Talking Through It
pairing: Harrison Wells x reader warnings: smut, Harrison talking you through it, Harrison soft domming, virgin word count: 5k
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The lab is quiet at this hour.
You're hunched over your desk, pen scratching against paper as you work through another set of calculations. The numbers blur together after a while, but you keep going. You always keep going. That's what you do—bury yourself in work until the rest of the world fades away.
"You're still here."
You jump, your pen skittering across the page, and blue lightning sparks from your fingertips before you can stop it. You spin around in your chair to find Harrison Wells standing in the doorway, two cups of coffee in his hands and that infuriatingly knowing look on his face.
"Jesus, Harrison," you breathe, pressing a hand to your chest. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry at all. He walks over, setting one of the cups down on your desk. "Thought you could use this."
You stare at the coffee, then at him. "You brought me coffee?"
"Don't sound so surprised." He leans against the edge of your desk, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that makes your stomach flip. "You've been here for what, twelve hours?"
"Eighteen," you correct, reaching for the cup. The warmth seeps into your palms, grounding you. "But who's counting?"
"I am, apparently." His eyes flick to the papers scattered across your desk, then back to you. "What are you working on?"
"Velocity calculations," you say, taking a sip. It's perfect—exactly how you like it. Of course he knows how you take your coffee. "Trying to figure out why my lightning output fluctuates when I'm running at top speed."
"And?"
"And I think it's tied to my emotional state, but I can't prove it yet." You gesture at the mess of equations in front of you. "The data's all over the place."
Harrison picks up one of the pages, his eyes scanning the numbers with that intense focus he gets when he's thinking.
You watch him, the way his brow furrows slightly, the way his fingers trace the edge of the paper. You've always loved watching him think. There's something about the way his mind works—sharp, relentless, brilliant—that makes you feel less alone in your own head.
"This is good work," he says finally, setting the paper down. "But you're overthinking it."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He looks at you, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch. "You always do. You get so caught up in the variables that you forget to trust your instincts."
"My instincts aren't exactly reliable," you mutter, looking away. Your lightning flickers at your fingertips again, a nervous tell you can't control.
"I think they're more reliable than you give them credit for." His voice is softer now, and when you glance back at him, he's still watching you. "You just don't trust yourself."
The words hang in the air between you, heavy with something you can't quite name. You want to argue, to deflect, but the way he's looking at you makes it impossible. Like he sees right through you. Like he knows exactly what you're afraid of.
"You should go home," he says, breaking the silence. "Get some rest."
"I will," you lie. "Just a few more hours."
"(y/n)" The way he says your name—low, almost a warning—sends a shiver down your spine. "You're staying late again."
"So are you."
"I'm not the one who's been here for eighteen hours." He pushes off the desk, standing to his full height, and suddenly he's towering over you. "Come on. I'll walk you home."
"Harrison, I'm fine—"
"I'm taking you home," he says, and there's no room for argument in his tone. "Grab your things."
You want to protest, but the truth is, you're exhausted. And the idea of walking home alone in the dark doesn't sound nearly as appealing as riding with him. So you gather your papers, shove them into your bag, and follow him out of the lab.
The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome relief after hours in the stuffy lab. You walk side by side to his car, your shoulders brushing every few steps, and every time they do, your lightning sparks faintly at your fingertips.
"You okay?" Harrison asks, glancing down at you.
"Yeah," you say quickly. "Just tired."
"Liar."
You huff out a laugh. "What makes you think I'm lying?"
"Because your lightning's been going off every thirty seconds since we left the lab." He nods toward your hands, where blue sparks are dancing across your knuckles. "You only do that when you're nervous."
He leads you across the parking lot toward a gleaming vintage Corvette. Opening your door for you.
Damn him for being so observant.
"I'm not nervous," you say, even though it's a blatant lie. You sit carefully in the vintage sports car.
"Then what are you?"
You don't answer. You can't. Because the truth is, you don't know what you are. Nervous, yes. But also something else. Something that makes your heart race and your stomach twist and your lightning crackle like a live wire.
He smirks before closing your door and getting in on his side. He starts the car and begins to drive without directions.
"You know," Harrison says, his voice lighter now, "for someone with a master's in physics, you're terrible at lying."
"Shut up," you mutter, but you're smiling despite yourself.
He laughs—a low, warm sound that makes your chest tighten—and taps his hand against your thigh. "There she is."
"There who is?"
"The version of you that isn't buried under fourteen hours of calculations."
You roll your eyes, but the smile doesn't leave your face. This is what you love about him—the way he can make you laugh even when you're exhausted, the way he sees through your walls without making you feel exposed.
"My home's close," he says after a moment, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up at him. "If you want to stop by. Have another coffee. Or a drink. Whatever you need."
Your heart skips a beat.
"Harrison—"
"I'm not trying to—" He stops at a red light, turning to face you, and the look in his eyes is so intense it steals your breath. "I just don't want you to be alone tonight. That's all."
That's all.
But it's not all, is it?
You can feel it in the way he's looking at you, in the way the air between you feels charged, electric. You can feel it in the way your lightning is sparking brighter now, crackling in the space between your bodies.
"Okay," you hear yourself say.
His eyes widen slightly, like he wasn't expecting you to agree. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He smiles—a real smile, not the smirk he usually wears—and it does something to you. Something that makes your chest ache and your hands shake and your lightning flare so bright it lights up the street around you.
"okay" he says, and makes a left turn, further out of the city.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
His home is exactly what you expected—clean, organized, filled with books and tech and little pieces of him that make your chest tighten. It's intimate in a way that makes you feel like you're seeing something you shouldn't, like you're crossing a line you can't uncross.
"Make yourself comfortable," he says, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it coat hanger. "I'll get us something to drink."
You sit on the couch, your hands folded in your lap, and try not to think about how close you are to him. How alone you are with him. How much you want this and how terrified you are of what it means.
"Sorry, didn't ask, what would you like to drink?" His head peeked around the corner.
"Water is fine, please"
"Ice?"
"Yeah"
He comes back with a glass of water for you and a whiskey for himself, handing the water to you before sitting down beside you. Not too close, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"So," he says, taking a sip. "Why'd you really say yes?"
You blink. "What?"
"To coming up here." He turns to look at you, and there's no teasing in his expression now. Just curiosity. And something else. Something that makes your stomach flip. "You could've said no. You should've said no, probably. But you didn't. Why?"
You stare down at your glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"Harrison—"
"(Y/N)." He sets his glass down on the coffee table, then reaches over and takes yours, setting it down beside his. "Why are you here?"
Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. Your lightning is everywhere now, crackling in the air around you, and you can't stop it, can't control it, can't do anything but sit there and feel the weight of his gaze on you.
"Because I wanted to be," you whisper.
"Why?"
"Because—" You swallow hard, your hands trembling. "Because I wanted to be with you."
The words hang in the air between you, raw and honest and terrifying. You can't take them back now. You can't pretend you didn't say them.
Harrison doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just looks at you, his eyes searching yours, and then—
"Come here," he says, his voice low.
You don't think. You just move, closing the distance between you, and then his hand is on your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek, and he's so close you can feel his breath on your lips.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs.
"You," you breathe. "I want you."
His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you. But he doesn't. Instead, he pulls back slightly, his hand still on your face, and says, "Then let's go to my bedroom."
Your breath catches.
"Harrison, I—" You hesitate, your fear rising up to choke you. "I've never—"
"What do you mean?" He pauses.
"I've never done- it- with anyone" you say shyly.
"Oh... well, we don't have to-"
"N-no, I want to. Like, I really want to... with you" you cut him off.
"You're sure?" he asks carefully.
"Yes, positive"
"Then, I can talk you through it... I know you're a fan of me giving directions" he winks.
You turned red. He put together how your lightning becomes more erratic when he's giving directions and talking to you on the field and in the lab.
You nod, your throat tight, and he stands, offering you his hand.
You take it.
"Harrison," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I—"
He stops at his bedroom door, turning to face you. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
"Talk to me," he says. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm nervous," you admit. "I've never—I don't know what I'm doing."
"I know." His eyes search yours. "That's why I'm going to talk you through it. Every step. I'm going to tell you exactly what to do, and you're going to listen. Can you do that for me?"
You nod, your throat tight.
"I need to hear you say it," he says firmly. "Can you listen to me?"
"Yes," you breathe. "I can listen."
"Good girl." The praise sends a shiver down your spine. "Now, before we go in there, I need you to understand something. If at any point you want to stop, you say your safe word. What is it?"
"Red."
"That's right. Red means stop immediately. No questions, no hesitation. You say red, and everything stops. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"And if you need me to slow down, you say yellow. Can you remember that?"
"Yellow to slow down, red to stop."
"Perfect." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "I'm going to take care of you. I promise. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?"
Your lightning flares bright around you, crackling in the air between your bodies. "Yes. I trust you."
"Then let's go inside."
He opens the door, and you follow him into his bedroom. The bed is big, the sheets dark and inviting, and the soft light from the bedside lamp casts everything in warm shadows. It's intimate in a way that makes your breath catch.
Harrison closes the door behind you, and suddenly the world narrows down to just the two of you.
"Come here," he says, and you move toward him on shaky legs.
He stands in front of you, tall and commanding, and his eyes rake over you with an intensity that makes you feel exposed even though you're still fully clothed.
"I want you to undress me," he says. "Slowly. And I want you to tell me what you're thinking while you do it."
"I—what?"
"Use your words, (y/n)." His voice is firm but not unkind. "I want to hear what's going on in that brilliant mind of yours. Can you do that?"
You swallow hard. "I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking." He reaches out, taking your hand and placing it on his chest. "Start with my shirt. Unbutton it for me."
Your fingers fumble with the first button, and you can feel his eyes on you, watching every movement. Your lightning sparks at your fingertips, making it harder to focus.
"Where's your head at" he asks.
"I'm thinking—" You pause, getting the first button undone. "I'm thinking I don't want to mess this up."
"You won't." His hand comes up to cover yours, steadying it. "There's no wrong way to do this. Just take your time."
You move to the second button, then the third, and with each one, more of his chest is revealed. You've seen him shirtless before—in the lab, after training sessions—but this is different. This is intimate. This is yours.
"Keep going," he murmurs. "You're doing so good."
The praise makes your stomach flip, and you work faster, getting the rest of the buttons undone. You push the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor.
"Now my belt," he says. "Can you do that for me?"
You nod, your hands moving to his waist. The leather is smooth under your fingers, and you fumble with the buckle, your nervousness making your movements clumsy.
"Hey." His hand comes up to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him. "Breathe. There's no rush."
You take a shaky breath, and he smiles.
"That's it. Now try again."
You get the buckle undone, and the metal clinks as you pull the belt free. It falls to the floor with a soft thud, and you look up at him, waiting for the next instruction.
"Good girl," he says, and the words make your core clench. "Now the button. Then the zipper."
Your hands are shaking as you reach for the button of his pants. You get it undone, then move to the zipper, pulling it down slowly. You can see the outline of his cock through his boxers, and the sight makes your breath catch.
"Stay with me, (y/n), what's on your mind?" he asks.
"I'm thinking—" You pause, your cheeks flushing. "I'm thinking you're really big."
He laughs—a low, warm sound that makes your chest tighten. "And does that scare you?"
"A little," you admit.
"It shouldn't." His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. "I'm going to make sure you're ready. I'm going to make sure it feels good. Do you believe me?"
"Yes."
"Then keep going. Push my pants down."
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and boxers, pushing them down together. His cock springs free, hard and thick, and you can't stop yourself from staring.
"Fuck," you breathe.
"Like what you see?" There's a teasing edge to his voice, but his eyes are dark with want.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I do."
"Good." He steps out of his pants, kicking them aside, and then he's standing in front of you completely naked. "Now it's your turn."
Your heart skips a beat. "My turn?"
"I want to undress you," he says. "But I'm going to do it slowly. And I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm doing before I do it. Is that okay?"
You nod, your throat too tight to speak.
"Words, (y/n)."
"Yes," you manage. "That's okay."
"Good." He reaches for the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against your skin. "I'm going to take this off now. Lift your arms for me."
You do as he says, and he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. You're left in your bra and sweatpants, and you feel suddenly vulnerable under his gaze.
"You're beautiful," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. "Do you know that?"
"Harrison—"
"I mean it." His hands move to your waist, fingers tracing the waistband of your sweatpants. "I'm going to take these off now. And then your bra. And then your underwear. And I'm going to look at you, and I'm going to touch you, and I'm going to make you feel so fucking good. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you breathe.
"Good." He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants, pulling them down slowly. "Step out of them."
You do, and he tosses them aside. Then his hands move to your back, finding the clasp of your bra.
"I'm going to take this off now," he says, his voice low. "And then I'm going to touch your breasts. I'm going to kiss them. I'm going to make you moan for me. Is that what you want?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Please."
He unhooks your bra, sliding it off your shoulders, and then his hands are on you, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasp, your back arching into his touch, and your lightning flares bright around you.
"Fuck, you're so responsive," he murmurs. "I love watching you react to me."
He leans down, taking one nipple into his mouth, and you cry out, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. He sucks gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and you feel like you're going to combust.
"Harrison—"
"Tell me how it feels," he says against your skin. "Use your words."
"It feels—it feels so good," you gasp. "I didn't know—I didn't know it would feel like this."
"Like what?"
"Like—like I'm on fire."
He pulls back, his eyes dark with want. "You are on fire. Look at you."
You glance down and see your lightning crackling all over your body, blue arcs dancing across your skin. You've never seen it like this before—so bright, so uncontrolled.
"I can't—I can't stop it," you say, your voice shaking.
"I don't want you to stop it." His hands move to your hips, fingers hooking into your underwear. "I want to see you lose control. I want to watch you fall apart for me. Do you think you can do that for me, (y/n)?"
"I don't know—"
"You can." He pulls your underwear down, and you step out of them, and then you're completely naked in front of him. "You're going to let go for me. You're going to stop thinking and just feel. Can you do that?"
"I'll try."
"I'll talk you through it, promise" he says, and there's a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He towers over you, and the way he's looking at you makes your stomach flip. His hand comes up, thumb trailing along your jawline before it moves to your lips. He presses gently, opening your mouth, and then—
His finger slides inside.
You freeze. again
The intimacy of it shocks you. The weight of his finger on your tongue, the way he's watching you, the way your body reacts before your brain catches up. Your eyes widen, and you look up at him, your (e/c) eyes meeting his, and you see the heat there. The want.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "Just like that."
You nod, your mouth still around his finger, and you feel the first crackle of blue lightning spark from your fingertips. It shoots into the air, a nervous, involuntary reaction, and you want to apologize, want to pull back, but he doesn't let you.
"Good girl," he says, and the words send a shiver down your spine.
He kept his thumb in your mouth, his other hand guiding you backward. You don't resist. You know you can, you just don't want to.
He guides you onto your back, and your skin touches the soft sheets of his bed. The coolness of the fabric contrasts with the heat radiating from your body, and you suck in a breath as his hand slides down from your mouth to your throat. His palm is warm, calloused, and it rests there for a moment—not squeezing, just holding—before it ghosts over your collarbone.
he stands at the foot of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that makes your stomach flip.
"Spread your legs," he says. "Let me see you."
You hesitate, your cheeks flushing, but you do it. You spread your legs, and his eyes drop to your pussy, and the heat in his gaze makes you feel like you're burning alive.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're already so wet for me. Do you know how perfect you look right now?"
"Harrison—"
"I'm going to touch you now," he says, climbing onto the bed between your legs. "I'm going to touch your pussy, and I'm going to make you feel good. And I want you to tell me how it feels. Can you do that?"
"Yes," you whisper.
His hand moves between your legs, fingers brushing against your folds, and you jolt at the contact. Your lightning shoots off in every direction, and you can't stop the whimper that escapes your lips.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."
His fingers slide through your wetness, exploring, and then he finds your clit, rubbing in slow circles. You gasp, your hips bucking up into his hand, and he smiles.
"Tell me how it feels," he says again.
"It feels—oh god—it feels amazing," you gasp.
"Good." He keeps rubbing, his touch steady and sure. "I'm going to put a finger inside you now. It might feel strange at first, but I want you to relax for me. Can you do that?"
"Yes," you breathe.
He slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, and you tense at the intrusion. It's not painful, but it's unfamiliar, and your body doesn't know how to respond.
"Breathe," he says, his other hand coming up to rest on your stomach. "Just breathe. You're doing so good."
You take a shaky breath, and he starts to move his finger, sliding it in and out slowly. The sensation is strange at first, but then it starts to feel good—really good—and you moan.
"That's it," he says, his voice rough. "You're taking my finger so well. Do you think you can take another?"
"I—I think so."
"Tell me if it's too much." He adds a second finger, stretching you, and you gasp. "How does that feel?"
"Full," you manage. "It feels full."
"Good. That's good." He starts to move his fingers faster, curling them inside you, and you cry out. "I'm getting you ready for my cock. I want you nice and wet and open for me. Do you want that?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, I want that."
"Tell me what you want," he says, his thumb finding your clit again. "Say it."
"I want—I want your cock," you whisper, your cheeks burning.
"Louder."
"I want your cock," you say, louder this time. "I want you inside me."
"Fuck, you're perfect." He pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. "I'm going to give you what you want. But first, I need you to understand something."
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you feel your heart start to race.
"This is going to hurt a little at first," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "But I'm going to go slow. I'm going to talk you through it. And if it's too much, you say yellow or red. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "I'm going to push inside now. Just the tip. I want you to tell me how it feels."
He pushes forward, and you feel the head of his cock breach your entrance. It's a stretch—more than his fingers—and you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his arms.
"How does that feel?" he asks, his voice strained.
"It's—it's a lot," you manage.
"Too much?"
"No. Not too much. Just—a lot."
"Okay." He stays still, letting you adjust. "I'm going to push in a little more now. Keep breathing for me."
He pushes in another inch, and you cry out, your nails digging into his arms. Your lightning explodes around you, brighter than it's ever been, and you can see it reflected in his eyes.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans. "You're doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good."
"Harrison—"
"I know. I know it's a lot." He pushes in a little more, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "But you're taking me so well. You're being so brave for me."
"It hurts," you whisper.
"I know." He stops moving, his hand coming up to cup your face. "Do you want me to stop?"
"No," you say quickly. "No, don't stop. I just—I need a minute."
"Take all the time you need." He stays perfectly still, his cock halfway inside you, and his thumb brushes over your cheek. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."
The praise makes your chest tighten, and you take a shaky breath, trying to relax. Slowly, the pain starts to fade, replaced by a fullness that's almost overwhelming.
"Okay," you say finally. "Okay, I'm ready."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Alright." He pushes in a little more, and this time it doesn't hurt as much. "Tell me how it feels now."
"Better," you gasp. "It feels better."
"Good." He keeps pushing, slow and steady, until he's fully seated inside you. "Fuck, you feel so good. Do you know how perfect you feel around my cock?"
You can't respond. You can't do anything but lie there and feel him—all of him—stretching you, filling you, making you his.
"I'm going to start moving now," he says, his voice rough. "Slow at first. I want you to tell me if it's too much."
He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, and the sensation makes you moan. He does it again, and again, setting a slow, steady rhythm that has you gasping for breath.
"How does that feel?" he asks.
"Good," you manage. "It feels good."
"Just good?" There's a teasing edge to his voice. "I think I can do better than that."
He shifts his angle, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed, and your lightning flares so bright it lights up the entire room.
"There it is," he says, his voice full of satisfaction. "That's what I was looking for."
He keeps hitting that spot with every thrust, and you feel the tension building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter. You've never felt anything like this before—this overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure that makes you feel like you're going to explode.
"Harrison—"
"I know," he says, his pace picking up. "I can feel you getting close. You're squeezing my cock so tight. Do you know how good you feel?"
"I—I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His hand moves between your legs, his thumb finding your clit. "You're going to cum for me. You're going to let go and fall apart, and I'm going to be right here with you. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you gasp.
"Good girl." He rubs your clit in time with his thrusts, and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. "Tell me what you need."
"I need—I need more," you gasp.
"More what? Use your words."
"More of you. Harder. Please."
"Fuck, I love hearing you beg." He thrusts harder, deeper, and you cry out. "Is this what you need?"
"Yes—oh god—yes."
"Whose dick is this?" Harrison asked between thrusts.
"Mine" you gasp.
"Hm? Louder for me pretty girl" Harrison grunted.
"Mine!" you loudly.
"Good job. You're taking my cock so well," he groans. "You're being such a good girl for me. I'm so proud of you."
The praise pushes you closer to the edge, and you feel your orgasm building, threatening to consume you.
"Harrison, I'm—I'm going to—"
"I know. I can feel it." His thrusts become erratic, his control slipping. "Come for me, (y/n). Let go. I've got you."
And you do.
You fall apart around him, your orgasm crashing over you in waves so intense you think you might black out. Your lightning explodes in every direction, filling the room with blue light, and you're shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
"That's it," he groans, his own release following close behind. "That's my girl. Fuck, you're perfect. You're so fucking perfect."
He thrusts a few more times, riding out both of your orgasms, and then he stills, his forehead resting against yours. You're both breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat, and your lightning is still crackling softly around you.
"You okay?" he asks, his voice gentle.
You nod, unable to form words.
"Hey." He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Talk to me. Are you okay?"
"Yeah," you manage, your voice hoarse. "I'm okay. That was—that was amazing."
He smiles—a real smile, not the smirk from before—and it makes your chest ache. "You were amazing. You did so good, sweetheart."
He pulls out slowly, and you wince at the loss. He rolls onto his side, pulling you with him, and his arms wrap around you, holding you close.
"How do you feel?" he asks, his hand stroking your hair.
"Tired," you admit. "And sore. But good. Really good."
"Good." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you," you whisper. "For being patient with me. For talking me through it."
"You don't have to thank me for that." His hand continues to stroke your hair, soothing. "I wanted this. I wanted you. All of you."
You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you bury your face against his chest. "I wanted you too. I've wanted you for so long."
"I know." His arms tighten around you. "I know, sweetheart."
You lie there in silence for a while, your lightning slowly fading until it's just the two of you in the quiet of his bedroom. Your body is exhausted, your mind finally quiet, and in this moment, wrapped up in Harrison Wells, you feel safe.
"Get some rest," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere."
You nod against his chest, your eyes already closing. "Harrison?"
"Yeah?"
"This cock is mine, right? Like you really meant that?"
He laughs—a low, warm sound that makes your chest tighten. "Yeah, sweetheart. It's yours. All yours."
You smile, and the last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips pressing another kiss to your forehead.
And your lightning, finally, goes still.
