Iris makes her way home after a particularly stressful week at work. On top of several article deadlines, one of her colleagues was ill, requiring her to supervise and train CCPN's two new interns on her own. A temporary power outage in the newsroom prevented her from accessing the archives that she desperately needed as a reference for one of her pieces. She's also in the midst of planning a presentation for a summer journalism conference in Metropolis to which she had accepted an invitation.
She embraces Friday night with open arms, a sense of comfort overcoming her as she steps into the apartment. What could remedy the aftermath of a hectic workweek better than the welcoming aroma of chocolate and a smiling boyfriend pulling a pan of fresh brownies from the oven?
"Right on time," Barry beams at her, clearly proud that he had accurately planned for the brownies to finishing baking when she would come home.
"Those smell amazing, Bear," she gushes, touched by the gesture, eagerly moving to his side to get a taste, like a child might. There was a reason she was teased for her brownie obsession.
"Thought you deserved a treat after all your hard work these past few days," he insists, cutting her a piece. "And yes, I made 'em more fudgey instead of cake-like."
He brings the brownie to her lips, feeds her a bite when-
She gags, spitting her mouthful into the sink.
"What is it?" he inquires, alarmed. "Too hot?"
She takes a moment to compose herself, fumbling around for a glass which she fills with water and instantly chugs.
"Barry, why is it-salty?" she gulps.
"Salty?" he exclaims. "There's no way. I didn't use any-"
He surveys the ingredients on the counter frantically, and sure enough, meets betrayal in the form of an uncapped glass jar clearly marked SALT in Iris's careful handwriting.
"Ugh, I'm sorry." He rubs his neck the way he sometimes does when he's upset or nervous. "I was moving so quickly that I must have grabbed the wrong jar."
Iris wants to laugh, because it's so characteristic of Barry to plan something sweet (literally) and have it backfire. He looks so disheartened though that she doesn't, and instead brings her attention to a large bowl still filled to the rim with brownie batter, apparently intended to be a second batch.
"That's also a waste," he sighs, nodding at the bowl.
A devilish thought crosses her mind, and she grins wickedly. It's a little evil, but she's had the worst week and could use a bit of fun. She dips her fingers in the thick batter.
"Iris, that's chock-full of salt-" Barry starts.
She reaches up to rub her chocolatey hands over his face.
"What the-Iris!" he sputters, trying to recoil from her grip.
This time she doesn't contain her laughter, cackling obnoxiously at the image of a dumbfounded Barry with brown goo smeared across the lower half of his features, dripping onto his shirt.
He shakes himself out of his bewilderment to get revenge, scooping a dollop of batter which he promptly chucks at her. She ducks hastily, and it splatters instead on the refrigerator behind her.
"My, my," she taunts, glancing over her shoulder at the tainted fridge. "The Flash is a little slow these days."
She turns back to him only to be hit by a slab of batter, smack-dab in the forehead.
Twenty minutes later, more kitchen surfaces are painted in batter than are clean, with some flour and an egg Barry cracked over her head thrown into the mix. Having surrendered in their little food battle, he's lying supine on the hard tile, limbs and odd parts of his body daubed with chocolate, hair tinted with white dust, while she stands over him in triumph.
He reaches an idle arm out to her. She bends on all fours to join him, crawling up his body so they're face-to-face. She's still in her work clothes, now spectacularly filthy.
She leans down, opening her mouth to lick the chocolate off of him. At the touch of her tongue, he inhales deeply. She feels his chest rise then fall gradually as she laps at him, the sting of salt more enticing now than it was earlier. She trails her tongue slowly from the side of his neck to his jaw and up to his nose, which she then nudges affectionately with her own.
"Best brownie ever," she murmurs, smacking her lips.
There was nothing like a lazy Saturday afternoon for Iris to do her leisure magazine reading. She hates the widespread notion being spewed that "print is dead", even as a tech-savvy journalist in an age of digital media. She's always preferred pages over screens. Her form of dissent therefore is to purchase and maintain a collection of print journals, piles of them in fact, which she likes to browse in her spare time.
She sits cross-legged on the couch, flipping through one glossy magazine. She doesn't regularly read mainstream women's magazines, as her personal interests make her gravitate to smaller, independent publications, but she nonetheless loves an occasional glimpse at the latest fashion trends, beauty advice, celebrity gossip, and sex tips.
Give Him a Hand Job He'll Never Forget, one column claims.
She chuckles to herself: Barry forgets everything. How that boy remembers to put pants on in the morning is beyond her.
Still, her curiosity is piqued and she reads on. Most of the article is stuff she already knows and has mastered: slow and steady, use both hands, yada yada.
There is one specific stroke that's new to her though, and testing it suddenly becomes a priority. She tosses the magazine onto the coffee table with all the others and slides off the couch, on the hunt for Barry.
She finds him in the study, poring over an instruction manual. What appears to be a partially assembled table stands next to him; he had mentioned his weekend project was building a new bookcase desk after colliding with their old one last week thanks to a reckless, fleet arrival through the window. The Fastest Man Alive wasn't necessarily the most graceful.
"Hey," he greets, glancing up at her briefly before picking up a screwdriver and motioning to the work-in-progress. "I'd use my speed, but lately that's been getting me into quite a few accidents-"
He halts mid-sentence, furrowing his brows at her as she kneels in front of him, lifting his shirt to reveal his midriff.
"Iris? Er-what are you doing?"
"I read about this trick and I wanted to try it out," she states matter-of-factly, pulling his sweatpants and boxers down simultaneously.
"O-kay…" he wavers, genuinely perplexed. "But like, can we try it out at a more convenient ti-holy shit."
The screwdriver he's holding drops to the floor with a clatter.
It's a simple move, really. She's a little annoyed with herself for never before thinking of locking her fingers together and sliding both her hands at once over his shaft. The irritation wanes though as Barry furiously bucks in her grip.
"Do NOT stop whatever you're doing," he warns, eyes flashing dangerously. He reaches out to steady himself against the half-desk, which she foresees will break under his weight.
It caves in and topples just as he comes.
"Dammit, Iris," he heaves. "That took forever to put together."
A hand job you'll never forget, she thinks smugly.
She walks into the living room one rainy Sunday morning, wrapping herself tightly in Barry's fleece night robe. It's too large, the pools of fabric practically swallow her petite figure, but she missed him last night. At the latest possible moment, Cisco had alerted him to a suspected arson near Baldwin Tower that the Central City Fire Department was struggling to extinguish. Barry being the savior he was had swept over in no time to offer his assistance.
Fires aren't the worst challenge he's ever faced; he's actually become quite skilled at containing them, and the fortunate downpour of rain must have definitely helped, but she's nonetheless relieved to see that he made it home safely, unharmed.
He's collapsed on the couch, lying on his stomach, dangling his feet limply off the end of the armrest, drooling into the pillow that his face is squashed against. He himself is drenched, clad only in his red leather pants. Undoubtedly, he had been too tired to change properly or to even make it to the bedroom.
Her heart is overwhelmed with sympathy at the sight of him, but she also bites back a smile. She tiptoes toward the couch, sidestepping the discarded cowl, leather top, and boots that sprinkled the carpet. Exhaustion or none, Barry had a habit of carelessly stripping and leaving his clothes everywhere. It drives her up the wall every so often, but she cuts him some slack this time around.
She stoops down to push his damp, dark locks back from his forehead, pressing a quick kiss there. He stirs at the contact, peeking an eye open.
"Rough night?" she probes, sifting her fingers through his hair.
He grunts, closing his eye again, too spent to acknowledge her further.
"Do you need anything?" she coos adoringly, still petting him.
He mumbles something incomprehensible before dissolving into snores.
She thinks to just let him snooze his Sunday away, but the tempting combination of his bare chest, his dewy scent with a hint of remnant smoke, and his dazed lethargy rouses her, daring her to touch him, waking something deep in the pit of her stomach-
She straightens up, moving away from his head to the other end of the couch. As much as he wants to sleep, he should enjoy a bit of pampering from her, even if it was more for her own amusement.
Taking great care, she maneuvers herself over his prone body, almost tripping over his bulky robe that she hasn't taken off yet.
"Iris?" Barry asks drowsily, awakening to the pressure of her weight.
She ignores him, instead settling over his tailbone, straddling his hips with her thighs. She rests her palms on his upper back, tentatively massaging the firm skin there.
He groans appreciatively, face still buried, but she takes his lackluster approval as a sign of encouragement.
His flesh is warm, sinking between her fingertips as they continue to knead his tense muscles. Barry doesn't speak throughout her caresses, but he does breathe in sharply from time to time before exhaling, as evidenced by how his spine tightens and then subsequently relaxes beneath her. Bit by bit, she moves deftly from his upper back to his solid shoulders, then on to the tightness of his neck. That specific move elicits an outright shiver from him.
Iris hesitates. "Are my hands too cold?"
"Huh? No, no. Good," he stammers, voice still smothered with fatigue. He holds up a sluggish thumbs-up sign, in case she wasn't convinced.
She finds her hands shift downward on their own accord, following the progression of his back until she's rubbing his lower muscles along the waistband of his pants.
She smirks to herself, bringing a hand around his abdomen to his crotch, feigning innocence: "Just making sure I take care of all those tense muscles…"
A swift intake of breath surfaces from Barry as her fingers close around his stiffening length. She doesn't suppress her giggles as she fondles him clumsily through the fabric.
"Hmmm," he sniggers stupidly, like a little boy. She's glad that he finds the energy to dig his toes into the cushion to propel his hips forward, meeting her strokes. She gropes at him with more determination, and they eventually settle into a rhythm, despite the awkward angle. It doesn't take long before she feels moisture pool at his groin, even through the thick leather.
"Cisco's not going to be happy about that," comes his muffled voice from the pillows.