction of Barry Allen. After Barry's encounter with Bivolo, he finds he can't escape the rage. So he goes to see the one person who understands the corrosive effects of anger.
Author’s Notes: I've pretty much finished watching Season One (okay - I skipped a few episodes and jumped to the finale) – so there are probably more than a few inaccuracies in canon.
To my White Collar friends who might be intrigued, this pairing presses all of my Neal/Adler buttons big time. A quick primer on Barry and Harrison can be found here.
Harrison Wells was alive.
And not just in the sense that Eobard Thawne has been wearing the man's skin for a decade and a half, or that the world that once considered him one of the greatest scientific minds of the era now sees him as nothing more than a reckless fool.
No, Harrison Wells – the man whose life and dreams and DNA he had stolen – still lived. There was a part of him that didn't die that night, the part that could not be killed, and that resided inside Eobard Thawne's mind. It had been there for fifteen years, and until recently, it had remained a quiescent presence – providing Thawne with background and personality traits, quirks to be exploited as he worked towards his goal. Wells rarely stirred, remaining wrapped in a cocoon of grief and shock. He mourned his wife, the life and future he'd lost on that empty road, and that suited Eobard Thawne perfectly.
But something had happened; something had stirred Wells out of his stupor, and he was making his voice heard. And what he was saying frightened Eobard as much as the thought of being trapped forever in this backward century, of failing in his quest.
Maybe even more.
Now that Harrison Wells was awake, he was trying to take back what had been stolen. Not through brute force, but in a subtle campaign - whispering to him in the dark night, telling him the greatest lie of all, "This Flash was not your enemy."
Thawne answered unwillingly, "Not yet. But he will be."
But Wells refused to be silenced, "If you stop now, that future will never happen. Barry Allen loves you, think what that means. You could have everything, if you just let your hatred go."
Thawne screamed his denial, but all he heard was Harrison Wells' bitter laughter.
It felt like the anger was still pulsing under his skin, waiting to erupt like some horrible infection, poisoning everything and everyone around him.
Joe had forgiven his harsh words. Oliver had understood, had forgiven him, too. But Iris – she hated him, now. She'd just made it clear that never wanted to see him – or at least a part of him – again. All his anger did was drive her closer to Eddie, make Eddie see him as a villain – the ultimate bad guy.
It all felt so hopeless. And that made the anger worse.
Barry ran. He tried to burn off the anger; he tried to find the joy in speed, in the lightning under his skin. He hoped it would burn away the poison. But it didn't.
He knew could go home, sit with Joe and eat pizza, watch old movies, let the breach between them heal cleanly – even if he still felt like a raw wound. He could go to the lab and talk with Cisco, with Caitlin. They were his friends, they'd offer laughter and companionship. They'd try to help without fully understanding what was going on inside him. He might feel better for a while, but it wouldn't last.
There were other options, too. He could chase down Ollie and Diggle and Felicity and work out his anger with them – hell, he'd already ran to Starling City and back twice since they left Central City. He could let Ollie administer a constructive beat-down, show him where his weaknesses were, prove that speed was only one arrow in his quiver. He could spend a few weeks with them, work with that team, do some good. Purge the poison from his soul.
But he couldn't do that – he had responsibilities here, in Central City. He had a job, he had this own team, his father rotting in Iron Heights; he couldn't just leave. As much as he wanted to.
Tonight, though, he could keep running, crisscrossing the country until he dropped from exhaustion. He felt close to it now. The corrosion was still there, threatening to eat him alive. If he could cut it out of him with a knife, he would.
Barry stopped running and realized he didn't have to do this alone. There was one person he could talk with, someone who understood anger, who knew about rage. And loss. And forgiveness. Someone who could help him, someone who always helped him.
It felt strange walking up the front path to Dr. Wells' house without Dr. Wells in front of him – kind of like he was walking towards the forbidden.
With each step, Barry wanted to turn back and save himself the embarrassment. But he still kept walking. Two steps, five steps, ten steps, a dozen. Even before he rang the bell, the security panel activated and he saw Dr. Wells' face.
"Mr. Allen? Is everything all right?"
Barry shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah." Then he shook his head. "No – not really. I – I needed someone to talk to tonight." Heat blossomed on his cheeks. "Never mind – I'm going – " He turned and was about to speed off when the front door opened.
"Barry?"
He turned to see Dr. Wells framed in the light.
"I'm – I'm sorry I bothered you. Just going to go. Now."
"No bother – you're never a bother. Why don't you come in?" Dr. Wells rolled back, giving him space. "Come on – you look like you could use a friend. And we are friends, Mr. Allen – aren't we?"
"Yeah, we are." He went inside and shut the door behind him. This was the third time he'd been here, and once again, it seemed like a completely different place. Tonight the great room was warm and welcoming, despite the preponderance of glass and steel. There was a fire going in the hearth, and while it was gas-fired like the one in the library, it seemed to provide actual warmth to the room.
"Can I get you something?" Dr. Wells rolled over to a small bar area. "I was going to have some scotch – would you like a glass, too? We can continue your education in fine spirits."
Barry stood there, ill at ease, his hands in his pockets. Even though he didn't feel at all happy or amused or pleased, he forced himself to smile. "Maybe some other time?"
"Hmm." Dr. Wells didn't listen to him as poured two glasses of scotch and gave him that look, the one that always made him feel like he was about to step off a precipice. But as many times as he'd gotten that look, as many times as he'd taken that next step, he'd never landed hard. There was no reason to think that he would, now, so he took the glass and under Dr. Wells' watchful eyes, took a sip.
Like that night at Amaro's, Dr. Wells asked, "What do you taste?"
Barry let the alcohol linger on his tongue before he swallowed; he closed his eyes and opened his senses. The anger was still there, he could hear it like a screaming toddler in the distance, but he could ignore it for the moment. This scotch gave him a very different sensation than the MacAllen.
"Summer, apples, cherries, warm days and cool nights. A deep lake that's cold just under the surface." Barry took another sip, eyes still closed. "The smell of grass and leaves at the end of the day."
He opened his eyes, surprised at himself. "I feel a little … silly."
"Why?"
Barry shrugged. "Aside from some bad experiences with cheap whiskey in college, this is only the second glass I've ever had. I sound like a pretentious idiot."
"Why? I asked you what you tasted, you answered my question. Nothing pretentious about that." Dr. Wells looked up at him and Barry let himself enjoy the warm look of approval in his eyes. "I wonder, even though your metabolism processes alcohol too fast for your brain to be affected, if you have enhanced taste receptors. Maybe one day, when things are a little quieter, we could explore that."
Barry sort of liked the idea.
"So, what brings you here tonight?"
He moved over to the window and stared out into the dark forest beyond the glass. He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Dunno."
"Oh, I think you do, Mr. Allen. I think you know exactly why you ended up at my front door tonight." Dr. Wells rolled up next to him. "You're still angry."
He whispered, "Yeah."
"It's not something so easy to get over."
"It's under my skin – like a rash, or something. I keep scratching at it, trying to make it go away, but it doesn't. Not for long." The confession was unbidden, unthinking – much like the anger he spewed out earlier.
Dr. Wells patted his arm, his hand lingering on his bicep. "I understand."
Barry stared out into the nothingness and shook his head. "I hurt too many people today."
"Ah. So the Golden Retriever turned into a badly trained Rottweiler?"
Barry turned from the window and looked at Dr. Wells, not believing what he'd just heard. Dr. Wells was smiling – smirking, to be honest – but there was something conspiratorial in his expression. Like they were sharing a very private joke.
He bit his lip. "Yeah, something like that."
"You know, now that I think about it, you're not a Rottweiler, more of a Doberman."
"Seriously? You're really doing this?" Barry couldn't stop his own grin.
"Okay, Mr. Allen, what type of dog do you think I am?"
Barry blinked. This was a game that kids played, but Dr. Wells was still grinning at him, daring him to answer. "Like I just asked, are you really doing this?"
"Why not?" Dr. Wells leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, his smile just a touch wicked. "Come on, Mr. Allen, you had to have had those thoughts. Everyone does."
Half on the verge of hysterical laughter, halfway to utter humiliation, Barry glared at the man. "You'd be a Border Collie." He'd seen an epic documentary about the breed on one of the science channels once and had been fascinated at the way those dogs could control almost anything.
That answer seemed to surprise Dr. Wells. "Oh? "
"You take charge; you do what you need to do to make sure we're all safe. You don't hesitate to bite us on the ass if we go the wrong way, you watch out for us." Embarrassment scalded his cheeks.
But Dr. Wells was far from offended. If anything, his smile grew broader, more pleased. "Thank you, Mr. Allen. I don't think I've ever been paid a finer compliment."
Barry chuckled. "You asked."
"Yes, I most certainly did. Please feel free to put a picture of a Border collie as my contact photo."
"I'll try to find one with blue eyes."
That earned him another chuckle.
"You hungry?"
"When am I not?"
"Haven't you eaten today?" The amusement in Dr. Wells' eyes was immediately replaced by deep concern.
Barry shook his head. "Haven't had time."
"So – you've spent two days fighting with Oliver Queen, taking how many arrows? Then the pair of you rounded up Bivolo? You've run across the country a few times? Tell me you at least had one of those nutrition bars?" Dr. Wells makes a sound that's a cross between an annoyed 'tsk' and a worried 'hrumph' before picking up his wrist and checking his pulse.
And made that sound again before dropping his wrist. "That's not going to tell me a damn thing."
Barry shoves his hands back into his pockets. "I'm okay."
"You like Chinese food?"
He blinked at the non sequitur. "Huh? Yeah. Who doesn't?"
"You'd be surprised. And I find I have a yen for mu-shu beef tonight." Dr. Wells rolled towards the kitchen. Barry was surprised to see the counters were at normal height – normal for someone who stood on two legs. But as Dr. Wells crossed the threshold, the floor just lifted up eight inches.
"Holy cow." Barry shook his head. "One of Cisco's designs?"
"No, actually – this one's all mine. Took some doing to get the hydraulics working right, and it's not perfect – I can't access the lower cabinets while the floor's raised." Dr. Wells demonstrated – pulling at a door that was blocked. But honestly, I don't do a lot of cooking anyway. He opened a drawer and pulled out a menu. "Ahh, this is what I want. You know what the problem is with take-out Chinese? It's always cold when it arrives. And living out here in the wilds, I'm lucky to get a delivery at all."
Barry nodded, still feeling a little whipsawed by the rapid change in subject.
"So, what do you want?" Dr. Wells gave him that look again, the one that would always make him leap without looking. "Actually - don't tell me, I'll just order everything that looks good – unless there's something you don't like."
"Not fond of mushrooms – you know, the ones that look like little …" Terminally embarrassed by what he was about to say, Barry wanted to crawl under the floor and lower the hydraulics over himself.
"No, Mr. Allen, I don't know what type of mushrooms you're referring to." But Dr. Wells' eyes were definitely twinkling and his lips were clearly fighting the urge to smirk.
"You're going to make me say it, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Allen. I am."
"Theonesthatlooklikelittlepenises, okay?" The words rushed out, all together.
"Okay – so no dishes with volvariella volvacea – straw mushrooms – in it. Anything else you don't like?"
Barry shook his head. "Of course you know the Latin name for those things. And no, I'm good with everything else."
"Even squid?" Dr. Wells gave him an arch look.
"As long as it doesn't taste like rubber bands, I like it."
"Okay." Dr. Wells lowered the floor and rolled out of the kitchen. "You up for one more short run tonight?"
"Flash delivery service at your service!" Barry joked, tipping an imaginary hat.
He listened as Dr. Wells ordered enough food to feed the entire Central City Police Department, or one very hungry speedster and his friend.
"Pick up in twenty-five minutes? Thank you." Dr. Wells gave the restaurant his credit card information, wrote down the confirmation number and hung up. He turned to Barry and asked, "So – what do you want to do for twenty-five minutes? A game of chess?"
Barry grimaced. "You know I don't play well enough to make the game anything other than an exercise in humiliation."
"Hmmm – that's something else for us to work on. Strategy is important. Understanding your enemy's – your opponent's - weaknesses, learning how to exploit them. Planning your moves ahead of time, knowing how your opponent thinks, what his plans are, how to be three steps ahead of where he'll move. I think your friend, Oliver, tried to impart that lesson to you the other day."
"Which was why I ended up with two arrows in my ass."
"Yes, precisely."
"Perhaps I should leave the strategic thinking to you."
"Perhaps, but that's also a weakness, Mr. Allen. What if I wasn't here? What if our line of communication was broken?" Dr. Wells paused and gave him an indecipherable look. "What if our intentions weren’t perfectly in sync?"
"Dr. Wells?" The very thought of that nauseated him. "What?"
"Assumptions are dangerous, and you're always doing dangerous things, Mr. Allen. I see you go out and risk your life every day, when I'd rather keep you safe. I worry too much about you. There may come a time when … that fear, that need … may supersede your desire to save the world."
Barry nodded, understanding. "Okay – but I don't think I'm quite up for a chess lesson tonight, though."
"No – perhaps tonight is not the time. Do you play gin?"
That he did. "Aces high? Turn card value is the knock point? Three games across? Two-hundred-fifty points a game, nickel a point?" Joe had taught him and Iris how to play when they'd both had the chicken pox as kids. Iris didn't take to it, but Barry loved the game and there were still nights when he played endless hands with Joe.
"Ah, I guess you do know how to play. I think we have time for a few hands." Dr. Wells produced a pack of cards and let Barry shuffle, raising an eyebrow as he smoothly moved through the process – the riff, the merge and then the bridge – all at normal speed, before slapping the deck and letting Dr. Wells make the cut before dealing.
They played three hands and to Barry's surprised delight, he beat the other man on all three. The mildly disgruntled expression on Dr. Wells' face was a bonus.
"Hmm. I may definitely be wrong about your lack of strategic skills. It's been a while since I've been bested quite so thoroughly."
Barry laughed and it felt so good. The happiness felt clean and pure, untainted by the anger that had been dogging him. "Think the food's ready?"
Dr. Wells glanced at his watch. "Yes. It's been about a half hour. Leave the door … open."
Barry whizzed off before Dr. Wells finished his sentence, and was back in two minutes, carrying three large bags of food. "Sorry I took so long, there was a line."
"But the food is hot?"
"Of course – what type of Flash delivery service would I be if I brought you cold Chinese food?"
They ate at a long, low coffee table and Barry sat on the floor next to Dr. Wells' chair. They shared all of the dishes, eating out of the cartons.
"These dumplings are soooo good." He reluctantly offered one to Dr. Wells.
"They are. Next time, remind me - a double order on the dumplings."
"Triple." Barry cradled the tin against his chest, dodging Dr. Wells' greedy chopsticks, and gobbling the last succulent morsel.
They moved on to the main courses.
"Here, try this." Dr. Wells held out a piece of pork with his chopsticks, and Barry didn't bother to take it with his fingers. Without thinking, he ate it off the utensils. He held up a piece of lamb and Dr. Wells did the same. They did this a dozen times with different dishes, and after each exchange, Barry felt the anger melt away.
Eventually, Dr. Wells leaned back in his chair. "Enough – I am done. The rest is all yours. You earned it."
Barry made quick work of the remaining food – if just to finish before everything got cold and nasty, then made quicker – Flash-speed – work of the cleanup, because the only thing worse than the smell of old Belly Burger containers was that of old Chinese food boxes. Satisfied, he collapsed back on the floor and leaned against Dr. Wells' chair, his head resting against the other man's knee. When he realized what he was doing, Barry chuckled. "Looks like you've got the stupid Golden Retriever back."
"It seems that way." Dr. Wells reached down and ruffled Barry's hair.
Barry couldn't help himself and said, "Arf."
Both men chuckled.
He could have stayed like that forever, Dr. Wells' long fingers carding through his hair, his nails gently scraping his scalp, as the very last of the anger faded away. The intimacy of the moment – the whole evening – wasn't lost on him. It wasn't like their dinner at the fancy steakhouse a few weeks ago, or even when Dr. Wells apologized for his behavior – and shared a terrible memory with him.
This was altogether different, and he liked it, a lot.
"You're not falling asleep on me?"
Barry looked up. Dr. Wells had taken off his glasses and if anything, removing that simple barrier increased the intimacy between them a thousand-fold. He shook his head. "No, just comfortable. Happy."
For a heartbeat, blue eyes seemed to burn into him and Barry wanted to shiver. But he didn't, and he didn't drop his gaze either. The intensity flared and died back, and Dr. Wells' lips curved into a smile. "Hold still."
Barry did and Dr. Wells reached out to touch his cheek – the corner of his mouth, really.
"You've got some sauce on your face."
He stuck his tongue out to lick it off, and would have made another dog joke, but his tongue touched Dr. Wells' finger and instead of withdrawing, he licked it, curling his tongue around it in a way he hadn't done to another man in years.
Dr. Wells didn't pull back either, nor did he freeze. Instead, he slipped his spit-slicked finger across Barry's mouth and rubbed his lower lip, as if he was seeking an invitation. Still staring at the other man, Barry sucked that finger in, up to the first knuckle, letting his teeth scrape lightly across the skin. He worked his mouth around the digit, mimicking what'd he'd like to do with another part of the man's anatomy.
Dr. Wells' – Harrison's – pupils dilated, the black almost swallowing the blue, before he pulled his finger free.
Harrison blinked, breaking the connection, and Barry waited for him to cough, to make some awkward comment and perhaps roll away. But he didn't.
"I see what you meant by teaching your fluid dynamics professor something about cock-sucking."
Barry licked his lips, savoring the salt from Harrison's skin. "I feel like I should apologize for that."
"Why?"
"Because that was … inappropriate?" Barry couldn't help the question.
"Maybe, but not unwelcome."
"No?"
"I see how you look at me; I'm just surprised you haven't noticed how I looked back."
"I – I wasn't sure. You were married. You loved your wife very much."
"And I told you, for many people – for you and for me – sexuality is fluid. The package is not as important as what it contains: brilliance, intelligence, a great soul. Those are very powerful aphrodisiacs."
Barry didn't say anything. He was afraid to break the moment.
But Harrison didn't seem to have any qualms in doing so. His lips twitched and his eyes glowed and his voice was deep and quiet. "Tell me, Mr. Allen, what precisely did you mean when you said you were a 'very bad boy' when you were in college. What did you do?"
Barry laughed, actually relieved that the intensity of the moment was shattered. "I was a go-go boy and lap dancer at a club in Old Town. Did some ensemble stripping, too. But that didn't pay as well as the private lap dances."
He almost wished he had his cell phone out, so he could take a picture of Harrison Wells looking absolutely and utterly dumbfounded.
"No, I don't believe you."
"Believe me. Occasionally pretending to have two left feet is a good cover, but I was on the pole for almost my entire undergraduate career. Paid for a lot of text books and lab supplies with the old bump and grind." Barry stretched, reaching towards the ceiling, before shifting around and facing Harrison. He leaned back, thighs spread, trapping the wheelchair between his legs, well aware of how provocative he looked.
They stared at each other and Barry felt a deep frisson of desire blaze through him. His nipples tightened and his dick – which had perked up when Harrison stuck his finger in his mouth – took even more interest in the evening.
"Prove it." Harrison's voice was rough, guttural. "Show me what you can do."
Barry got to his feet and fished out his phone. "I still have my favorite performance tunes on tap. Hope you don't mind, but I like the slow stuff." He found the playlist and handed the phone to Harrison, who laughed at what was there. "Here, take your pick."
"That's quite a collection."
"Different strokes for different folks. And I mean that literally. Some clients had some very – ah – unusual tastes." Barry hoped Harrison wasn't going to ask him to elaborate.
He didn't. "Let's see, I don't think I want to watch you bump and grind to 'Oh, Daddy' or something that might be more appropriate for a Sunday mass. And honestly, 'I Touch Myself' and 'I Want Your Sex' are a little, well …"
"Obvious?"
"Yes!" Harrison burst out – half appalled, half laughing. He handed the phone back to Barry. "You pick."
"Oh, that's easy." He moved the coffee table out of the way, and then pulled off his shoes and socks in preparation – because there was simply no graceful way to get out of skinny jeans with any footwear on. Barry took a deep breath, not quite believing that he was doing this in front of a highly skeptical Harrison Wells.
He was about to let the music play through the phone, when Harrison pointed to a stereo system with a convenient aux jack. A single tap and the opening guitar of his riffs of his favorite performance track filled the room. It had been a few years since he'd done this, but the music triggered the muscle memory and he went into a body roll as his hand toyed with the buttons on his shirt.
Baby, when I think about you, I think about love
Darlin', don't live without you and your love
If I had those golden dreams of my yesterdays
I would wrap you in the Heaven 'til I'm dyin' on the way
His body rocked and swayed and his clothes dropped to the floor. Back in the day, he rarely performed in real clothes – they were too difficult to remove – but he could certainly improvise. With each repetition of the bass riff, each time he heard the words "Feel like makin' love," Barry stepped closer and closer to Harrison.
He could smell his sweat – his own lust – and it was good.
Strip club dancing was all about artifice, all about selling the dream of desire, straddling a lonely guy who didn't have his own boy and making him believe that he was hard just for him. But tonight, there was no pretense, no artifice, no lies. He wanted Harrison Wells, and he wanted to make Harrison want him just as desperately.
Baby, if I think about you, I think about love
Darlin' if I live without you, I live without love
And if I had the sun and moon, we will shine them
I would give you both night and day of satisfyin'
He was in an almost continuous body roll, and if Harrison had been in a normal chair, not the heavy contraption with rails and arms and a damn joystick platform, Barry would have straddled him, rolling his crotch against him in a parody of copulation. He improvised, though – turning around to give the man a front and center view of his ass as he worked his jeans down his thighs and off.
He left his boxer briefs on – for the moment – although they did nothing to hide his massive erection and the damp patch as his cock leaked.
Barry looked at Harrison – just at his face and nowhere else. His normally pale cheeks were colored by a bright red flush, his nostrils were flared and those beautiful lips were red and bitten. Harrison's hands were restive, fists clenching and unclenching, as if he wanted to reach out and grab him.
Barry turned and balanced himself over Harrison's lap, grinding his ass against the other man as the refrain kept repeating, the singer's harsh voice in harmony to the guitar licks.
Harrison wrapped his arms around his waist and brought their bodies together and he was startled to feel the other man's bare chest against his back. When had he taken off his sweater?
Barry ground down harder, feeling the other man's cock jab thick and hard against his butt, between his ass cheeks. He rocked back and forth, letting the friction stimulate both of them. Harrison let go for a second to yank his thighs apart, to cup Barry’s cock through the soft cotton, to jam them together in absolute physical intimacy. Barry didn't come, but he could have – had Harrison shoved his hand into his shorts and stroked him bare.
He rolled his body back and forth to the music, to the rhythm of his desire, riding that perfect wave.
Feel like makin'
Feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love to you
Well I feel like makin' love
Well I feel like makin' love
Well I feel like makin' love
Feel like makin' love to you
The song came to an end and the only sound in the room was their harsh breathing.
Finally, Harrison let go of him and spoke, his voice almost unrecognizable. "As you can tell, Mr. Allen, I am not a eunuch. Unless you want this to go to its natural conclusion, you should get off my lap."
Barry didn't move, "Harrison, considering that you have your cock practically jammed up my ass, I think you should call me 'Barry'. And I have no objection at all to anything you want to do to me."
"Do you always issue such open invitations?"
"No – never. I do have some sense of self-preservation."
"Really? I haven't seen much evidence of that." Harrison's right hand squeezed his cock, his left slid up Barry’s torso and found his nipple, pinching it hard.
Barry groaned and rocked his hips. "Am I hurting you?"
"You couldn't hurt me if you tried."
Harrison kept tormenting his tit and Barry started panting. He'd never really been into pain, but he loved what this man was doing to him. "Harrison…" Was that his voice? So breathy? So needy?
"What do you want from me, Barry?"
He panted, trying to make the words come out.
"Mr. Allen?" Harrison was laughing at him as he kept pulling and pinching and stroking. "You have to tell me what you want."
"Fuck me, please, please fuck me."
"Hmm, now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Harrison stopped tormenting his flesh and Barry whined at the loss. Then the world seemed to shift and suddenly, he was on his hands and knees, with a weight lying across his back - Harrison.
Barry tried to turn over. He figured that Harrison would want to be on his back, that he'd want him to ride his cock like an obscene circus pony. But he figured wrong.
"No, Barry – pull down your shorts and stay on hands and knees." Harrison panted into his ear. "I'm going to fuck you and you're going to like it. I'm not going to be gentle, either."
Barry shivered. There was such lust, such menace in the other man's voice. He managed – somehow – to get his underwear off. He could feel Harrison fumble with his own pants – undoing his belt, pulling down the zipper, and at last, the hot hardness of his cock.
"You know what the six simple machines are, Barry?" Harrison whispered in his ear. "Tell me which one is going to make this work tonight?"
Barry wanted to say "screw" but that was just a bad joke. He could feel Harrison's naked cock nestled between his cheeks. It had been a long time since he'd had sex with another man and although he wanted this so badly, he was shaking with it, his ass was tight and there was no way that he could take that cock …
Harrison was growling now. "Barry, you were a physics major – tell me, what are the six simple machines?"
He closed his eyes and recited, "Wheel and axle, pulley, inclined plan, wedge, screw and …"
The last one escaped him and Harrison slapped his flank. "Come on, Mr. Allen, think. What's going to make this work?"
The slap felt too good and Barry wished he'd do it again, but he finally did remember. "Lever – fulcrum and lever."
"Very good." Harrison purred. "Now straighten your arms and lock your elbows."
He obeyed and Harrison threaded one arm beneath him, gripping his shoulder in reverse. The other hand he held out in front of Barry's face. "Spit – unless you want me to take you dry as well as unstretched."
Barry shuddered – in fear, in anticipation, in pleasure. He gave Harrison what he asked for, even though his mouth was dry, and felt him work the moisture against his anus. And then Harrison started to penetrate him, pushing hard against his pucker. He tried to relax, but it didn't work like that – Harrison's cock was too massive, he was too tight. But Harrison didn't give up, he didn't stop and suddenly, Barry felt like his was being ripped apart.
Harrison grunted and panted. "Do you like that?"
Barry managed not to scream as more of that monster worked itself into his ass, but then Harrison hit his joy spot and while the pain didn't go away, it turned into something else. Something rich and soul-changing and Barry wondered if he'd ever feel like this again.
Harrison tucked his other arm under Barry’s and around his shoulder – and that seemingly random question about simple machines made sense. Harrison was using his torso like a fulcrum, levering himself back and forth solely through his own upper body strength.
When Harrison had first breached him, Barry had started to pant in quick, shallow breaths, to work around the pain, to rediscover the pleasure in this act. Now, his breathing slowed, deepened. He could feel Harrison's own breath against his skin, his mouth, his teeth worrying at his neck, and it was hot and sharp - another painful pleasure. Harrison used his body like a bar, like he was doing pull-ups, and his pace was torturously slow.
But it was perfect, too. Harrison's cock hit his joy spot over and over again, sending waves of such pleasure through him that Barry couldn't think, couldn't do anything but pray that this would never end.
Then he felt the lightning – the power that only came when he ran. It was like another layer of pleasure coursing through him. No, not through him – over him – like the teasing caress of a phantom hand playing at all his erogenous zones. Barry wondered if Harrison could feel it, too.
And it seemed that he could, because he growled, "Do you want more? I know I do." Harrison gripped him tighter and finally started moving faster. Barry splayed out his lower body and let the lightning take over. It crackled over them, through them, and even though Harrison couldn't touch his cock without this whole horrible-terrible-wonderful construct collapsing, it felt like there was another hand there, stroking him, squeezing his balls, touching and tormenting him like a quasi-sadistic lover.
It built – like orgasm – but only better, stronger, more powerful and then there was another delicious pain as Harrison bit down hard at the point where his neck and shoulder met. Barry screamed as he climaxed, as the world turned brilliant white, as the lightning pierced him all over again.
"Barry? Barry?"
"Huh?" Barry wondered when his bed became so uncomfortable – so hard and scratchy, like a carpet. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into an endless universe of blue. He blinked at that universe reformed into Harrison Wells' worried eyes.
"Barry?" Harrison's voice was soft and serious and it sounded a little like he was on the verge of tears. "Are you all right?"
Barry smiled, or he tried to. Everything ached, like he'd just run into a wall at a thousand miles an hour. But Harrison looked so devastated, so guilty, that he forced himself to sit up, instead of just lying there. I'm naked. "You're naked."
Harrison didn't make a quip or smirk or call him "Mr. Allen" in that cool, slightly derisive tone that Barry loved. "Just – please – tell me you're all right."
"I'm fine." Despite the aches, he felt like he could fly. "Really."
Harrison reached out, ghosting his fingers across his cheek. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For hurting you, for taking you so … brutally."
Barry shook his head. "No, no – you don't get to apologize for what has to be the best – " Barry let it all out, there was no point in denying it, "sex of my life."
Harrison pursed his lips. "Sex with a cripple? Seriously?"
"Don't you dare call yourself that." Then he laughed. "Really, you just used me like a fucking machine – it was incredible."
Harrison smiled – just barely.
"Yeah, it was rough, but I don't break easily."
"Yet, I feel like I've broken something between us. I should have been more considerate."
"Nothing's broken, but maybe next time, we can use a bed?" Barry stretched out his legs and examined his knees. The skin was red and raw, but healing almost before his eyes. "Or get me knee pads?"
Finally, Harrison relaxed. "You're pretty sure there's going to be a next time."
"Well, unless you didn't enjoy it. You did, didn't you?"
"I might need a few more samples before making a final decision – I am a scientist." Harrison was smiling, at last.
"And to a scientist, a sample of one is meaningless." Barry joked.
That got a chuckle and the tension between them eased, at least until Harrison shifted around and tried to sit up. Instead, he got tangled in his pants, which were caught around his knees. "Damn. I hate this." He moved his legs manually, but kept falling to one side or the other, unable to keep upright without support.
"Can I help you?" As much as he hated watching anyone struggle, particularly someone he cared about, Barry knew the worst thing he could do was interfere without asking.
Harrison didn't answer right away; he just stared at Barry with grave eyes. Finally, he said, "That would be … appreciated."
Rather than deal with getting the man's pants back on, Barry stripped them off completely. "Can I put you in your chair?"
"Please."
Barry stood and all of the aches and pains made themselves known. He stifled a grimace at the stickiness between his ass, the burning soreness, too.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Harrison sounded so worried again.
"I'm really fine." He carefully picked his lover up and set him – bare assed – in his chair. "Are you okay?"
Harrison reached up and grabbed his hand. "As long as you have no regrets, I'm perfect."
"No regrets, ever."
They stared at each other for a few seconds, until Harrison cleared his throat. "I think we could both use showers."
Before Barry could agree, Harrison added, "And for this, I'm going to ask you for some privacy." He sighed and looked down at his legs. "Maybe in a little while, I'll get used to letting you see me in less-than-optimal situations."
Barry thought that was a little ridiculous. He'd seen Harrison so drunk he had passed out, face-first, on a table in a dive bar. He'd held the man while he puked his guts out on the side of the road. Seeing him naked and bathing was certainly not going to bother him. But he didn't say that – Harrison Wells was a man who took a lot of pride in himself – and Barry understood that he needed to retain that pride. "That's okay. Do you have another bathroom I could use?"
"Yes, follow me."
They passed the library where Harrison had poured out part of his heart – Barry hoped to have a chance to spend more time there – and pointed to a room. "There's a bathroom attached to that bedroom. When you're done, come join me – my bedroom's at the end of the hall."
Barry nodded.
Harrison reached for his hand again. "Don't be long." He squeezed it and let go. Barry watched him go into his suite. He went into the bedroom and found a bathroom that was almost as big as his apartment. There were piles of fluffy white towels and a basket of toiletries waiting, as if this was a fancy hotel. There was a tub that looked big enough to accommodate two, and his destination - a shower that could hold an orgy.
Barry lingered in the shower, taking time to wash away not only the residue of the so-spectacular sex he'd just had, but the grime and grief of a long and terrible day. He searched for the anger, but all he could summon was a memory of the rage – not the rage itself. Satisfaction, joy, and something else that he couldn't quite name, had wiped it away.
Clean in body and soul, Barry got out of the shower. Never particularly vain or interested in his appearance, nonetheless, he spent a few minutes in front of the mirror. The arrow wounds were long gone, but he was still marked – by Harrison's teeth. A deep oval bruise decorated his shoulder and Barry couldn't help but push at it. That pain sent up a corresponding ache in his groin.
He hadn't told Harrison – and he never would – but he'd done a hell of a lot more than strip. He wasn't ashamed of doing outcall. He'd been careful and very selective with his clients, and had played the pain game, but it never, ever did for him what tonight's experience had.
Maybe it was because Harrison wasn't a client, because Harrison was his friend. More than just a friend, he was someone he trusted absolutely and without question. He’d let himself go and the lightning came, as if from god's own hand.
Barry laughed, feeling a little ridiculous, but there really was no other way to describe it. He finished drying off, brushed his teeth and found a white terry cloth robe to wear instead of a towel and padded barefoot to Harrison's bedroom.
Not sure of the etiquette and mindful of his lover's request for privacy, Barry knocked.
"Come in."
Barry opened the door and it felt like his life was about to begin.
Again.
He closed the door behind him, but didn't get out of the wheelchair. As long as someone else was in the house, this pretense had to be maintained.
Let it go.
The voice in his head was too loud, too persistent.
Let it go. Let the hatred go.
"No. Go away."
But Harrison Wells wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't shutting up. If anything, he was louder, stronger, so close to taking back what was his.
Eobard couldn't let him, he wouldn't.
Even with Wells' voice whispering in his head, he had things he had to do. No, not checking the timeline - that was too dangerous with Barry Allen under his roof. No - he had to get clean, get Barry's blood off his dick. He had to wash the stain away.
The bathroom door was firmly locked and only then did Eobard get out of the chair. He felt … strange. He felt something he hadn't in so long. He felt filled by the Speed Force.
"You see what I mean - you could have it all back. Just let everything else go."
"Shut up."
"Barry is not like you - and he's not like the man you've hated for so long. Barry is generous, he'll share it all with you. All you have to do is let it go."
"No."
Eobard tried to summon the memories of home - his golden family, the riches, the power. But all he could remember were shadows and shapes, not even names.
Under the pouring water, he screamed his despair.
"Let it go."
The water scalded his skin, but the helpless rage wouldn't wash away. It did serve a purpose. Harrison Wells retreated - he went back to that dark, empty place and watched. He'd be back, Eobard knew that, but for now, he had some peace.
Barry found Harrison sitting up in his bed against a pile of pillows, reading. The wheelchair was close by and the room illuminated by lights embedded in the walls. His lover looked tired and something in Barry just melted at the sight of the mussed hair, a spare pair of glasses perched at the end of his nose.
Harrison Wells looked so beautiful and so vulnerable that it terrified him.
"Barry?"
"Hey there." He came over to the bed, but paused a few feet away, hands buried in the robe pockets. "How are you doing?"
Harrison smiled. "Very well." He tossed his reading material onto the wheelchair. "Come closer."
Barry joked, "Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly?"
That got a laugh. "Sometimes it does seem that way. Now, come here and take off the robe."
Barry obeyed, up to a point. Harrison glared at him when he started hummed the opening to "Feel Like Making' Love" and was toying with the robe's sash.
"Mr. Allen, when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it."
That tone, it pressed so many buttons – the need to obey and the need to defy. Every part of his body was electrified again and the front of the robe started to tent.
Harrison chuckled. "Ah, the joys of youth."
Barry refused to be embarrassed. "And a speedster's metabolism."
"Will you please take off your robe – I promise that my intent is not salacious."
"Aw, damn." Barry finally unknotted the sash and stripped, tossing the robe on the foot of the bed. He held his arms out, letting Harrison get a good look at his naked glory.
"Very nice, Mr. Allen. Now turn around."
Barry turned and was startled when Harrison pried his cheeks apart. "Give a guy some warning?"
"I hurt you, Barry - and if you weren't a speedster, you'd be bleeding very badly right now. You might even need stitches."
"But I don't - I'm perfectly fine." Barry turned around. "Why are you making such a big deal of this?"
Harrison shook his head. "Because you are more to me than a man who was struck by lightning and ended up with some pretty spectacular gifts. " He ran his hand up Barry's flank. "You - Barry Allen - are the most important person in the world to me. And nothing will ever change that."
Barry nodded, overwhelmed.
"Now, the rules. If you want this to continue, you'll agree to them. Otherwise it ends tonight, and we go back to what we had before."
"Rules?" Barry swallowed, imagining all sorts of things - limitations and boundaries that he'd have to observe.
But Harrison surprised him. "You never, ever, ever let me do what I did to you again. Understand? No lube? No penetration. Full stop. I don't get to rip you apart like that - even if you are a speedster with meta-human healing powers. And what about condoms? How do you know I'm clean? How could you take such risks?"
"You can't help yourself, can you?" Barry grinned. "You can't stop being such a Border collie, can you?"
Harrison sniffed, trying to appear stern and miffed, but only managing to look utterly adorable. "No, apparently not. But I'm serious. You need to watch out for yourself, Barry."
"With you, I don't have to." Barry smiled and knelt on the bed. "This - " He touched a oval bruise on his shoulder. "This is a badge of honor - it'll be gone by morning but I'll feel it for the rest of my life."
"You're rather determined, Mr. Allen, to get the best of me."
Barry took off Harrison's glasses and tossed them aside. He leaned in and rested his forehead against his. "I have had the best of you, and I'm looking forward to having it again. And again. And again. If you don't want to fuck me without lube and a condom, you can come all over my face. Or down my throat, or on my chest or ass or anywhere. I trust you."
Harrison cupped the back of his head, holding him close. "What did I ever do to deserve you, Mr. Allen?"
Barry smiled and ignored the question. "You have rules, I have a rule, too, Dr. Wells."
"Oh? Just one?"
"Yup, just one - you have to be very, very careful how you call me 'Mr. Allen' over the comms. It's kind of difficult to run at the speed of sound with a massive erection."
Harrison laughed and wrapped his arms around him. He laughed and Barry could feel the man's joy like it was another kind of lightning. Then he kissed him. At first, it was just a gentle brush of lips, almost an accident of proximity. There was hunger there, but need, too. The kiss was a moment of perfect intimacy, perfect understanding.
This kiss was a promise of everything that could be between them.
Harrison Wells was laughing at him again. The sound was worse than the most discordant siren.
"Give it up. No matter how hard you try, Barry Allen will never be the man you hate."
"Yes, oh yes he will. When I rip everything he loves from him, when I show him the truth, he will hate me. As much as I hate him."
"You are such a fool, Eobard Thawne, to know love and to spit in its face. I've hated you and feared you, but now - now I only pity you." Harrison laughed again. "You say you despise the Flash, that you only wish him ill, that you want to destroy him. If that's true, then why are you holding him like he is the most precious thing in the world?"
Thawne closed his eyes, screaming his denial. But he didn't let go of Barry.
Tags:
- character: barry allen,
- character: harrison wells,
- genre: angst,
- genre: first time,
- genre: slash,
- genre: smut,
- kink: aftercare,
- kink: anal sex,
- kink: barebacking,
- kink: biting,
- kink: dry fucking,
- kink: kissing,
- kink: nipple play,
- kink: painplay,
- kink: prostitution,
- kink: rough sex,
- pairing: barry/harrison,
- series: the flash,
- type: fan fiction,
- year: 2016
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-01-16 06:23 am (UTC)I'm only a few episodes in... but this list of kinks has got me... um... lets go with ~intrigued~. ♥
no subject
Date: 2016-01-16 03:52 pm (UTC)