allons-y!

it lands wrong.

not bad. just… wrong.

at first, he doesn’t react at all.

that’s 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.

“no,” he says immediately. flat. certain. “i’m not.”

he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t snap. it’s not anger, it’s correction. like you’ve stated an incorrect equation and he can’t let it stand.

“i do what needs to be done,” he continues, already turning back to whatever he was working on. “that’s not kindness. that’s responsibility.”

but you don’t back down.

you never do with him.

you tell him you see it anyway. in the way he double-checks everyone’s safety before his own. the way he pretends not to care but always notices when someone’s struggling. the way his insults stop just short of cruelty, sharp, yes, but never meant to wound beyond repair.

you tell him he’s kind in action, even if he refuses the word.

that’s 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 didn’t 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.

there’s something unsettled in his eyes now, not anger, not annoyance, but a rawness he rarely allows anyone to see. like you’ve named something he’s been actively trying to starve.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters.

but the edge is gone.

if you smile, soft, knowing, and tell him you do, that you’ve seen the way his voice lowers when he’s worried about you, the way his hand lingers at your back when things get dangerous, the way he always makes sure you’re okay before he lets himself collapse —

that’s when he breaks eye contact.

turns away.

rubs a hand over his face like he’s exhausted, like this conversation weighs more than any multiversal crisis ever has.

“that’s not kindness,” he says again, quieter now. “that’s… habit.”

but his voice betrays him.

because there’s doubt in it.

the truth is, harry doesn’t 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, aren’t flaws at all.

they’re proof.

later, much later, the moment comes back to him when he thinks you’re not watching.

you’ll 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 —

he won’t argue as fast.

he’ll 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, you’ll hear him say under his breath, so quiet it’s barely there:

“…bloody hell.”

because for all his brilliance, for all his sharp edges and defenses —

being kind is the one thing harry wells never meant to be.

and the one thing that matters most to you.

     taglist :

@cassbass2000

@letosalt

@theonetruepotato87

• Sure he loves to correct people on certain things, and is less gentle about it with others, but he’s far more patient with you. He knows you doubt yourself with how smart you are when being surrounded by literal scientists

• “I would say I’m the smartest in the room, but they’re here, so I’d be lying.” Makes you feel butterflies each time he says that. And if someone tries to correct him about that; “See? This is exactly what I mean by that.”

• Adores how you view things, and describe things in non scientific terms. You’re 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, he’s absolutely praising your smarts. He knows you love to be praised during sex, and he’ll make sure to praise everything about you

• “Your brain is as brilliant as space.” Some real cheesy shit, but like you eat it up each time. “Your body is as magnificent as your brain”, etc

• For those who don’t like it during sex, he’ll also comment on how smart you are during aftercare since it’s when you’re the most vulnerable anyway. “The team think I’m just an idiot. I mean I just can always feel the judgement radiating off each other’s skin.” “Darling, I would’ve strangled one of the members of Team Flash by now if that was true. Trust me.”

• 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 that’ll only make things more difficult for the team. “You’re right. But that doesn’t mean it’ll stop me from picturing it.”

• You do find it hot however that he gets that way~ also definitely incorporates with any moment you two get to have sex

you’ll 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 hadn’t spoken yet.

“you were about to ask,” he says smoothly, like it’s obvious. like anyone could’ve figured it out.

but then comes the look — that smug, satisfied little smile curling at the edge of his mouth, eyes bright with pride at another correct deduction. he doesn’t gloat loudly; he doesn’t need to. his expression does it for him.

and if you ask how he knew, he’ll 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 don’t want to interrupt.

he says it all with playful confidence, watching your surprise like it’s the real reward.

but beneath the theatrics, there’s something softer. because sherloque doesn’t study everyone this closely. he doesn’t memorize everyone’s 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 — 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.

he’ll still act smug, of course. straighten his coat, give a knowing nod, maybe say something dramatic about his brilliance.

but if you look closely, you’ll see it.

the truth is, his favorite mystery isn’t the case he’s working on.

it’s you —

and he’s more than happy to keep learning how to read you right.

     credits :

@omi-resources

@muerdida

     taglist :

@cassbass2000

@letosalt

@theonetruepotato87

Barry Allen

He’s 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. You’re both pressed up against the wall, his heartbeat drumming fast enough to shake the air between you. When his lips finally crash against yours, it’s not gentle, it’s 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 it’s a plea.

Every motion is careful but desperate, his control slipping with every ragged breath.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Harrison Wells (Eobard Thawne)

For him, it’s not just want, it’s obsession disguised as tenderness. When he finally has you close, his hands tremble, not from hesitation, but from the weight of years he’s spent imagining this. His lips find yours in a slow, consuming kiss that burns like a secret he’s no longer willing to keep.

His voice is rough when he whispers, “You have no idea how long I’ve waited.”

Each touch is a claim, steady at first, then firmer, his hands guiding you exactly where he wants you.

The kiss deepens until it’s 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, it’s with purpose, deliberate, dominant, yet unexpectedly reverent.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Harry Wells

He’s all rough edges and restless hands, every motion betraying how badly he’s wanted this, wanted you. There’s 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 that’s 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.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

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 he’s 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 can’t believe this is real.

When he deepens the kiss, it’s 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, “You’re incredible,” voice cracking with raw emotion.

The world narrows to just his heartbeat against yours, his smile trembling as he gives in completely.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Nash Wells

It’s 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, it’s 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, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

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.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

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 didn’t mean to let escape. It’s 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 you’re left trembling in his hands.

When he finally murmurs, “Mon ange,” it sounds like a confession.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Ralph Dibny

You didn’t expect it to be this intense, the goofy smile gone, replaced by something deeper, rawer. He touches you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. When your lips meet, it’s 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 it’s over, he just holds you, eyes wide, still breathless, still smiling like he can’t believe it happened.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Cisco Ramon

It’s been building for months, the teasing, the glances that last a second too long. When you finally crash together, it’s 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 he’s afraid you’ll 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 it’s over, he rests his forehead against yours, whispering, “Worth every second of waiting.”

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Wally West

It happens fast, everything with Wally does. One moment you’re laughing, the next, he’s kissing you like he’s been holding back forever. It’s breathless, urgent, but sweet too, like every touch is both a question and an answer. When he pulls away, he’s 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 that’s all instinct, every motion both careful and desperate.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs between breaths, voice trembling with sincerity and awe.

When you finally fall still together, he’s grinning, cheeks flushed, still tracing lazy shapes on your skin.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Julian Albert

With Julian, it’s precise, until it isn’t. The tension between you finally snaps one quiet night, and when he kisses you, it’s all teeth and breath and frustration turned hunger. He’s 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 isn’t, until he gives in completely.

When it’s over, he exhales a shaky laugh, brushing hair from your face. “I suppose I’ve lost my composure, haven’t I?”

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Leonard Snart

He doesn’t rush. Every touch, every kiss, feels deliberate, planned, like he’s 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, it’s 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, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take my time with you.”

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Hunter Zolomon (Zoom)

The air seems to hum when he’s 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, it’s 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.

꒦˙⭒౨ৎ˚₊·˚ ༘꒷꒦˙

Savitar (Barry Allen Remnant)

It’s not tenderness, it’s 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, it’s 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 can’t believe you’re 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, “You make me remember what it feels like to be alive.”

Barry Allen

He freezes the second your hands touch his tie, eyes darting down to watch your fingers.

Soft smile spreads across his face, he’s blushing so hard, you can see it even through his freckles.

Tries to joke about it: “Guess I still need a little help, huh?”

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 doesn’t want you to let go.

He’ll lean down slightly so you don’t have to reach too high, using it as an excuse to stay close.

After you finish, he murmurs a quiet “Thanks, babe,” before kissing your forehead like he just fell for you all over again.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Harrison Wells (Eobard Thawne)

The second you reach for his collar, he tilts his head with that sharp, amused smirk.

“Fixing me up, are you? How very… devoted of you.”

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: “Careful, little one… you might make me think you care.”

He loves how domestic it feels, even though he’d never admit it, it makes him feel in control and wanted at the same time.

After you finish, he doesn’t step back; instead, he loops a finger around your wrist, holding you there.

“Perfect. Now, about that reward for being such a good… partner.” Cue his dangerous grin.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Harry Wells

He immediately grumbles: “I can do it myself.”

But he doesn’t 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.

“Seriously, kid, this is ridiculous,” he says, voice a little shaky.

The second you’re 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 you’re not looking, he touches the tie like it’s special now.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

H.R. Wells

Lights up the second your hands touch his collar: “Whoa, whoa, are we having a rom-com moment right now?”

Grins like a kid, leaning in closer on purpose just to make you laugh.

“Should I stare into your eyes dramatically? Is this the part where we kiss?”

Honestly, he loves it way too much; he’ll start purposely messing up his tie in the mornings so you’ll fix it for him.

When you finish, he beams and twirls around like he’s on a runway: “How do I look, Sugarplum? Sharp enough to impress?”

He lives for the intimacy and never misses a chance to turn it into a cute, over-the-top moment.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Nash Wells

The moment your fingers reach for his collar, he stiffens like you just activated some ancient booby trap he wasn’t prepared for.

“Woah—hey, what do you think you’re—” 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: “Didn’t know I needed a personal stylist now.”

But his eyes… soften in a way he probably hasn’t let happen in years.

He watches your hands the whole time, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling,  or convince himself it’s real. He’s not used to being taken care of. He’s not used to anyone getting this close without wanting something.

When you smooth the tie down, he exhales a slow breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“…Thanks,” he murmurs, voice quieter than usual. Almost gentle.

Then, in true Nash fashion, he immediately steps back and covers it with a smirk: “Careful. Keep that up, and I might start thinking you like me.”

But the faint pink on his ears gives him away.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Sherloque Wells

The second your fingers reach for his tie, he brightens like someone just handed him a mystery wrapped in silk.

“Ah! Mon amour, you are adjusting my attire?” 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.

“You do it with such precision,” he purrs. “It is almost… romantic, non?”

When your fingers graze his collar, he hums, actually hums,  low in his throat, pleased and a little smug.

He leans closer, voice dropping: “If you wished to undress me instead, all you had to do was ask.”

You swat his chest lightly, but his grin only grows.

Once you finish, he smooths the lapels dramatically and bows: “Merci, mon coeur. You make me look even more magnifique.”

Then he kisses the back of your hand like a gentleman who just fell a little bit in love.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Ralph Dibny

Immediately smirks when you start fixing his tie: “Oh, this is hot. Don’t stop.”

Makes it as dramatic as possible, leaning forward and puckering his lips like he’s expecting a kiss.

“You know, most people just tell me I look good, I don’t get the VIP service.”

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: “Guess I owe you dinner for this kind of treatment.”

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Cisco Ramon

Freezes like you just hit pause on his entire system.

“Uh… what are you—oh. Oh wow, okay.”

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, “This is… wow. Is it hot in here?”

He tries to joke his way through it: “So, uh… do I look like James Bond now, or…?”

When you finish, he stares at you for a moment too long before blurting, “Marry me.” (He’s kidding… mostly.)

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Wally West

The second your hands touch his tie, he grins like a fool.

“Whoa, whoa—am I dreaming, or is this some fancy-cute couple thing we’re doing now?”

He wiggles his eyebrows and leans down playfully so you have easier access.

When your fingers brush his chest, he can’t help blurting out: “Damn, you’re good at this. You’ve done this before? Should I be jealous?”

His cheeks turn red halfway through, and he suddenly gets shy, mumbling: “You… look really cute doing that, y’know.”

As soon as you’re done, he does a little spin and says: “How do I look? Like the hottest guy in the room?”

If you laugh, he kisses you right then and there, because he’s all about sealing the moment with affection.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Julian Albert

Freezes like someone just pressed pause on him.

Blinks down at you, completely caught off guard: “Uh… you—don’t have to—”

His voice trails off because wow, your hands are so gentle, and it’s making his heart pound.

He tries to act all proper: “Well… I suppose you want this done correctly, don’t you?” 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: “Thank you, love,” in that accented, warm tone that makes your heart melt.

He clears his throat and immediately changes the subject because he’s so nervous yet secretly wishes you’d do it again.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Leonard Snart

The moment your hands move to his tie, he smirks like he’s watching his favorite game.

“Well, well… aren’t you full of surprises.”

He stays perfectly still, icy eyes locked on yours the entire time, making it ten times more intense.

His voice drops low, teasing: “Careful… touch me like that, and people will start talking.”

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: “Not bad. Guess I’ll keep you around.”

Then he leans in close and murmurs in your ear: “You look good fussing over me. Dangerous, though.”

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Hunter Zolomon (Zoom)

At first, he seems indifferent, standing completely still, silent, watching your every move.

But the way his jaw clenches tells you he’s feeling something.

His voice is low, almost a growl: “You’re brave, touching me like that.”

When your fingers graze his throat, his eyes darken, and he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to keep control.

He doesn’t say much, but his hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you slightly closer while you finish.

When you’re done, he stares at you for a long moment before smirking: “Perfect. Just like you.”

He walks away after that… but not before brushing his fingers over your hand in a way that leaves you trembling.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

Savitar (barry allen remnant)

The moment you touch his tie, he grabs your wrist, not harshly, but firmly, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Fixing me up, love? You really like taking care of me, don’t you?”

He doesn’t let go; instead, he guides your hand back to his chest, holding it there while he leans down to your ear.

“Every second you touch me, I want more.” 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: “You’re mine. Always will be.” Then kisses you slow and deep, like he needs to claim you all over again.

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.

Again.

And again.