Contrary to popular belief, Barry isn't obsessed with the Vigilante. He's not. He's just fascinated by what he'd doing – catching the bad guys, saving the innocent. The sort of thing Barry wishes he were capable of doing, too. But, alas, he's just some guy who likes physics and chemistry and comic books a little too much. So yeah, of course he jumps at the chance to go to Starling City to meet a real-life superhero – or at least get close to him.
His encounter with the infamous Oliver Queen goes... sub-par, to put it mildly. He can practically feel the waves of disapproval and hatred rolling off of him. Barry doesn't get what he's done wrong; nothing, Felicity assures him when they're alone and smiles at him prettily.
Is this what it feels like when someone likes you back? he can't stop himself from wondering. Still, he mostly talks about the Vigilante, too shy to make a move (and how does one make a move on someone, anyway? God, he's so bad at this). He doesn't understand why Felicity seems so disinterested in the topic – it must be exciting for Starling City to have their very own hero; if Barry lived here, he wouldn't shut up about it, brag to everyone he knew... Okay, that's maybe taking it a bit too far, but Barry's honestly just thrilled to be here.
So yeah, when Felicity mentions the Vigilante, he can't help but tell her all his theories – they're pretty well thought out, he admits, because he's been thinking about it all a lot.
...If he's honest with himself, yes, he can see why people call him obsessed. Maybe he is. Just a bit.
Barry isn't blind. He firmly believes that true love stems from a deep emotional connection, but he can also appreciate physical beauty. For example, Iris is pretty. Felicity is lovely. The Vigilante is... hot.
He flushes at the thought, grateful that he's alone in his hotel room.
Of course he's seen photos of the Vigilante – they're all over the internet. The guy has... nice muscles. Really nice muscles. A broad chest. Bulging biceps – they have to be the size of bowling balls, if Barry's judgement is correct. A wonderful posterior – truly spectacular, really, all wrapped up in the tightest pants imaginable, the leather clinging to his firm buttocks-
Barry swears when he feels his cock stir. He looks at his watch – he still has an hour before he needs to leave – and calmly walks over to the bed. He pulls off his sweater, toes off his shoes and lies down, the image of the Vigilante's leather-clad form burnt into his retinae. He takes a deep breath and works the buttons of his shirt open slowly, one by one, gasping when the cold tips of his fingers brush against the overheated skin. When he reaches the bottom, he sits up and pulls it off with shaking hands. He feels almost giddy, a bit naughty maybe, about what he means to do; but, he reminds himself, the Vigilante doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know him. And this isn't hurting anyone, anyway.
Barry lies back down and sighs; the crisp sheets feel wonderful against his naked back, all cool and soft. He closes his eyes and lays a hand on his belly, caressing the warm flesh around his navel. He breathes in – his hand wanders lower, fingertips stroking the skin right above his waistband – and out – his other hand is on his chest, almost touching his nipple but not quite.
He wonders what would happen if the Vigilante was here. Barry sighs and opens the fly of his jeans. He imagines eyes boring into him – brown? green? blue? It doesn't matter. They're dark with lust, intense, intently watching Barry's every move. They're hidden by his hood, dark shadows on his face, but Barry can feel their burning gaze on him. He lifts his hips from the mattress, working his jeans down to his knees. He's painfully hard; his erection is straining against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs. Phantom hands are on his calves, pressing his legs into the blanket. Barry moans and palms himself through his underwear; he's so turned on, he can barely breathe.
He has no idea what the Vigilante's voice sounds like, but he imagines it's deep, low, sultry; he can almost hear the soft, “Take it off?” right before he pushes his briefs down. He brings his hand up to his face, licks the palm, squirming. The phantom hands are back, holding his hips still. He whines and finally wraps his hand around his dick.
Barry grunts, hips trying to push up but he doesn't let them. He imagines the Vigilante giving him a quick smirk – almost predatory, the flash of white teeth on pink lips, the flick of tongue – before leaning down and wrapping his lips around the head of his cock.
Barry can't hold back a moan; darkened eyes gleaming up at him under the hood, almost like they're speaking to him, “Is that it? Is that what you want?” Velvet heat surrounds him and he can't breathe; the Vigilante sinks lower, until his nose is pressed to Barry's lower abdomen. He tightens his hand around himself, breathing ragged; when the Vigilante starts to bob his head slowly, Barry thrusts his hips up, his chest heaving. Blindly, he reaches out his hand to lay it on the hood, to fist the soft material because he needs to hold on to something, but instead he gets short-cropped hair and blue eyes darkened with something he doesn't dare name.
“Ol- Oliv-” He cuts himself off, doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit it. He quickens his pace, gasps something unintelligible; Oliver smirks up at him, eyes wide and mischievous, and keeps up, goes faster, then slower until Barry can't handle the teasing anymore and arches his hips up. Oliver takes it in stride, not choking, not pulling off. With his free hand, he cups Barry's balls and rolls them carefully; Barry turns his head and bites into the pillow; he's on fire, his body tense and wrought tight, and he wants nothing more than come.
“Ple- Please,” he chokes out, planting his feet flat on the mattress and lifting his hips again. Oliver rolls his eyes – and of course he's fed up with his need to come, ugh, Barry wants to punch him in his stupid pretty face – but bobs his head faster anyway, his tongue wrapped around the thickness of his cock. Barry almost cries with want; he's so close, he's been close for so long, he wants to come. Oliver lets go of his balls and brings his hand to his own groin – that was me, Barry thinks, delirious, he's turned on because of me. He can't move anymore, he's too tense, too on-the-edge, only his hips and his hand are still moving, perfectly in sync with Oliver's mouth.
At this point, it doesn't really take much. He flicks his nipples a couple of times – Oliver wouldn't neglect them like he did, Barry's sure – and fucks up into his hand once, twice, and he's coming so hard he almost blacks out.
Contrary to popular belief, Barry isn't obsessed with the Vigilante. He's not. He's just fascinated by what he'd doing – catching the bad guys, saving the innocent. The sort of thing Barry wishes he were capable of doing, too. But, alas, he's just some guy who likes physics and chemistry and comic books a little too much. So yeah, of course he jumps at the chance to go to Starling City to meet a real-life superhero – or at least get close to him.
His encounter with the infamous Oliver Queen goes... sub-par, to put it mildly. He can practically feel the waves of disapproval and hatred rolling off of him. Barry doesn't get what he's done wrong; nothing, Felicity assures him when they're alone and smiles at him prettily.
Is this what it feels like when someone likes you back? he can't stop himself from wondering. Still, he mostly talks about the Vigilante, too shy to make a move (and how does one make a move on someone, anyway? God, he's so bad at this). He doesn't understand why Felicity seems so disinterested in the topic – it must be exciting for Starling City to have their very own hero; if Barry lived here, he wouldn't shut up about it, brag to everyone he knew... Okay, that's maybe taking it a bit too far, but Barry's honestly just thrilled to be here.
So yeah, when Felicity mentions the Vigilante, he can't help but tell her all his theories – they're pretty well thought out, he admits, because he's been thinking about it all a lot.
...If he's honest with himself, yes, he can see why people call him obsessed. Maybe he is. Just a bit.
Barry isn't blind. He firmly believes that true love stems from a deep emotional connection, but he can also appreciate physical beauty. For example, Iris is pretty. Felicity is lovely. The Vigilante is... hot.
He flushes at the thought, grateful that he's alone in his hotel room.
Of course he's seen photos of the Vigilante – they're all over the internet. The guy has... nice muscles. Really nice muscles. A broad chest. Bulging biceps – they have to be the size of bowling balls, if Barry's judgement is correct. A wonderful posterior – truly spectacular, really, all wrapped up in the tightest pants imaginable, the leather clinging to his firm buttocks-
Barry swears when he feels his cock stir. He looks at his watch – he still has an hour before he needs to leave – and calmly walks over to the bed. He pulls off his sweater, toes off his shoes and lies down, the image of the Vigilante's leather-clad form burnt into his retinae. He takes a deep breath and works the buttons of his shirt open slowly, one by one, gasping when the cold tips of his fingers brush against the overheated skin. When he reaches the bottom, he sits up and pulls it off with shaking hands. He feels almost giddy, a bit naughty maybe, about what he means to do; but, he reminds himself, the Vigilante doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know him. And this isn't hurting anyone, anyway.
Barry lies back down and sighs; the crisp sheets feel wonderful against his naked back, all cool and soft. He closes his eyes and lays a hand on his belly, caressing the warm flesh around his navel. He breathes in – his hand wanders lower, fingertips stroking the skin right above his waistband – and out – his other hand is on his chest, almost touching his nipple but not quite.
He wonders what would happen if the Vigilante was here. Barry sighs and opens the fly of his jeans. He imagines eyes boring into him – brown? green? blue? It doesn't matter. They're dark with lust, intense, intently watching Barry's every move. They're hidden by his hood, dark shadows on his face, but Barry can feel their burning gaze on him. He lifts his hips from the mattress, working his jeans down to his knees. He's painfully hard; his erection is straining against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs. Phantom hands are on his calves, pressing his legs into the blanket. Barry moans and palms himself through his underwear; he's so turned on, he can barely breathe.
He has no idea what the Vigilante's voice sounds like, but he imagines it's deep, low, sultry; he can almost hear the soft, “Take it off?” right before he pushes his briefs down. He brings his hand up to his face, licks the palm, squirming. The phantom hands are back, holding his hips still. He whines and finally wraps his hand around his dick.
Barry grunts, hips trying to push up but he doesn't let them. He imagines the Vigilante giving him a quick smirk – almost predatory, the flash of white teeth on pink lips, the flick of tongue – before leaning down and wrapping his lips around the head of his cock.
Barry can't hold back a moan; darkened eyes gleaming up at him under the hood, almost like they're speaking to him, “Is that it? Is that what you want?” Velvet heat surrounds him and he can't breathe; the Vigilante sinks lower, until his nose is pressed to Barry's lower abdomen. He tightens his hand around himself, breathing ragged; when the Vigilante starts to bob his head slowly, Barry thrusts his hips up, his chest heaving. Blindly, he reaches out his hand to lay it on the hood, to fist the soft material because he needs to hold on to something, but instead he gets short-cropped hair and blue eyes darkened with something he doesn't dare name.
“Ol- Oliv-” He cuts himself off, doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit it. He quickens his pace, gasps something unintelligible; Oliver smirks up at him, eyes wide and mischievous, and keeps up, goes faster, then slower until Barry can't handle the teasing anymore and arches his hips up. Oliver takes it in stride, not choking, not pulling off. With his free hand, he cups Barry's balls and rolls them carefully; Barry turns his head and bites into the pillow; he's on fire, his body tense and wrought tight, and he wants nothing more than come.
“Ple- Please,” he chokes out, planting his feet flat on the mattress and lifting his hips again. Oliver rolls his eyes – and of course he's fed up with his need to come, ugh, Barry wants to punch him in his stupid pretty face – but bobs his head faster anyway, his tongue wrapped around the thickness of his cock. Barry almost cries with want; he's so close, he's been close for so long, he wants to come. Oliver lets go of his balls and brings his hand to his own groin – that was me, Barry thinks, delirious, he's turned on because of me. He can't move anymore, he's too tense, too on-the-edge, only his hips and his hand are still moving, perfectly in sync with Oliver's mouth.
At this point, it doesn't really take much. He flicks his nipples a couple of times – Oliver wouldn't neglect them like he did, Barry's sure – and fucks up into his hand once, twice, and he's coming so hard he almost blacks out.
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