writing & recommending fics of various fandoms, mostly doctor who. 18+ this is an nsfw sideblog. currently reading doctor who, the flash, and the office fanfic.
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Word Count: 2.2k.
Genre: love confessions, miscommunication, tooth-rotting fluff.
Summary:
After Harry rescues you from a meta criminal's captivity, you confess your feelings for him. But there's something the team hasn't told you about the meta's powers that ruins your credibility.
I.
"I thought that meta was going to kill me."
Harry has led you to the STAR Labs van parked outside the scene and opened the passenger door for you. Your hands are still cuffed, but he's standing outside the door, hooking up a device to short to the electronic lock. He pauses, making brief eye contact. "I wouldn't have let that happen," he asserts.
Despite the copious adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you can't help but smile a little. "I knew you'd try to save me. I just, you know. Was thinking realistically."
Harry grunts. He fumbles with the device.
"I decided that if I did ever see you again," you continued. "I'd be honest with you."
Harry clicks the device a few times. His face is tense. You aren't even sure he's listening to you anymore.
"I didn't think the chances of getting out alive were very high. Which was why I promised myself I'd tell you how I felt about you if I did, on the off chance, escape."
Harry unhooks the device, grumbling under his breath. Nope, definitely not listening. That will make this easier.
"Harry, I realized that⌠I love you."
Harry Wells freezes. His eyes hyperfocus on your handcuffs. Time slows as you realize how horrible everything will be now, how awkward your relationship, your friendship, will become because of this. It was a mistake. You should have kept it to yourself. You wish that meta killed you when they had the chance. Now you have to live through losing your friend because of some stupid feelings.
His eyes meet yours. His mouth opens a little. You feel pain in your hands. You realize that Harry is gripping your hands much harder than before. He's definitely heard you. But he's not responding.
"Ow," you say.
"I'll have to use a higher charge. I'll uncuff you when we get to STAR Labs."
He slams the door, walking around the front of the van and getting into the driver's seat. You stare in disbelief as he reaches over you, doing up your seatbelt, before igniting the engine and pulling away from the crime scene. Not another word passes between you.
He's pretending not to have heard you. Which, all things considered, might be for the best.
II.
Dr. Harrison Wells is no longer pretending not to have heard your love confession. Now, he's pretending avoiding you altogether will make the problem go away.
The first instance of it was when you arrived at STAR Labs the next morning and ran into him alone, walking around the Cortex with a tablet in his hand. He saw you and suddenly became very interested in the charts on the screen.
"Good morning," you said.
"Hi," he replied. That wasn't any different from yesterday. It should have been. You decided it would be better to push him into letting you down now rather than later. "Have you given what I said yesterday any thought?"
He stares at you. "What did you say yesterday?"
Oh, this asshole. "Don't make me repeat it." You can feel that sinking feeling in your chest.
"Whâoh, that," he says with a little too much emphasis. A little too muchâwhat is thatâdisgust? "It's okay. I understand yesterday had the potential to be trauma inducing, and I don't hold it against you."
Now you're just confused. "IâHarryâ"
He cuts you off. "It's fine." He gives you a short nod and speedwalks back into the med lab. You don't get another word from him.
It's getting to be a bit hazardous. You're on your way to the Cortex, because the emergency signal is sounding. But the moment you enter, heading towards comms, Harry sees you and makes a run for it. Barry's voice is coming through the computer, though, so you can't exactly pull Harry aside for a heart-to-heart. You take over on comms, internally cursing Harry for being a child about this.
Afterwards, you find Caitlin and Harry in the workshop conversing quietly. Once again, the second you peek your head around the doorway, Harry sweeps past you, stonefaced. You jab a thumb over your shoulder, and say to Caitlin, "What the hell's his problem?"
"Oh, Y/N. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something."
You glance behind you, and then back at Caitlin. "You guys weren't talking about me, were you?"
She smiles modestly, benevolently. "It's nothing serious. Harry just said that he was worried about your state of mind."
"What? Why? I'm totally fine."
Her smile drops a little. "That meta yesterday, they had powers that, as a byproduct, influenced emotions. It must be hard to feel out of control of your feelings."
You pinch the bridge of your nose, giving a exasperated sigh. "He told you what I said yesterday."
"Yes⌠he did. It's okay. He's not holding you to it."
"How do I convince you I'm of sound mind and was so when I said it?"
Caitlin studies your face. "There may be some lingering effects. But I suppose I could run you through a quick trauma intake, verify as best as possible. I could take your vitals, too. And check your brain activity." She's already walking towards the door, looking eager to get busy.
"Please don't make me go through one of those intakes. I feel fine, and I was fine yesterday. Scared for my life, but not mind controlled."
She turns to you, gesticulating as she corrects you: "Actually, it's emotional manipulaâ"
"Thanks, Caitlin. I'm sorry for being stubborn, but I think this can be sorted out with a simple conversation with Harry."
Caitlin looks conflicted. She frowns at you, and then down the hallway. "I believe you. I justâI don't think he wants to."
III.
Harry is nowhere to be found, and ignoring your calls. You've looked around the Cortex, the pipeline, the many lurkable hallways. You've even peeked into the Time Vault, with Cisco's help. You tell him about your dilemna and Harry's strange behaviour.
He gives a haughty laugh. "I can't say I'm surprised by his response."
"Really? Jeez, Cisco, you're so mean to me." You give him a light punch to the shoulder.
"That's not what I mean. It's just, you know. He's Harry."
"I know. I'm in love with the guy."
Cisco eyes you. "You really are, huh?"
You nod, giving Cisco a pleading look. "Yeah. It's bad. It's really bad."
"I'll say. Well, he was grumbling something about getting coffee the last time I saw him."
"Why did you say so?"
"If I were you, I wouldn't really want to run into him right now. He's being, like, extra dickish."
Jitters is bustling. You don't want to look like an idiot when you enter, unable to see past the crowds, so you walk up to the barista and order something. Then, while you wait, you non-chalantly scan the customers for an extra dickish scientist in all black. You think of the times you and your friends from STAR Labs, including Harry, have met here before. You think of the times you've met Harry one-on-one, here, just to spend time with him and pick his brain. All those other times you've spent alone with himâin the workshop, at the bar, and last night in that horrible, horrible ride in the STAR Labs van.
Caitlin says he doesn't want you to really be in love with him. Cisco says you probably shouldn't look for him. And Harry himselfâHarry has been avoiding you like a sinner avoids a priest. But you were never really very good at keeping yourself out of trouble, especially when it meant ignoring advice.
Harry isn't here, though. Maybe he really just doesn't want to be found. You pick up your drink and exit Jitters, dreading the perpetuation of this awkward nightmare. But after you take a few steps down the sidewalk, you hear your name.
You turn.
Harry, looking extra dickish and wearing all black, is holding a coffee and walking towards you.
"There you are," you say. "Done hiding from me?"
He presses his lips together, looking at you with concern. Or, perhaps, fear. "Depends," he grunts.
"On what?"
"Your response."
"What response, Harry?"
"Would you let me, um." He clears his throat, licks his lips, scratches his head. He's doing anything but meeting your eyes, and anything but finishing the question.
"Oh, my God, spit it out, get it over with. I'm ready to be let down. Just make it quick."
But then his intense gaze finally falls on you, and the words tumble out: "Would you let me buy you dinner?"
You blink, emotionsâmostly confusionâbarring you from speech.
Harry blinks back. After a few more seconds, he raises his cup as if toasting a foregone conclusion. "Okay. I didn't think so. See you later." He turns on his heel, but before he can get far, you run to catch up.
"Wait. Harry. Wait. Why are you asking me to dinner? I thought you were convinced I was off my rocker."
"Snow⌠called me. And Ramon."
"So, you're saying you had my feelings for you peer reviewed and you're taking it seriously now? And you're not rejecting me?"
He swallows, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Something like that." And with that, the extra dickish scientist gives you a wink.
IV
When Harry finally kisses you, it's an inevitability.
He's a restrained romantic, treating you to dinner in a restaurant that's a little too empty. The food isn't great, but Harry says he prefers the quiet. It does have a radiance about the atmosphere. All evening, the chandeliers and candlelight cast a dreamy glow on his face. He's softer than usual, in the way his body relaxes near you, in the way his dimples flash more than usual. And his eyes are glued on you every second.
Central City is alive as you leave the restaurant. The sun has set, and there's an evening chill. You take Harrison's hand, and he doesn't protest, as the two of you walked seemingly wander down the sidewalk. It's only when he pulls you in a particular direction that you realize he's got somewhere in mind. You let him guide the two of you into a modestly lit city park.
"I didn't know you'd be able to handle holding my hand in public for this long," you tease as the two of you settle in front of a fountain.
"I considered letting you go, and it's not worth the risk," he says, softly.
You pause. "You considered letting me go?"
You can't tell whether Harry was grimacing or smiling. His eyes are lifted to the lights of Central City far beyond you. "Scientists like to cage test subjects. Rats, monkeys, birds. Controlled environment. Poked and prodded." He clears his throat, meeting your gaze. When he speaks again, it's in a whisper. "Well, it just struck me that⌠that you might not like to be controlled or held captive ever again. By⌠anyone."
"This is true."
"So I considered keeping you distant. I can be protective of people IâŚ" He swallowed the end of the sententence, shaking his head.
"But I deserve a choice. Which is, by definition, the scenario in which I am least controlled. And⌠Harry, I don't want to be far from you."
Harry closes the few feet of distance, glancing between your eyes and your lips. You realize his hand isn't holding yours anymoreâit's holding your face.
"I couldn't believe you meant it," he whispers, and you knew he meant that night he rescued you. "I wantedâI mean, I wanted it to be, like hell. And of course you'd have some feelings for me. I'm great. I'm amazing. ButâŚ" He pauses. Every time he calls himself 'great,' you feel sure he's thinking the opposite. This time is no exception. "But love," he finishes, frowning. "That's a strong word."
You observe his imploring blue eyes, his sculpted dimples, his dark, tousled curls. "You dummy," you say, leaning your face into his hand a tad. "That's why I used it."
He responds by kissing you. It's soft, softer than you ever thought possible of him. It's soft, and careful, and chaste, but saturated in feeling. It's only when you respond by throwing your arms around his neck that he becomes less hesitant. Then he's dragging you closer, deepening the kiss, devouring you. Your knees feel weak and shaky. Harry's grip on you is tight, desperate, almost fearful.
When you finally stop kissing, he starts to retrieve his hand from your cheek, and you grab it and move it back. "Don't you go anywhere," you say.
"Okay," he agrees. He gives you a showstopping smile, and you think to yourself that you must not have ever seen him smile before, because you'd be compelled to have done this. And you're kissing him again.
â
Author's Note: FORGIVE ME FOR GETTING SO GODDAMN FLUFFY WITH IT. I just wanted a silly little fic. I'm working on a bigger Harry fic with an OC and it's super angsty and action-packed and I wanted respite lmao. + can you tell i've been watching Ed?
he thinks of himself as necessary. pragmatic. efficient. someone who does what must be done, even when it hurts. especially when it hurts. kindness, in his mind, is indulgent, something you can afford when the stakes arenât life, death, or the survival of entire worlds.
so when you say it, casually, sincerely, without hesitation â
âyouâre kind, harry.â
it lands wrong.
not bad. just⌠wrong.
at first, he doesnât react at all.
thatâs the thing with harry, his reactions come after the moment, not during. his face stays fixed, expression sharp, mouth already opening to correct you. to dismiss it. to wave it away like a miscalculation.
âno,â he says immediately. flat. certain. âiâm not.â
he doesnât raise his voice. doesnât snap. itâs not anger, itâs correction. like youâve stated an incorrect equation and he canât let it stand.
âi do what needs to be done,â he continues, already turning back to whatever he was working on. âthatâs not kindness. thatâs responsibility.â
but you donât back down.
you never do with him.
you tell him you see it anyway. in the way he double-checks everyoneâs safety before his own. the way he pretends not to care but always notices when someoneâs struggling. the way his insults stop just short of cruelty, sharp, yes, but never meant to wound beyond repair.
you tell him heâs kind in action, even if he refuses the word.
thatâs when his hands still.
not dramatically. just enough.
his jaw tightens, a muscle ticking near his temple like something inside him is grinding gears too hard. he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if steadying himself against something he didnât see coming.
kind.
the word crawls under his skin.
because kindness implies intention. gentleness. choice.
and harry has spent years believing that if he let himself be gentle, everything would fall apart.
he finally looks at you.
really looks.
thereâs something unsettled in his eyes now, not anger, not annoyance, but a rawness he rarely allows anyone to see. like youâve named something heâs been actively trying to starve.
âyou donât know what youâre talking about,â he mutters.
but the edge is gone.
if you smile, soft, knowing, and tell him you do, that youâve seen the way his voice lowers when heâs worried about you, the way his hand lingers at your back when things get dangerous, the way he always makes sure youâre okay before he lets himself collapse â
thatâs when he breaks eye contact.
turns away.
rubs a hand over his face like heâs exhausted, like this conversation weighs more than any multiversal crisis ever has.
âthatâs not kindness,â he says again, quieter now. âthatâs⌠habit.â
but his voice betrays him.
because thereâs doubt in it.
the truth is, harry doesnât know what to do with being seen this way. kindness was never something anyone praised him for, not on his earth, not after loss hardened him into something sharper. he learned to survive by being difficult. unlikable. effective.
you calling him kind reframes all of it.
it suggests that the parts of him he thought were weaknesses, the care he hides, the protectiveness he pretends is irritation, the way he softens around you without realizing, arenât flaws at all.
theyâre proof.
later, much later, the moment comes back to him when he thinks youâre not watching.
youâll catch it in the small things.
the way he adjusts his tone when speaking to you, more careful than before.
the way his hand finds yours briefly in a quiet moment, rough fingers squeezing once before letting go.
the way he brings you coffee without comment, sets it down exactly how you like it, and pretends it was coincidence.
and if you ever call him kind again, not in the heat of a moment, but gently, almost fondly â
he wonât argue as fast.
heâll scoff, sure. roll his eyes. mutter something about you being delusional.
but there will be color high on his cheekbones.
and when you walk away, youâll hear him say under his breath, so quiet itâs barely there:
ââŚbloody hell.â
because for all his brilliance, for all his sharp edges and defenses â
being kind is the one thing harry wells never meant to be.
HARRISON WELLS WITH SOMEONE WHOSE INSECURE ABOUT THEIR SMARTS (would include):
⢠Sure he loves to correct people on certain things, and is less gentle about it with others, but heâs far more patient with you. He knows you doubt yourself with how smart you are when being surrounded by literal scientists
⢠âI would say Iâm the smartest in the room, but theyâre here, so Iâd be lying.â Makes you feel butterflies each time he says that. And if someone tries to correct him about that; âSee? This is exactly what I mean by that.â
⢠Adores how you view things, and describe things in non scientific terms. Youâre always the one to translate to Joe about the subject matter basically. Always makes Harrison smile and adore that part of you
⢠So also during non work and emergency times, heâs absolutely praising your smarts. He knows you love to be praised during sex, and heâll make sure to praise everything about you
⢠âYour brain is as brilliant as space.â Some real cheesy shit, but like you eat it up each time. âYour body is as magnificent as your brainâ, etc
⢠For those who donât like it during sex, heâll also comment on how smart you are during aftercare since itâs when youâre the most vulnerable anyway. âThe team think Iâm just an idiot. I mean I just can always feel the judgement radiating off each otherâs skin.â âDarling, I wouldâve strangled one of the members of Team Flash by now if that was true. Trust me.â
⢠Oh my god, when one of the bad guys say shit about your smarts- like he already wanted to kill those people, but fuck
⢠You do have to remind him thatâll only make things more difficult for the team. âYouâre right. But that doesnât mean itâll stop me from picturing it.â
⢠You do find it hot however that he gets that way~ also definitely incorporates with any moment you two get to have sex
⢠So if youâre just chill with him killing those people, he will eventually calm down since Joe or Barry would have to remind him to stick to the plan. It is more difficult for Harrison to listen to those two, but he knew that the two were right. He also most of the time will be able to rationalize it himself
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he deduces what you want before you say it and acts very smug when heâs right.
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he notices before you do. thatâs the frustrating part.
your gaze lingers on something for half a second too long, your fingers hover near an object, your expression shifts in that tiny, subconscious way most people overlook â and sherloque catches it all like clues at a crime scene. to him, your habits are a language, and heâs become disturbingly fluent.
youâll be mid-conversation when he suddenly slides something toward you. the exact snack you were thinking about grabbing. the file you were about to ask for. the answer to a question you hadnât spoken yet.
âyou were about to ask,â he says smoothly, like itâs obvious. like anyone couldâve figured it out.
but then comes the look â that smug, satisfied little smile curling at the edge of his mouth, eyes bright with pride at another correct deduction. he doesnât gloat loudly; he doesnât need to. his expression does it for him.
and if you ask how he knew, heâll list it off like evidence.
you glanced at the clock twice.
you shifted your weight toward the door.
your tone lifted at the end of that sentence.
you always do that when you want something but donât want to interrupt.
he says it all with playful confidence, watching your surprise like itâs the real reward.
but beneath the theatrics, thereâs something softer. because sherloque doesnât study everyone this closely. he doesnât memorize everyoneâs tells, or track the patterns in their moods, or care enough to notice the difference between your tired sighs and your thoughtful ones.
he pays attention because he wants to. because you interest him in a way mysteries and puzzles do â endlessly, sincerely, with curiosity that never quite fades.
and sometimes, when he gets it right and you laugh or shake your head in disbelief, he looks almost pleased in a quieter way. less smug, more warm. like your reaction matters more than the victory.
heâll still act smug, of course. straighten his coat, give a knowing nod, maybe say something dramatic about his brilliance.
but if you look closely, youâll see it.
the truth is, his favorite mystery isnât the case heâs working on.
itâs you â
and heâs more than happy to keep learning how to read you right.
characters: barry allen, harrison wells (eobard thawne), harry wells, h.r. wells, nash wells, sherloque wells, ralph dibny, cisco ramon, wally west, julian albert, leonard snart, hunter zolomon, savitar (barry allen remnant)
description: a first time charged with tension, breathless touches, and the kind of want thatâs been waiting far too long.
tags/warnings: intimacy, suggestive themes, tension, emotional vulnerability, first time dynamics, rough/gentle contrasts, soft aftercare tones, non-explicit but heavily charged.
Barry Allen
Heâs been holding back for weeks, the stolen glances, the way his hand lingers on your waist when he passes by. Tonight, though, all that restraint shatters. Youâre both pressed up against the wall, his heartbeat drumming fast enough to shake the air between you. When his lips finally crash against yours, itâs not gentle, itâs a confession years in the making, trembling with want and relief.
His hands trace up your spine, each touch deliberate, grounding you even as the world spins.
Breath catches between every kiss, soft gasps turning to quiet whimpers as his mouth moves lower.
The tension breaks in waves, all heat, breath, and unspoken need, his body moving with yours in perfect sync.
You can feel his pulse through every touch; he murmurs your name like itâs a plea.
Every motion is careful but desperate, his control slipping with every ragged breath.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Harrison Wells (Eobard Thawne)
For him, itâs not just want, itâs obsession disguised as tenderness. When he finally has you close, his hands tremble, not from hesitation, but from the weight of years heâs spent imagining this. His lips find yours in a slow, consuming kiss that burns like a secret heâs no longer willing to keep.
His voice is rough when he whispers, âYou have no idea how long Iâve waited.â
Each touch is a claim, steady at first, then firmer, his hands guiding you exactly where he wants you.
The kiss deepens until itâs almost too much, all tongue and heat and desperate sound.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, a mix of reverence and hunger.
When he moves again, itâs with purpose, deliberate, dominant, yet unexpectedly reverent.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Harry Wells
Heâs all rough edges and restless hands, every motion betraying how badly heâs wanted this, wanted you. Thereâs no hesitation, just the quiet growl in his throat as he pulls you close, his breath hot against your ear. His touch is heavy, sure, grounding you in the kind of need that burns steady and deep.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding your lips back to his with a low sound thatâs half-growl, half-sigh.
The air between you hums with tension, every movement sharp, impatient, but still careful in the way only he can be.
When he murmurs your name, it sounds like a promise and a warning both.
His body presses into yours with a rhythm that feels instinctive, primal, a wordless exchange of trust and hunger.
Each breath you share feels like a spark; each sigh, a silent surrender.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
H.R.
He tries to keep it playful, he really does, but the laughter fades quickly when you pull him closer. For once, words escape him, the man who always has a joke suddenly struck silent as your lips meet his. He kisses like heâs tasting sunlight, hands trembling with a mixture of awe and urgency.
His fingers trace your face first, memorizing it with the care of someone who canât believe this is real.
When he deepens the kiss, itâs messy, eager and breathless, his lips moving against yours with dizzy warmth.
Each touch grows bolder, the air thick with unspoken affection and rising need.
He breaks the kiss only to whisper, âYouâre incredible,â voice cracking with raw emotion.
The world narrows to just his heartbeat against yours, his smile trembling as he gives in completely.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Nash Wells
Itâs all sharp breath and trembling hands, the kind of hunger that feels like a fight. You both try to stay in control, but the moment his lips brush yours, itâs over. His hand finds your waist, pulling you close until the air between you disappears. Every move he makes is rough around the edges, but every touch means something.
His hands explore in fits and starts, impatient, needy, but never careless.
When your breath catches, he groans softly, forehead pressed against yours as though to steady himself.
His touch turns from urgent to reverent, his voice rough when he murmurs, âYou have no idea what you do to me.â
Each movement carries weight, restrained force wrapped in tenderness.
You lose yourselves in the rhythm, the tension snapping and reforming, every motion a promise of more.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Sherloque Wells
He takes his time. Every glance, every touch, deliberate, calculated to make you tremble. When he finally leans in, his kiss is slow and devastating, pulling a sound from your throat you didnât mean to let escape. Itâs patient hunger, restrained passion, the kind that feels like it could go on forever.
His thumb brushes along your jaw, guiding your lips back to his, slow and commanding.
The first few touches are exploratory, testing, learning, until he knows exactly how to make you gasp.
His breath hitches when your hands find his chest, his control flickering in the heat between you.
Each kiss deepens, deliberate and consuming, until youâre left trembling in his hands.
When he finally murmurs, âMon ange,â it sounds like a confession.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Ralph Dibny
You didnât expect it to be this intense, the goofy smile gone, replaced by something deeper, rawer. He touches you like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he blinks. When your lips meet, itâs hesitant at first, then suddenly desperate, all hands and breath and tangled sheets.
His hands wander, tentative and curious, before confidence takes over and he pulls you closer.
The kiss grows heated, uncoordinated but full of heart, his breath mixing with yours.
He mutters soft apologies between kisses, laughing against your skin when you whisper his name.
His body molds perfectly to yours, finding rhythm in the chaos.
When itâs over, he just holds you, eyes wide, still breathless, still smiling like he canât believe it happened.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Cisco Ramon
Itâs been building for months, the teasing, the glances that last a second too long. When you finally crash together, itâs clumsy and perfect all at once. His kiss steals your breath, his laugh rumbling low when you tug him closer. He tastes like electricity and want, all spark and warmth, all heart.
His hands find your waist, gripping tight like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
The kiss deepens, heat spreading fast, every movement instinctive and charged.
His breath stutters when you arch into him, eyes fluttering shut as he mutters your name against your lips.
The tension breaks in a wave of motion, soft gasps, tangled sheets, and the sound of your heartbeats syncing.
When itâs over, he rests his forehead against yours, whispering, âWorth every second of waiting.â
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Wally West
It happens fast, everything with Wally does. One moment youâre laughing, the next, heâs kissing you like heâs been holding back forever. Itâs breathless, urgent, but sweet too, like every touch is both a question and an answer. When he pulls away, heâs smiling, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need.
His hands trace down your sides, thumbs brushing over skin as if memorizing every inch.
The kisses come quicker, deeper, your laughter mixing with quiet moans and soft gasps.
He moves with a rhythm thatâs all instinct, every motion both careful and desperate.
âYouâre incredible,â he murmurs between breaths, voice trembling with sincerity and awe.
When you finally fall still together, heâs grinning, cheeks flushed, still tracing lazy shapes on your skin.
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Julian Albert
With Julian, itâs precise, until it isnât. The tension between you finally snaps one quiet night, and when he kisses you, itâs all teeth and breath and frustration turned hunger. Heâs careful, but you can feel the restraint fraying beneath his skin with every passing second.
His hands cup your face, thumbs stroking softly before his lips crash onto yours, all control gone.
The kiss grows rougher, needier, a low groan escaping when you pull him closer.
His breath shakes as he whispers your name like a prayer, forehead resting against yours.
Every movement feels deliberate, restrained, until it isnât, until he gives in completely.
When itâs over, he exhales a shaky laugh, brushing hair from your face. âI suppose Iâve lost my composure, havenât I?â
ęŚËâ๨ŕ§ËâÂˇË ŕźęˇęŚË
Leonard Snart
He doesnât rush. Every touch, every kiss, feels deliberate, planned, like heâs savoring a rare indulgence. His voice stays low and steady even as his eyes darken, tension simmering beneath every word. When his lips finally meet yours, itâs cold fire, measured heat that builds, slow and steady, until it consumes you both.
His gloved hand slides up your arm, cool against your heated skin.
The kiss is deep, firm, patient, no wasted motion, only intent.
His breath catches when you whisper his name, and his control finally falters.
His hands grow rougher, movements purposeful but shaking slightly as the facade slips.
He pulls back, lips brushing your ear, and murmurs, âDonât worry, sweetheart, Iâll take my time with you.â
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Hunter Zolomon (Zoom)
The air seems to hum when heâs near. Everything about him is intensity, the way he looks at you, the way he moves, the quiet, dangerous hunger beneath his stillness. When he finally touches you, itâs with shocking gentleness, as if afraid his strength might break you. Then the gentleness burns away, replaced by need that feels almost otherworldly.
His hand cups your face, thumb tracing your bottom lip as if memorizing it.
The first kiss is soft, almost too soft, before it turns into something deeper, darker.
His breathing quickens, control slipping as his hands slide lower, anchoring you against him.
Each movement grows hungrier, his voice breaking on your name as he struggles between restraint and desire.
You can feel the tremor in his body when he finally gives in, his whispered growl more confession than command.
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Savitar (Barry Allen Remnant)
Itâs not tenderness, itâs gravity. The moment his lips touch yours, everything stops. The tension between you has always been too sharp, too dangerous, and when it finally breaks, itâs overwhelming. He touches you like a man starving, reverent, desperate, claiming and giving all at once.
His hands frame your face first, fingers trembling as if he canât believe youâre real.
The kiss is deep and consuming, a collision of longing and darkness.
Every brush of skin feels amplified, electricity crackling between each breath.
His voice is low, reverent when he murmurs, âYou make me remember what it feels like to be alive.â
When the last of the tension melts away, itâs with a quiet exhale, two broken pieces finally fitting together.
Word Count: 1k.
Genre: romantic tension, fluff, slightly crack.
Summary:
After a long night's work, the pull of your bed and the pull of Harry compete for your attention. Both might win.
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It happened first thing in the morning. Or rather, last at night. It was sunrise, but you and Harry had been working in parallel focus since the previous noon, assembling tech the Flash required to defeat a new meta. You were developing the neutralizing solution, Harry the injector. It was only now, finally, that you were combining the components. After this you would get a few hours' sleep, so that you could be cognizant during its use when the Flash finally faced the delinquent meta.
"You're ready for me?" you asked, crossing to his side of the workshop with the vial.
"Yes. I can insert it myself. You can go ahead and sleep. Get some sleep."
You huffed. "Not until we're sure. Let me hold the light for you."
"No, don'tâ" Harry cut himself off when he realized the angle you were holding the light was actually quite helpful. "Okay. Thanks."
You were leaning over his shoulder, arm parallel, so that right before he began he glanced at you. Your faces were remarkably close. His eyebrows raised as if he was thinking a vivid thought, but he swallowed it down, and quietly proceeded.
"A bit higher," he whispered.
"Right." You adjusted. He slowly inserted the solution into the compartment. As he did so, you tried not to think of his subtle cedar musk mixed with with a twinge of sweat from working all night. You tried not to think about how you were close enough to him that you could hear his breath, which was now held, and the warmth his body was exuding.
"Steady," he said.
"Sorry." You steadied your hand, watching intently. As he clicked the solution component into place, the two of you simultaneously let out a sigh of relief. You shut off the light and were about to withdraw when you noticed Harry was sitting absolutely still. Still leaning over his shoulder, you turned your face towards his. "Doctor?"
He glanced at you, still unmoving.
Not just at you. At your lips.
Several seconds passed. You knew what having your lips looked at meant, and your body was responding with appropriate nerves. But having your lips looked at by Harrison Wells? The combination of variables was incomprehensible, leaving you petrified, confused, and a little turned on. His gaze met yours, a dark glow in the blue of his irises.
To prompt his explanation again would kill whatever electricity was present in the air between you two. Instead, you stood straight and stepped around his chair, leaning against his desk. You did not speak. Nor did he. You only looked.
He removed his glasses with one hand. His eyes narrowed. "Why were your hands shaking?" he whisper-spoke.
"I'mâtired," you said reluctantly. It wasn't the whole truth, and you both knew it.
"Yeah. So am I." He rose from his chair, standing over you. "I should go get some sleep." But clearly, he did not intend on leaving just yet.
"Me too," you said, just as stationary.
Calmly, he set his glasses on the desk beside you. Then, with a small smirk, he placed his hands on either side of you on the edges of his desk. His face was inches from yours. Still, the two of you were not touching at all. "So?" he asked with quiet fervour. "Why don't you?"
You laughed gently. "I seem to be caged against your desk."
His eyebrows twitched. "You could leave anytime. There must be a reason you haven't pushed past me. Youâ" He leaned closer to you. His breath tickled your ear. "You must enjoy this."
A surge of butterflies exploded in your stomach. Heart sped. Breath shortened. You mustered a "Mhm," and felt his breath ghosting your neck. Still, he hadn't touched you. It was going to kill you, this infinitely deep space between you and him. "Harry," you said, a shake in your voice.
Then his lips were on yours. Not insistent, but not hesitant. Modest, slow. The moment froze, and the feeling of the scientist's lips on yours was like nothing else. You kissed him back, and one of your hands, on its own, found its way into his fluffy hair. You felt his hands carve your back, your sides, drawing you closer. The kiss deepened, and you felt a magnetic pull of every molecule of your body towards Harrison Wells.
"Y/NâŚ"
"Oh, God, HarryâŚ"
"Um, Y/N."
Your eyes fluttered open. The first thing you noticed was an ache in your neck and a jab in your shoulder. Second, that your head was on your desk, likely the culprit of the pain. Third: it had been a dream. And the scientist you had been fantasizing about was saying your name and poking you with a pen.
"Wake up," he said.
Gathering your senses, you shot out of your chair, taking a few steps away from him. And another one for good measure.
"Uh," said Harry with that incredible eloquence of his, "you okay?"
"Of course. Yup. Why wouldn't I be? Sorry for dozing off."
"It's just that you were⌠groaning a lot."
Oh.
God.
"Nightmare," you said quickly.
"Okay. Glad⌠you're okay. Have you completed the neutralizing solution for the device?"
You cleared your throat. You tried to meet his eyes, but a split second caused your heart to flutter unbearably. Attraction that had previously been veiled, passive, and unobtrusive was now making itself all-too-known. And you had been making obscene noises while dreaming about kissing Harrison Wells while he was in the room.
You wanted to go back to sleep and never wake up.
â
Author's Note: I wrote this a couple days ago for funsies for a very simple reason: I want to be kissed by this man but I cannot imagine a situation where it would happen. Soooo what if it did but it didn't....
He freezes the second your hands touch his tie, eyes darting down to watch your fingers.
Soft smile spreads across his face, heâs blushing so hard, you can see it even through his freckles.
Tries to joke about it: âGuess I still need a little help, huh?â
But inside, his heart is pounding because the intimacy of the moment overwhelms him.
When you tug the tie gently to straighten it, his breath catches, and he realizes he doesnât want you to let go.
Heâll lean down slightly so you donât have to reach too high, using it as an excuse to stay close.
After you finish, he murmurs a quiet âThanks, babe,â before kissing your forehead like he just fell for you all over again.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Harrison Wells (Eobard Thawne)
The second you reach for his collar, he tilts his head with that sharp, amused smirk.
âFixing me up, are you? How very⌠devoted of you.â
He stands perfectly still, letting you fuss with his tie like a predator waiting for prey.
When your fingers linger too long, his voice drops to a whisper: âCareful, little one⌠you might make me think you care.â
He loves how domestic it feels, even though heâd never admit it, it makes him feel in control and wanted at the same time.
After you finish, he doesnât step back; instead, he loops a finger around your wrist, holding you there.
âPerfect. Now, about that reward for being such a good⌠partner.â Cue his dangerous grin.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Harry Wells
He immediately grumbles: âI can do it myself.â
But he doesnât actually stop you, he just stands there, stiff as a board, muttering under his breath about how unnecessary this is.
When your fingers brush his throat, his cheeks turn bright pink, and he looks anywhere but your face.
âSeriously, kid, this is ridiculous,â he says, voice a little shaky.
The second youâre done, he clears his throat and dives back into his work like nothing happened.
But five minutes later, you catch him hiding a small smile, and when he thinks youâre not looking, he touches the tie like itâs special now.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
H.R. Wells
Lights up the second your hands touch his collar: âWhoa, whoa, are we having a rom-com moment right now?â
Grins like a kid, leaning in closer on purpose just to make you laugh.
âShould I stare into your eyes dramatically? Is this the part where we kiss?â
Honestly, he loves it way too much; heâll start purposely messing up his tie in the mornings so youâll fix it for him.
When you finish, he beams and twirls around like heâs on a runway: âHow do I look, Sugarplum? Sharp enough to impress?â
He lives for the intimacy and never misses a chance to turn it into a cute, over-the-top moment.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Nash Wells
The moment your fingers reach for his collar, he stiffens like you just activated some ancient booby trap he wasnât prepared for.
âWoahâhey, what do you think youâreââ
He cuts himself off when your hands actually touch him.
His breath catches.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
He tries to play it off with sarcasm: âDidnât know I needed a personal stylist now.â
But his eyes⌠soften in a way he probably hasnât let happen in years.
He watches your hands the whole time, like heâs trying to memorize the feeling, or convince himself itâs real. Heâs not used to being taken care of. Heâs not used to anyone getting this close without wanting something.
When you smooth the tie down, he exhales a slow breath he didnât know he was holding.
ââŚThanks,â he murmurs, voice quieter than usual. Almost gentle.
Then, in true Nash fashion, he immediately steps back and covers it with a smirk:
âCareful. Keep that up, and I might start thinking you like me.â
But the faint pink on his ears gives him away.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Sherloque Wells
The second your fingers reach for his tie, he brightens like someone just handed him a mystery wrapped in silk.
âAh! Mon amour, you are adjusting my attire?â
He stands taller, almost proud, tilting his chin up for easier access.
Sherloque watches you with warm, amused eyes, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He loves this, loves the closeness, the domestic intimacy, the way your brows furrow with focus as you straighten the knot.
âYou do it with such precision,â he purrs. âIt is almost⌠romantic, non?â
When your fingers graze his collar, he hums, actually hums, low in his throat, pleased and a little smug.
He leans closer, voice dropping:
âIf you wished to undress me instead, all you had to do was ask.â
You swat his chest lightly, but his grin only grows.
Once you finish, he smooths the lapels dramatically and bows:
âMerci, mon coeur. You make me look even more magnifique.â
Then he kisses the back of your hand like a gentleman who just fell a little bit in love.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Ralph Dibny
Immediately smirks when you start fixing his tie: âOh, this is hot. Donât stop.â
Makes it as dramatic as possible, leaning forward and puckering his lips like heâs expecting a kiss.
âYou know, most people just tell me I look good, I donât get the VIP service.â
He wiggles his eyebrows the entire time, just to make you laugh.
But when you smooth his collar and step back, he actually goes quiet for a second, because damn, you look so focused and soft when you do that.
Then he recovers with: âGuess I owe you dinner for this kind of treatment.â
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Cisco Ramon
Freezes like you just hit pause on his entire system.
âUh⌠what are youâoh. Oh wow, okay.â
He watches your hands the whole time, biting his lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
When your fingers brush his chest, his brain short-circuits, and he mutters something like, âThis is⌠wow. Is it hot in here?â
He tries to joke his way through it: âSo, uh⌠do I look like James Bond now, orâŚ?â
When you finish, he stares at you for a moment too long before blurting, âMarry me.â (Heâs kidding⌠mostly.)
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Wally West
The second your hands touch his tie, he grins like a fool.
âWhoa, whoaâam I dreaming, or is this some fancy-cute couple thing weâre doing now?â
He wiggles his eyebrows and leans down playfully so you have easier access.
When your fingers brush his chest, he canât help blurting out: âDamn, youâre good at this. Youâve done this before? Should I be jealous?â
His cheeks turn red halfway through, and he suddenly gets shy, mumbling: âYou⌠look really cute doing that, yâknow.â
As soon as youâre done, he does a little spin and says: âHow do I look? Like the hottest guy in the room?â
If you laugh, he kisses you right then and there, because heâs all about sealing the moment with affection.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Julian Albert
Freezes like someone just pressed pause on him.
Blinks down at you, completely caught off guard: âUh⌠youâdonât have toââ
His voice trails off because wow, your hands are so gentle, and itâs making his heart pound.
He tries to act all proper: âWell⌠I suppose you want this done correctly, donât you?â But he sounds flustered as hell.
When your fingers linger near his collarbone, his breath hitches and his ears go bright red.
After you finish, he mutters softly: âThank you, love,â in that accented, warm tone that makes your heart melt.
He clears his throat and immediately changes the subject because heâs so nervous yet secretly wishes youâd do it again.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Leonard Snart
The moment your hands move to his tie, he smirks like heâs watching his favorite game.
âWell, well⌠arenât you full of surprises.â
He stays perfectly still, icy eyes locked on yours the entire time, making it ten times more intense.
His voice drops low, teasing: âCareful⌠touch me like that, and people will start talking.â
When your fingers adjust his collar, he grabs your wrist gently, not to stop you, but just to feel you.
After you finish, he tilts his head and gives you that slow grin: âNot bad. Guess Iâll keep you around.â
Then he leans in close and murmurs in your ear: âYou look good fussing over me. Dangerous, though.â
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Hunter Zolomon (Zoom)
At first, he seems indifferent, standing completely still, silent, watching your every move.
But the way his jaw clenches tells you heâs feeling something.
His voice is low, almost a growl: âYouâre brave, touching me like that.â
When your fingers graze his throat, his eyes darken, and he exhales slowly, like heâs trying to keep control.
He doesnât say much, but his hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you slightly closer while you finish.
When youâre done, he stares at you for a long moment before smirking: âPerfect. Just like you.â
He walks away after that⌠but not before brushing his fingers over your hand in a way that leaves you trembling.
︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜ ŕ¨ŕ§ ︜ Ö˘ â Ö˘ ︜
Savitar (barry allen remnant)
The moment you touch his tie, he grabs your wrist, not harshly, but firmly, his lips curling into a smirk.
âFixing me up, love? You really like taking care of me, donât you?â
He doesnât let go; instead, he guides your hand back to his chest, holding it there while he leans down to your ear.
âEvery second you touch me, I want more.â His voice is low, almost a growl, making your heart race.
Eventually, he does let you fix the tie, but the entire time, his gaze never leaves yours, intense, predatory, obsessed.
When you finish, he whispers: âYouâre mine. Always will be.â Then kisses you slow and deep, like he needs to claim you all over again.
Later, heâll mess it up on purpose just so youâll have to do it again.
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the thoughts i was having just now upon seeing sherloque wells tied up on the roof in 5x14 "Cause and XS" were NOT the same ones i was having 6 years ago the first few times i watched this episode
Anywhere, anytime, this sexual tension could snap. You were prepared for it to happen soon. But maybe not in an apartment hallway.
AKA shameless Harry smut. He's too sexy. I can't help myself.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
i just spent like 40 minutes tryingto post it here but tumblr wants me to dead in a ditch. so i will post it on ao3 and then post the ao3 link here. fucking lol.
Throw Me Instead - Earth-2 Harrison Wells x Fem!Reader SMUT
Oops here comes another one, I have a thing for the Earth-2 DILF who wouldâve guessed?Â
Happy 2022 all, and sorry if youâre waiting on an Arcane fic, this one was sitting half-finished in my drafts since early November.
Word Count: 3000+
Synopsis: It wasnât uncommon for you to tease. It wasnât uncommon for Harry to rage. One day, however, the combination of your two personalities clashed.
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Summary: When an unknown substance is accidentally released into the medbay, you find yourself isolated along with Doctor Wells, and both of you start to develop some very interesting symptomsâŚ
A/N: Happy Friday! Hereâs some super hot smut to spice up your day! Word count - 3,223
an AU idea I've had bouncing around for a while, happy Eobirthday! <3333
Warnings: literal stealing of hearts
The average adult human heart weighs around 9 ounces.
Less than a pound of muscle, insignificant in mass, the size of a small fist. Frustratingly vital.
The Negative Speed Force was not perfect. It was not the Speed Force. It was an engine, a parasite, a hollowed-out thing feeding on his hatred. It did not embrace him, it did not care to. It devoured, relentlessly.
It consumed him.
Eobard Thawne was decaying.
Not in the poetic sense. Not in the wistful way one might describe the gradual softening of mortality, not in the natural way all things came to an end. No, this was something worse. Something cruel. His body rejected its own existence, an anomaly unmoored from time, an echo that should have long faded but refused to die - his heart, no longer adequate, no longer sufficient, unable to withstand the speeds at which he was now accustomed to. It failed him in agonizing increments - erratic beats, a constant ache spreading through his ribs, the unmistakable warning of something breaking down inside him.
The first time had been unplanned. A desperate, necessary experiment.
Harrison Wells had been dying already.
Eobard remembered it vividly - the dim, flickering headlights, the scent of gasoline curling in the cold night air, the slow, ragged gasps of a dying man trying to drag himself from the wreckage. He had been watching, standing over him, the ruined remains of the car groaning as it settled into stillness.
Phasing took practice. Precision. Too little control and he risked disruption - vessels torn too violently, cardiac tissue rendered useless. He had to be delicate. Eobard's hand blurred as he reached forward, his molecules vibrating at impossible speeds, slipping through skin, through muscle, through Harrison Wells' ribcage. His fingers wrapped around Wells' heart, still fighting, still alive, and he pulled.
The electric charge of Wells' life force surged up his arm, dancing through his veins like the Negative Speed Force itself, reviving him. His own heart restarted with a painful, shuddering force. He exhaled.
Wells' heart withered instantly, collapsing, blackening, shriveling like paper held to an open flame. With barely a movement, Eobard crumbled it into dry, useless dust between his fingers.
The heart lasted longer than his own but not long enough.
Eobard did not waste. He did not take without reason. He did not kill for pleasure - only necessity. A jogger on an early morning run. A businessman returning home. A doctor alone on the late shift. He targeted each precisely to ensure the hearts would last. Each seemed only to fail faster.
Barry Allen had stripped him of his future, of his place in history, had left him rotting in a century that was never meant to hold him, in a body that refused to sustain him. But he would find a way to survive.