Part 3: I Get a Kick Out of You
On a normal evening in the West-Allen household, Barry would return home at a quarter to seven. He would begin cooking dinner, as he was the expert chef in their home. When he was roughly halfway through, if crime had been particularly average that day, Iris would return home. She would be exhausted, of course. The first thing she would do would be to call out to Barry that she was home. Then she would take off her coat, take off her shoes, and mix herself a martini. She would collapse on the sofa in the living room and proceed to regale Barry, still in the kitchen, with the happenings of her day, often punctuated by Barry coming out of the kitchen every so often, a skillet in hand, to say "No!" or "Iris, you didn't!" and "If I'd known what a scoundrel you were going to be before I married you-" To which Iris would always reply, with a roguish smile, "Yes" and "I did" and "You would have married me twice as hard." Then they would sit down to a lovely dinner, over which Iris would always gush, "How did I land myself such an amazing husband?" And they would leave the dishes in the sink for the morning and hie themselves up to bed for a fair bit of canoodling before exhaustion overtook them both and they would fall asleep, happily, in each other's arms.
Tonight, however, was different.
Recently, Barry had been regularly putting in overtime at the office, but for the past week he had been actively avoiding it, much against his over-accomplishing nature. And tonight he had not only circumvented a late stay but had in fact returned home early, having left STAR Labs not an hour after his "encounter" with Harrison Wells. He was therefore nearly finished with his dinner preparation when he heard Iris come home, the door slamming shut and her melodious voice carrying through the house, "I'm home, sugar!"
She prepared herself her standard martini (on the dirty side, with three olives, as Barry well knew) and draped herself across the sofa, proceeding, as was her wont, to loudly recount her day with only minimal exaggeration. But tonight, Barry wasn't listening. His mind was in overdrive, replaying the events in Harrison's office over and over again, trying to find the one moment when the mood shifted, when he must have somehow ruined what had transpired between them. Whilst also trying to combat the horrific sense of guilt that threatened to consume him beyond recognition.
One time was understandable. Not condonable, but understandable. Everyone has a moment of inexplicable weakness, even those as profoundly in love with their wives as Barry was. Things happen, men are men. When someone throws themselves at you, you aren't always operating on all cylinders, and sometimes, sometimes, events can get away from you. Your body responds before your brain can catch up. And if you're one of the lucky few, you can stop yourself before events cross the border into irredeemable territory.
But twice? And not just twice but… The first time had been a kiss, a bit of groping in the dark, nothing that can't be explained away by professional infatuation and physiological response. But the second time had been… had been… He couldn't even think about it without blushing. Harrison Wells had done precisely what he'd told him he would do: kiss him, jack him off, and make him come. He could barely conjure the memory of those words without heat rising under his collar and arousal building in his gut. How does a man let that happen if he doesn't want it? A normal man would have pushed him off. Surely Barry was not the strongest man he knew, and yes Dr. Wells had a few inches and several pounds on him but if he'd wanted the man off of him he'd have found a way. Short of holding a gun to his head, there really was no way Harrison could have forced him to do anything against his will. And yet. And yet he had stood there, let Harrison Wells touch him, heard those filthy words come out of his mouth, the mouth of the man he had spent the better part of a decade adoring, and he'd thought Yes, God, please, yes. And he'd welcomed the touches, the kisses, the… the… sex, because it was that, and he'd not only not tried to stop it but had wanted it with every atom of his being and he'd even wanted to reciprocate. He'd felt Harrison's hand on him and he'd wanted nothing more than to give the man the same pleasure he was feeling. He'd wanted to hold the heft of him in his hand, he'd wanted to run his tongue along his skin, he'd wanted to be the reason for his arousal, he'd wanted to make him come and know that Harrison Wells had wanted him and only him.
That had been the nail in his betrayal's coffin. The worst betrayal, by the far, was that when Harrison Wells had gripped him to keep him from falling and Barry was sated and content, he'd imagined Harrison wrapping his strong arms around him and holding him. He'd imagined them in bed, doing nothing but laying together. He'd imagined himself wrapped around him, hugging him, falling asleep while Harrison ran his fingers through his hair and told him he was beautiful. The real betrayal wasn't his physical unfaithfulness, it was his heart's. He wasn't just attracted to Harrison Wells, a man, his boss, he was falling in love with him.
"Helloooo." Iris' voice made Barry jump three feet into the air. She came into the kitchen's door frame one second after her voice, one hand on her shapely hips, the other holding her half-empty martini glass, two olives already gone, her face one of wry amusement. "Earth to Barry?"
"Wh-what?" Barry stammered, voice too high-pitched, as was its wont when he was agitated.
"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Her tone was teasing but it made his face heat up all the same. "You were miles away, cosmonaut. Something on your mind?"
"Oh, nothing," Barry dismissed with a nervous giggle, gesturing vaguely in the air with a wooden spoon, casting spots of tomato sauce onto the tiled backsplash. "Just - work stuff. Nothing to concern yourself about."
"You know, Barry," Iris started, maddeningly earnest. Why did she have to make this so hard by being so damn wonderful all the time? "I may not understand what you're talking about half the time..." She set her glass down on the counter and came around to wrap her thin arms about Barry's waist from behind, causing him to inadvertently stiffen. "But you know you can always talk to me, right?"
"O-of course, darling," Barry smiled, patting Iris' hand in a way he hoped wasn't awkward. "But there's nothing to talk about. There's - work is just - I'm very busy and -"
"I think we're both working too hard," Iris announced, giving his stomach a firm smack before letting go of him and coming to stand with one hip resting against the counter beside him. "I think, we could both use a vacation."
"A vacation?" Barry squeaked, hating his traitorous voice as he continued stirring the sauce over low heat.
"Yeah. A long weekend, at least. Somewhere warm. It's been weeks since we've even-"
"I - I can't right now - dear - but," he made sure to add the "but" when he saw her eyebrows crease. "But I would love to, it's just not the right time right now, I'm so involved in the Quark matter destabilization syphon, I mean, I'm one of the leading scientists on the project, I simply can't leave right now - but - but I promise that as soon as the project is completed we're going to take an amazing vacation together."
"Really?" Iris asked, doubtful eyebrows raised.
Barry rubbed her upper arms for emphasis. "Really."
"And where would be going on this romantic getaway?"
"Wherever you want," Barry offered with mustered enthusiasm. "Coast City - oh, or better, Atlantis. Not just for a long weekend, but two weeks. Just you and me, soaking up the sun, drinking exotic beverages out of coconuts with little umbrellas in them."
"Really?" Iris hadn't looked this doubtful since he'd told her he wanted Joseph and her estranged brother to spend Christmas at their house.
"Really. Just you and me. A second honeymoon. Doesn't that sound lovely?"
"It sure does." But her voice still carried an incredulous lilt. She shook her head briefly, as if clearing away a thought. "We have been working pretty hard, the two of us. It's good to see that fancy college education paying off though." She pecked him briefly on the lips and snuck around him to dip a finger in his sauce. " Mmm!" she exclaimed after tasting it. "And how did I get lucky enough to land myself a husband who's not just brilliant but an amazing cook?"
Barry ducked his head, not in a frame of mind in the least to accept a compliment from her. "It's just a science, like anything else. The right ingredients at the right dosage combined together at the right time with the right amount of heat creates the desired results."
"Well," Iris said, in the way she did when he started saying things that flew over her head. "If it's a science then it's a delicious science." She pecked him once more on the lips before lifting up her glass from the counter and swaying back into the dining room.
When she was out of sight Barry released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He couldn't continue like this. He couldn't keep up this facade. He couldn't love his wife and hold this flame for his boss at the same time. Something was going to have to break.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Barry Allen. Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen. Those two words had been on the tip of Harrison Wells' tongue since the moment Dr. Barry Allen had left his office, all wounded betrayal and puppy love. For nearly two years Wells had managed to have dalliance after dalliance, no strings attached. The game had always been the same, the same as it had been before Hartley had ruined everything. Find a vulnerable young scientist, his entire career ahead of him, so much at stake, seduce him through a series of calculated moves - maybe he's gay, maybe he's not, find him at a weak enough position and he'll cave just the same. Always the regret, the shame, wanting to keep the incident quiet, secret, lest it harm his career. And Wells would be more than willing to oblige. Would say it was par for the course, that he'd done the same with his own superior once upon a time to advance his career. And they would make themselves scarce, apply themselves to their work, and when it was convenient Wells would promote them out of his sight, or they would transfer to another company out of an inability to overcome to their, shall we say, indiscretion. That's how it always went.
It wasn't just opportunity that made these young men desirable. There was something inherently alluring about a promising young scientist, so much like he'd been once - bright eyed, bushy-tailed, entire career ahead of him, so much promise just waiting to be exploited. It was a little like a dying star rejuvenating itself with the light of a burgeoning new sun. But Barry Allen was different. He was a whole other beast unto himself.
Barry Allen was a rising star, yes, but he was so much more. Wells should have seen the warning signs, the way Barry had looked at him when he first started at STAR Labs, the way he'd still caught the young scientist staring at him not more than a month ago at a company-wide meeting. It wasn't just admiration, it was adoration. He'd thought he could use him the same way as the others, those who had seen Wells as a father figure or a mentor. But Barry Allen saw him as so much more. And it hadn't really hit Wells until that afternoon in his office when Barry had looked at him with lust in his innocent doe-eyes and had wanted to give him pleasure. Barry Allen wanted him, and that was something Wells could not handle.
He'd made an entire career out of appearing to be a strong, self-assured, charismatic, almost egotistical man, but the truth was that he was weak. Ever since he understood just what he was, he knew he was powerless against others wanting him. He was simply too flattered, too self-conscious, too convinced that no man could ever want him - and why would they? When he was a young man being gay was practically a death sentence. He had to find his release in boys for hire on irreputable street corners. Any man worth his salt who was like him wouldn't deign to give him the time of day, unless they could find some way to use it to their advantage. It was how he discovered early on to use his sexuality as a maneuver in his ever expanding playbook. Sex was a bargaining chip. If you had it and they wanted it, you used it to leverage yourself. If they had it and you wanted it, you found a way to make sure they were getting something more out of the arrangement. When you were like Wells you learned to guard your secret and make sure anyone you exposed it to was very inclined to keep it.
It was rare, for a man like Harrison Wells, that someone should want to be with him, in every way, and that he want to be with them in all those ways in return. Wells, unfortunately, fell in love often. It was a terrible habit, one which he constantly sought to break and hardly ever indulged in. But when someone loved him in return, he was defenseless against it. So was the terrible mistake that was Hartley Rathaway. Wells had thought, for one bright minute, that he might have finally found what he was looking for all these years. That the stars might have finally aligned and this dog was at long last getting its day. That, of course, went to hell in a handbasket. And in the nearly two years since then he had told himself it was over for him, that his chance at love had come and gone, he had ruined it, spectacularly, he had missed his chance and he would have to make do with the same hollow interactions as the ones he had become used to over the two decades he had been playing this unfulfilling game. And then Barry Allen had happened.
Barry Allen. With his fidgeting, long fingered hands. With his stupid eyes that couldn't make up their minds if they were blue or green or grey and instead relied on the weather or the lighting or his mood. With his infuriating brown hair that looked auburn when the sun hit it at the right angle. With his ridiculous lopsided grins that lit up his stupid face and crinkled his idiotic eyes and made everything else in the entire world seem drab and colorless by comparison. Barry Allen who looked at him like the sun rose and set with him, like he was the center of the universe, like he'd do anything to please him and would love it. Wells had seen an easy mark but somewhere down the line he'd become obsessed with the boy, had let himself grow more than fond, and when Barry had wanted him in return, well, it had been the straw that broke the camel's back.
He knew it was dangerous. It was more than dangerous, it was downright reckless. And anyone operating in full command of their faculties would have put an end to it as soon as they realized the potential it posed to completely ruin him. Certainly anyone who had lived through what he had with Hartley would have steered clear of Barry Allen with a birth wide enough to fit an oil tankard. But not Harison Wells. No. Since Barry had stormed out of his office three days ago he'd done nothing but think about the young scientist. He'd done nothing but replay the events that took place that day like a lewd film behind his eyelids, Barry Allen stretched out, taut as a bowstring, begging him for release. He'd done nothing but remember the look on his face when he was sated and fulfilled and looked up at Wells with that ridiculous, dopey grin, and tried his best to be sexy when he offered to return the favor. He'd done nothing but imagine the boy curled up in his arms after being vigorously fucked, laying a tired arm across his chest and smiling up at him while he fell asleep, contented and warm and safe in Wells' bed, in his arms, and waking up with the boy still there, his thick, auburn hair sleep-tousled and his mouth slightly open as he snored gently. He'd replayed over and over in his mind Barry Allen telling him he wanted him, that he needed him, that he couldn't live without him. Barry Allen, his mind had chanted. Barry Allen Barry Allen Barry Allen.
So it was with considerable surprise that, after a long day of trying not to think about Barry Allen, Wells returned home to an empty house (Jesse was staying the night at a girlfriend's), poured himself a fifth of Scotch, took two sips, heard the bell ring, answered the door and said breathlessly, "Barry Allen."
Barry Allen pushed himself past Wells without so much as a 'by your leave', storming through the foyer and coming to stand in the middle of Wells' expansive, minimalist, art-deco living room, pacing in a small erratic circle much as he had on the first night they'd kissed. He wrung his hands as he paced, fidgeting unheedingly with the golden circlet of his wedding band, not daring to make eye contact with the flabbergasted Wells, who set his glass aside, not giving further thought to the nearly thirty year vintage.
"I - I just - " Barry started. Like he always did, he thought better of it and began anew. "You have to understand, I am not the kind of man who goes around, willy-nilly, throwing himself at people - at men - in a position to elevate my career - I - I - I am a self-respecting young man, a married young man, who has his entire career to think of, and I am not about to jeopardize it for a - a - a bodily pursuit, for physical pleasure, because I have more self-respect than that, damnit. And I will not be harassed in an environment that is supposed to be professional, and safe, and - and - and professional! Damnit, I am a man of science! And I will not let myself be coerced into an endeavor that I would never, in good conscience, participate in." He took a second to catch his breath, looking at the gas fireplace as if it had personally offended him. Then he straightened himself to his full height (though still unable to meet Wells' eye), lifted his chin and said, "What happened on Wednesday was a mistake. And -" He faltered for a second but visibly composed himself and continued. "And it can't happen again."
"Uh-huh," Wells deadpanned. Some instinct overtook him then, one stronger than his self-preservation, stronger than his rationalization. He became a creature of pure desire, of animalistic need, and his gut instinct drove him, made him circle Barry, standing so rigid and tense and alone in the middle of his living room. He came up behind him, watched as the fine hairs on the back of the boy's neck stood up. "And you came here," Wells rasped. "In the middle of the night, to my home, alone, to tell me that you never want to see me again."
"Yes," Barry said, while his tone suggested he was anything but sure.
Wells came closer still, until he could feel that sweet heat radiating off the young man's back, until his breath ghosted across his neck above his starched collar. He took in the sight of his damp hair, neatly parted, breathed in his scent like ocean waves and fresh laundry. "And you needed to take a shower and shave and," he made a show of taking in a long, drawn out whiff of him. "Practically bathed yourself in cologne to do so."
Wells could clearly make out the sound of Barry swallowing in the hush of living room. "Yes…?" His voice lilting up, cracking on the last letter, belied his crumbling resolve.
"I think…" Wells began, voice low and predatory. He watched with satisfaction as his words sent a shiver through the boy's taut body. "You… are a dirty... " He leaned until his lips brushed the shell of the young man's ear and whispered the last words directly into it. "Liar."
Barry bit off a whimper in the back of his throat and Wells relished the sound, drank it in, savored it more than he could any fine Scotch. He let his fingers trail along Barry's arm, up his shoulder, and caressed his neck, letting his fingers rest gently at the base of his throat, his thumb on his nape, a light hold but one that still spoke of dominance and ownership, light enough to be freely broken if Barry so desired. But Wells knew he wouldn't. Because that's not the kind of man Barry Allen is.
Wells nuzzled the boy's ear with his nose and pressed a lingering, chaste kiss to the spot just below, the spot he knew, from two encounters already, made the boy keen and tremble. And he didn't disappoint. He knew just how to coax him now, knew the right move to play to make the young man so much melted butter in his hands. It was intoxicating to have that kind of power over another human being, but the fact that Barry was here because he wanted him, because he'd spent as much time thinking about him as Wells had, because he'd use any excuse to be alone with him, at his mercy, made the seduction that much sweeter.
He made his move. "Do you want to know what I do to dirty liars, Barry?"
Wells took note of the tremble that briefly wracked the young man's body at the use of his first name and filed the information away for later. But like an obedient boy, Barry answered his question, if only as a jerky shake of his head.
Wells breathed in deep, arousal already swirling deep within his gut, and breathed out, "I punish them."
This time Barry didn't bother to smother his whimper. It escaped him freely, sending lust washing over Wells in a heady wave. Wells' composure dissolved like so much sand and he wrapped both his arms tightly around Barry's skinny little waist, bringing him flush against his own body, his already hard member pressing lewdly against the younger man's perfect ass, and bit into his neck, sucking, licking, and possibly growling.
Barry threw his head back so it rested against Wells' shoulder, gasping, making strangled little sounds that weren't quite whimpers, his hands reaching behind himself to grip Wells' hips and hold him closer still. Wells groaned, rolling his hips once, twice, into the boy, his hands freely roaming the physicist's hard, flat chest, his surprisingly toned stomach, the stiff bulge in his trousers.
"Huuuhn -" Barry groaned, his long, thin fingers covering Wells' hand and pressing it harder against his crotch, hips starting to rut, backwards into Wells and forward into his hand.
"Fuck, Barry," Wells moaned into his neck, the friction of Barry's movements sending sparks shooting through his stomach, making him dizzy with want.
"Harrison," he whimpered, cracked and full of need and Wells couldn't stand it anymore.
In one brusque movement he spun Barry around and claimed his mouth. Barry met him readily, mouth wide, tongue eager against Wells'. The boy buried his hands in Wells' hair as if he'd been waiting to since he'd arrived, fingers caressing, smoothing and tugging and driving Wells insane. He pushed as far into his mouth as he could, relishing the way Barry's jaw strained against his, the way Barry bent his head back, as if in submission, so Wells was leaning down into him, holding him so he wouldn't fall backwards. He pulled back to nip his bottom lip raw, pull it with his teeth until Barry whimpered. Wells yanked Barry's jacket off hard enough to cause the boy to lose his balance and had to catch him.
Barry looked dazed, his glasses askance, his mole-dotted cheeks ruddy with color, his lips kiss-swollen and wet. He wanted to ravish him, every last inch of him, claim him, make him his. Fuck that wife of his he wouldn't shut up about. Barry Allen was his. He was going to make him his. And Harrison Wells always got what he wanted.
"Bedroom," Wells growled, incapable of forming a sentence longer than one word. "Now."
He started pushing Barry backwards, the boy stumbling over his own feet as he was manhandled out of the living room, down the infernally long corridor towards the back of the house where Wells' bedroom suite resided. The trip was made longer still by Wells' need to have the young man undressed as soon as humanly possible. He tugged his sweater over his head, got it caught on his glasses, essentially blindfolding him with it, and ended up making the scientist stumble against a hanging painting, knocking it off its mounted nail and landing with a thud on the carpeting. Rather than let the young man continue to flail, Wells finished pulling the constricting sweater off the rest of the way, bringing his thin, wire-framed glasses with it, casting them both aside to alit on the geometrically patterned carpet. Barry giggled at the small disaster they'd made but Wells shut him up with another searing kiss, refocusing his attention on unbuttoning his dress shirt.
By the time they made it to the door to Wells' bedroom he nearly had the damned thing entirely undone but impatience got the better of him and he roughly pulled the last length of it open, popping a button or two. A more lucid Barry may have pouted at the blatant disregard for fine tailoring, but the current, lust-drunk Barry merely assisted in the process, slipping his arms free and flinging the garment into the hall.
Wells let out a groan of frustration at Barry's undershirt. "Just how many clothes -" But the protest died on his lips when Barry cast off the undershirt in one fluid gesture as he walked backwards into Wells' bedroom. Wells shut the door behind him, careful to lock it, and turned a lascivious leer on Barry's slender form, the long expanses of his creamy white skin, the splashes of moles, the contours of his abdomen, the light trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks.
Barry seemed to sober slightly, a flush of bashfulness creeping across his chest. Now, now. We couldn't have that.
"Take it off," Wells ordered and relished the way Barry's blush morphed into one of arousal even as he watched him. "All of it. Get on the bed."
The younger man eagerly obliged, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his trousers with shaking fingers, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug his pants and shorts down to his ankles, pulling off his wing-tipped shoes before kicking off the tangle of his clothes. He laid back, stretched out on the bed, all nervous energy and self-consciousness, his red, swollen cock resting on his belly. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he looked up at Wells from under his long lashes and for a fleeting moment Wells wondered if he couldn't just ask the gorgeous boy to jack himself off while Wells watched, knowing the young man's embarrassment at being on display would bring both of them just as much pleasure. But no. Not tonight. Tonight Wells was going to claim him.
Wells wetted his lips and began undoing his own belt but was surprised when Barry made a noise of protest. Wells stilled, curious. Barry crawled back to the foot of the bed and reached out, but hesitated halfway there, his slender fingers curling into a fist. He looked up at Wells with large, pleading eyes. He struggled briefly for the right words but then settled simply on, "Let me?"
Wells swallowed and nodded mutely, letting his hands fall to his sides.
The tension didn't drain from the younger man, if anything his nerves wound more tightly, hands shaking so violently Wells thought he might not be able to undo his belt after all. But somehow he managed, then started in on the button, the zipper. He paused to wipe the sweat from him brow. Wells carefully placed a hand on the boy's head, slow, easy, so as not to startle him. Then ran his fingers through the silky, still damp hair. Barry closed his eyes, leaned in to the touch. Wells continued, watching him, calming him, smoothing the strands off of his forehead, carding through the short hairs at the back of his head, the nape of his neck.
Barry breathed out raggedly and when he opened his eyes again they were clear. Wells moved to caress his neck, the tense muscles that connected to his shoulders, kneading his thumb into the tendons, as Barry worked Wells pants off, then his shorts. He held Wells' cock carefully, reverently, looked up at him with those great big doe eyes of his, his voice high and unsure. "I haven't ever…"
"You don't have to." And Wells meant it. He could see Barry knew he meant it, it was in the strength of his tone, the sureness in his eyes. But it was the reassurance Barry needed.
He set his jaw, a tendon jumping in his cheek, and he nodded resolutely. "I want to." His voice was even when he said, "I want you."
Wells felt more than arousal course through him, he felt something profound swell in his chest, something he hadn't felt in nearly two years and with it hope bloomed, small and fragile, in the deepest recesses of his heart. He didn't have very much time to dwell on it though, because then Barry was taking him into his mouth and the entire world melted away, dwindled down to nothing but the feel of Barry's lips on his skin, his tongue against the head of his cock, the white hot pleasure when Barry swallowed him down, making the tip bump the back of his throat. Barry coughed but kept going, undaunted, inexpertly holding Wells' cock in a too-tight grip as he bobbed his head, up and down, a steady almost too slow rhythm that had Wells' vision whiting out.
"Jesus Christ, Barry -" Wells groaned, clutching at Barry's head, his shoulders, digging his nails into flesh, trying to keep himself upright, trying to ground himself and stop himself from slamming into the boy's mouth. "Fuuuuck - fuck - that's - God, Barry, that's - God, that's good-"
Encouraged, Barry picked up his pace, loosened his fist, gripped Wells' ass with his other hand. Fighting his instinct to buck his hips was becoming increasingly more difficult. He couldn't fathom how Barry could be so good at this. His hot fucking mouth, his amazing tongue, the way he hollowed out his cheeks and sucked. "Fucking hell, Barry - if you - if you don't stop I'm gonna - Fuuuck - I'm gonna come -"
Barry made the most pornographic moan that vibrated through Wells cock, into his balls, and he was sure he was going to come immediately if he didn't stop Barry right now - and coming in Barry's mouth was definitely something he would want to be doing in the near future, but not tonight, tonight he wanted all of him.
He yanked Barry off by his hair, holding his head bent back to expose the long column of his throat and watched his Adam's apple bob on a swallow, his lips red and wet from spit and Wells' precome and God damnit if he wasn't rethinking the idea of letting Barry finish him and coming in that sinful mouth of his.
"Harrison," Barry pleaded.
Wells growled and pushed him back, onto the bed, pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it aside as Barry moved backwards, resting his auburn head on the pillows, one hand reaching down to fondle himself, biting his lip and fuck if Wells wasn't inclined to just watch him. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt as he rounded the bed, cast it aside before reaching into his bedside table and pulling out a strip of condoms and a bottle of lubricant. He savored the way Barry watched him, all nervous anticipation and dark, lust filled eyes, his pupils blown impossibly wide.
"You are in surprisingly good shape," Barry babbled as Wells started kicking his shoes off.
Wells snorted. "For a man my age?" He finished for him with no small bite of irony.
"No, no," Barry corrected quickly, his quirky self-consciousness resurfacing. "Of course not! I mean, you're in surprisingly good shape for - for - anyone! I mean, you're in way better shape than I am. I mean, you have abs - legitimate abs - do you go the gym or -?"
"Barry," Wells said flatly, pulling his pants down and kicking them aside.
"Mm?" Barry asked with raised eyebrows.
"Stop talking."
Barry incongruously mimed zipping his mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away an invisible key. Wells huffed a laugh. This boy. This beautiful, ridiculous boy.
Wells climbed onto the bed, pushing Barry's thighs apart and kneeling between them. He kept pushing them, until Barry's long, white legs were spread across the sheets, baring him completely to Wells. Barry flushed anew, face turned aside coyly. Wells leaned over him, grabbing his jaw roughly and forced him to look at him. He tightened his hold on the young man's cheeks until his fingers were leaving white imprints in the heated, red flesh. Wells searched his eyes, trying to read him, trying to detect a hint of reticence, of self-loathing, of fear - emotions he'd learned to read well in the eyes of his former conquests, emotions that he knew would keep him safe. But try as he might, he couldn't find a single trace. All he saw was desire, admiration, a touch of nerves, but most of all trust. It was dizzying, terrifying, to be on the precipice of making what was sure to be one of his greatest mistakes, but he was powerless before those eyes. There was no walking away from Barry Allen.
Wells kissed him then, deeply, tasting himself on the young man's tongue, in the back of his throat. He gave him a last nip to his lip as he pulled away, resting back on his haunches while he grabbed the bottle and squirted an ample amount of lubricant onto his fingers, then drizzled it onto Barry's opening, making the boy jerk from the cold. He didn't give him any time to recover, immediately pressing against his tight hole, rubbing, kneading, making him pliant. Barry bit at his lip, eyes falling closed, a hand resting on his gently rising and falling stomach.
Wells pushed the first finger in, slowly, carefully, feeling Barry tense around him, the little exhale of complaint he breathed out through his nose. He slid in up to his knuckle, making small circling motions, stretching him, pushing in and out gently until he felt the young man relax, saw the tension begin to melt out of his shoulders and saw him release his lip from between his teeth to pant open mouthed.
Want made him impatient, as it often did. He'd been so close to climax before, his cock was achingly hard, he could feel his own pulse just behind his balls. It went beyond want - it was a physical need. He needed to be inside him. He went straight from one finger to three, delighting in the way Barry writhed under him, squirmed at the sudden intrusion, whimpering.
"It's okay, Barry," Wells soothed, his voice disconcertingly hoarse. "Just relax. Good boy." He kept pushing into him until he could hook his fingers and press -
"Haaaahhh - !" Barry cried, his back arching off the mattress, hands fisting in the bed sheets.
"That's it, Barry," Wells encouraged, pulling out fractionally before pushing back in and continuing his assault, tapping the same intense spot, watching with a watering mouth as Barry's body undulated, his chest heaved.
"G-God - Harrison - Haaah - aahhh -" He whined, hips starting to grind, pushing himself further onto Wells' fingers as he began fucking him, in and out, faster, harder, pressing, pressing.
"Th-there - there - Oh God -" Barry cried, sweat running from his forehead into his hair, his hips picking up a rhythm in earnest now, his cock leaking precome onto his stomach. He reached down to touch himself but Wells caught his wrist, pushing it back down onto the mattress, causing Barry to make a high-pitched whine of protest. Wells knew he was ready then. He'd have to be because Wells couldn't wait any longer.
He pulled his fingers out of Barry, eliciting a groan of protest from the boy which was quickly silenced when he saw Wells tear open a foil wrapper with his teeth, unrolling the condom onto his still slick erection. He leaned over Barry and gripped his throat, thumb pressing into the dip between his clavicles, feeling the boy's esophagus undulate as he swallowed, Barry looking up at him with blown eyes and ruddy cheeks.
"I'm going to fuck you," Wells rasped, drinking in the little whimper that escaped Barry at the words. "Do you want me to fuck you?"
Barry nodded breathlessly.
"Tell me," Wells growled.
"Y-yes."
"No." Wells increased the pressure on the boy's throat and felt his pulse quicken under his fingertips. "Tell me."
"I - I -" Wells could see his embarrassment warring with his arousal. Pushing the boy past his comfortable limit made Wells dizzy with lust. He squeezed just a bit harder, then Barry squeaked out, "I - I want you to fuck me." Then, quieter, "Please."
Wells couldn't stand it anymore. He planted a searing kiss on the young man's lips before releasing him, straightening up to kneel between Barry's splayed thighs. He lifted those lean legs onto his shoulders, gripped his painfully hard cock in one hand and Barry's hips with the other, lined himself up, and-
"W-wait - wait," Barry squeaked. Wells couldn't hold back his groan of frustration. He squeezed Barry's thighs for restraint, breathed deeply, then looked at the boy. He'd thought he'd see the emotions he'd missed earlier, that the doubt and regret would be suddenly prevalent on that devastatingly beautiful face. He was both relieved and touched by the mix of apprehension and shyness he saw instead.
"I -" Barry stopped, swallowed, wet his lips. "Will it hurt?"
"Yes," Harrison answered honestly. He leaned over then, folding Barry in half as he did so, and whispered gruffly against his lips, "And you're going to beg me not to stop."
Before Barry had finished whimpering Wells was already pushing into him, in one hard thrust that made Barry scream out, shoulders hunching and hands scrambling at sheets for purchase.
Wells knew he should be gentle, knew he should go slow, ease the boy into it, but he felt so - fucking - good. Tight and hot and spasming around him. So fucking tight. He couldn't even stop his hips from bucking, fast and shallow. God.
"Fuck -" Wells groaned, biting into Barry's thigh. "Oh fuck - Barry - Jesus Christ -"
Barry was a whimpering mess under him, face screwed up in pain. Wells had just enough presence of mind to remember to angle his thrusts, hitting the boy's prostate with every rut of his hips. He knew he wasn't going to last long. It had been too long since he'd last - and good God, Barry felt - he felt so amazing -
"Aaahh - aaah - fuu -fuck - fuck," Barry swore, the first Wells had ever heard him do so. He could feel Barry's thighs trembling on his shoulders, he knew he wasn't far off either.
Wells held Barry's hips down with a bruising grip and let loose completely, pounding into him, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh and their breathless moans filling the air.
"Fuck - yeah - Harrison - " Barry sobbed, arms over his head gripping the headrest with white knuckles. "Yeah - fuck - please - don't stop - please - I -" His body went rigid, back bowed high off the bed, his mouth falling open.
"God yeah - Barry - fuck -" Harrison groaned, hips snapping against Barry's hard enough to bruise. "Come for me - come for me, Barry-"
Barry made a strangled sound, white jets of his orgasm spilling over his stomach, his chest, and the feeling of him clenching down on Wells undid him entirely. He shouted out, guttural, primal, and felt his orgasm slam through him like a freight train, vision blurring, his entire body wracked with the convulsions of it. It seemed to go on for eternity, wave after wave of blinding, intense pleasure, and then all strength drained away from him and he collapsed onto the bony body beneath him.
Wells' cheek rested on Barry's sweat-slicked chest. He could hear the heart thundering inside it, his head rising and falling with the boy's heaving breaths. Wells could have lain like that all night, but he knew he had to pull out, toss the condom before he softened. And he was sure Barry wasn't too comfortable under his full weight.
He rose slowly, body protesting after the rigorous effort, and wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. Barry looked… well, quite frankly Wells couldn't recall anyone ever looking so beautiful. He was a complete mess, of course. His face a patchwork of mottled flush, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, abdomen a veritable disaster of smeared come, his eyelashes spiky with tears. He looked well and thoroughly fucked, and if Wells had been a younger man he might have found himself growing aroused again at the thought of being personally responsible for the boy's current state. Seeing as he was not a younger man, however, Wells only had enough energy to pad across to the adjoining bathroom, tie off and dispose of the condom, grab a box of tissues and collapse back onto the bed beside the near comatose Barry Allen.
Wells grabbed a fistful of the tissues and wiped off first the young man's stomach, then his own, Barry making no sign he was aware of the touch. Lacking the energy to return to the bathroom, Wells left the wad of tissues crumpled on his bedside table. Barry's breaths were deep, slow and even. Wells was sure he was asleep. The boy looked positively angelic. Wells rolled onto his side to watch him, gently running the back of his knuckles over his cheek. "Beautiful boy," Wells breathed.
"You're not so bad yourself," Barry mumbled and Wells released a surprised laugh.
"I thought you were asleep." Wells couldn't help the soft tone his voice took on, or the tenderness that crept through his chest.
"Almost."
"Get under the covers," Wells ordered without much command. Barry sighed and kicked the sheets down but made no move to cover himself. Wells smiled, flicked off the lamp by his bed, and lifted the sheet and bedspread to cover them both. Underneath the sheets, Barry curled up around his side, head resting on Wells' shoulder, and their bodies fit perfectly together, terrifyingly perfect. Wells ran his fingers through Barry's thick hair even as his heart sped up with apprehension.
"Thank you," Barry murmured softly, breath ghosting hotly over Wells' skin.
"What for?" He asked quietly in turn. Something about being in the dark always made one's voice lower.
"For letting me stay."
Wells had trouble speaking for the sudden lump that formed in his throat. "Of course, Barry. Always."
"I don't want to leave."
"You don't have to." Wells kissed his forehead then, the first affectionate, non-sexual gesture he'd shared with the young man. "Go to sleep."
"Mmkay," he sighed, and Wells held him in his arms until at last, even Harrison Wells, who had not slept with another person in his bed for nearly two years, drifted off to sleep.