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Galatea

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Barry Allen’s skin is soft. Utterly flawless, and so, so soft. Not a single acne scar mars his perfect, creamy skin, and Eobard can’t help but run his fingers over it at every possible moment.

“How long have you wanted this, Barry,” Eobard whispers in his ear, dropping kisses onto Barry’s neck. “Have you wanted this for as long as I have?”

“I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember,” Barry gasps with a full body shudder.

“Since you were sixteen, and I had to pretend not to hear you get off in the shower, calling my name?”

“G-god,” Barry trembles. “I think I got louder every time, hoping one day, you’d hear—”

“And I’d step inside, and push you against a wall, or down on your knees,” Eobard whispers into Barry’s collarbone. “I know. I kept thinking the same thing.”

“Oh my god,” Barry cries, and his cock twitches hard against his stomach, but Eobard doesn't touch. Instead, his hands trace circles along Barry’s thighs, touching everywhere except where Barry wants him to most.

“One day, your pretty moans got to be so much that I found myself standing outside the bathroom door. You always kept it unlocked, did you know that?”

“Yes, yes, I remember, god,” Barry says, and he bucks upwards, begging for friction.

“I found myself there, the door unlocked, listening to you keen and moan and cry out for me to come in,” he says. “I thought about you there, wanting me so badly, and I almost, almost did.”

“You turned the knob,” Barry says. “I thought you actually would. I came, so hard and so fast, just from the thought of you listening.”

“I know you did. I heard you call my name.” The wrong name, Harrison Wells’s name. “But by then the spell was broken. I took care of myself in my office, imagining you under the desk.”

“Oh, god,” Barry whimpers, glancing down at Eobard’s cock, “Please let me suck you off.”

Eobard has to bite his lip at that, has to use the pain as a reason not to come embarrassingly fast. “Not yet,” he says, and of course, Barry obeys.

Barry pouts, a gesture that’s entirely childish but absolutely gorgeous, a reminder of how young Barry is, a reminder of how this Barry will always belong to Eobard and Eobard alone. “Do you know how many times I thought about doing exactly that,” Barry purrs, because he’s cruel and Eobard has taught him too well. “Hiding under your desk and sucking you off?”

“Barry—“ Eobard hisses, but turnabout’s fair play.

“I figured I’d have to wait until a conference call, when you couldn’t call me out on it, lest everyone know you had an underaged boy under your desk.” His voice is silken smooth, only barely shaking with desire. “I’d wait under there, and slowly, as you chatted about innovation and profit margins, I’d feel you through the fabric of those suits you like so much.”

“Barry,” Eobard says, and it drew out into a moan, as Barry’s hand starts doing just that.

“I’d get you hard,” Barry says, and his eyes are blown wide with lust. “I’d take you into my mouth and I bet you wouldn’t even stutter, you’d just grab ahold of my hair and keep talking about stocks as you used me. You’d let me suck you off, and I’d be inexperienced and sloppy, but you’d love it. You’d love it, and I’d get to have you in my mouth, hard and heavy and perfect.” Barry was thrusting against him now, almost involuntarily, taken away by the fantasy.

His hand on Eobard is strong and calloused, in contrast to the perfect, perfect smooth skin everywhere. It’s the skin of a boy, and it only serves to remind Eobard of how young Barry is—barely turned eighteen, the longest Eobard could possibly last while hearing Barry cry Harrison into his pillow every night when he came.

“And then, after the call was ended, you’d pull away and stare at me, the pretty little slut under your desk. You tell me to get up, a-and bend over, and,” Barry’s breath hitches. “You’d tell me I need to be punished for what I did.”

Eobard’s cock twitches at the thought. He hasn't known Barry shared his predilections for that kind of thing, but of course he does. This Barry’s perfect, after all. Shaped in Eobard’s own image. Of course he loves the thought of himself splayed out and repentant beneath Eobard, as if that’s exactly where he’s always meant to be. “What would I do then, Barry,” He says, pulling Barry further into his lap.

Barry squirms, and Eobard can tell he’s close. “You’d—you’d bend me over your desk. At first you wouldn’t do a-anything, and you’d tell me you thought I was beautiful.”

“And afterward? After all, Barry, you’ve been a naughty boy.”

Barry keens. “A-afterwards, you’d, um, you’d. You’d lay a hand. On my ass. And I’d think about how much I wished you were fucking me, but I’d been bad, and—god—” Barry bites at his lip, nearly hard enough to go bloody.

“And I’d hit you? I’d hit you until you were all pretty and red and begging for me?”

“Yes,” Barry moans. “And you’d—oh, god, yes—you’d tell me how much of a pretty slut I’d been, how you’d dreamt so long about having me, but you were certain you could never. But then I showed up, all wanton and needing you—”

Barry’s hand moves erratically now, and he had a hand on his own cock too—he’s a sight, and it’s all Eobard can do to not move impossibly fast and push him backwards onto the bed. He can hardly even convince himself that Barry wouldn’t like it if Eobard does, if Eobard just pushes him onto his back, slicks up Barry’s thighs and takes him in a blur of lightning and Barry’s moans. He puts his hand over Barry’s instead, and jerks Barry off in hard, fast strokes. Barry jumps when he doeds, electrified by Eobard’s touch, and he’s shaking beautifully, so beautifully.

“You’d stop, then, ah, b-but you’d keep your hands on my thighs. Possessive. Y-you’d ask me if I’d ever been fucked before.”

Eobard’s hand slows. “And have you?”

“Never.” Barry’s breath catches. “I always knew you’d hate it if I did. And I never liked the thought of anyone else’s hands on me but you.”

“You belong to me,” Eobard says, and the thought of Barry’s virginity turns him on like nothing else ever has; how this Barry, this sweet, coltish, young Barry has only ever wanted him. No one else matters. No Iris West, or pale substitute has ever been allowed to grace Barry’s bed, no one else has ever stolen Barry’s breath with a kiss. No one else has ever seen him like this. “You’re mine. You always have been.”

“I used to—god, god, please don’t stop—dream so much of you taking my virginity. All those days I insisted on doing my own laundry, I had waken up with sticky sheets at the thought of you fucking me, raw and hard or slow and deliberate, but always like I was meant to do nothing but be yours—” Barry cuts off, and he’s coming, coming hard in Eobard’s hand. It’s beautiful, he’s beautiful, and he clings to Eobard like he’d be lost without him.

He’s still quivering from the aftershocks of his orgasm, and he’s most likely dreadfully hypersensitive, but Eobard can’t help but whisper into Barry’s ear. “Do you remember all those nights in the summer when you’d lie around the house shirtless, your skin just begging to be marked by me? Do you remember those nights when you’d ask me to watch movies with you, but I claimed I had to work? Do you know what I was doing, Barry?”

“Oh, god,” Barry cries.

“I was fucking my hand, thinking about how I wanted to have you underneath me. How pretty you would’ve begged, Barry.”

Barry’s hand wraps around Eobard’s cock again, jerking him off fast and hard, and there’s no way Eobard can hold on for much longer.

“I was thinking about how you were in the other room, and how you had no idea about all the things I wanted to do to you.” He pulls Barry into a bruising kiss, one that makes Barry tangle his free hand in Eobard’s hair as his cock makes a futile attempt at swelling again. “I was thinking about walking into your room and kissing you, of dragging you onto my bed and making you squeal with all the sensations I could elicit from your body.”

His breath is coming quicker, and Barry’s moaning into Eobard’s neck.

“I was thinking about how I want the whole world to see that you belong to me,” he says, and then he’s biting Barry’s neck as he comes, thinking about an expensive ring on Barry’s hand and the exquisite sight of submission in Barry’s eyes.

He falls back onto the pillows, Barry still clinging to his chest.  It’s perfect. He’s perfect. “Harrison,” Barry mumbles.

“Yes, Barry?”

“I think I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, and kisses him softly for once. Someday, soon, Eobard will tell Barry who he actually is, and Barry will be too attached, too in love to hate him. Soon, the name Barry cries out when he comes will be Eobard, instead of Harrison, and Eobard’s revenge will be complete.

Eobard Thawne stares down at his most perfect creation, his Galatea, and he smiles.