Writings From Wells

Harry left his S.T.A.R. Labs room at precisely seven o'clock, exactly as he always did. With a warm coffee in one hand, his digital tablet in the other, and a strict schedule already planned out in his head, everything felt predictable, efficient, and safe. Which was exactly why it took him several agonizing seconds to realize something was wrong.

His desk was completely empty. Harry frowned, adjusting his glasses as he surveyed the workspace. His coffee sat right where he'd left it, his tablet sat exactly where it belonged, and his paperwork was perfectly organized. Everything was precisely where it should have been. So why on Earth did the entire room feel completely off?

Then it hit him like a physical blow. There was no crinkling candy wrapper left behind. There were no stolen snacks missing from his personal stash, and no suspiciously abandoned silver jewelry cluttered his workspace. There was no (Y/N). Harry immediately hated that realization, his jaw tightening as he sat down in his lonely chair.

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By ten-thirty in the morning, his lingering confusion had curdled into pure annoyance. He told himself it wasn't because you weren't there—that would be entirely ridiculous for a man of his stature. He was simply annoyed because Cisco kept anxiously checking his phone every few minutes, Barry seemed completely distracted during their diagnostic review, and even Caitlin had openly asked the room if anyone had heard from you.

It was absurd. You disappeared all the time; vanishing into thin air was practically one of your favorite hobbies. And yet, despite his own ironclad logic, Harry found his eyes involuntarily glancing toward the automatic entrance of the cortex every single time the doors hissed open. Just in case. It was pathetic, really.

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Around noon, Harry finally gave up on pretending he wasn't paying attention to the vacancy in the room. "Cisco," he called out sharply.

Cisco immediately looked up from his workspace, a knowing grin already forming on his lips. Harry regretted speaking the absolute second he saw it. "What's up, Harry?"

"Have you heard from her?" Harry asked, attempting to keep his tone completely clinical.

Cisco's grin only widened, practically splitting his face. "No. Why? You worried?"

Harry looked away instantly, clearing his throat. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough to hide the flash of genuine concern before Cisco caught it. "Dude," Cisco gasped, leaning forward.

"No," Harry shut it down immediately.

"You miss her!"

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

Harry seriously wanted to fire him on the spot. Unfortunately, Cisco was technically useful to the team. Sometimes.

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You finally appeared at exactly three in the afternoon, breezing through the cortex like you hadn't vanished into thin air for nearly three whole days. You acted like half the lab hadn't been actively wondering where you were, and like Harry hadn't personally checked the cortex entrance seventeen separate times. Not that anyone was counting, of course.

You walked through the sliding doors carrying three large shopping bags, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses despite being completely indoors. Cisco immediately pointed a triumphant finger at you. "There she is!"

Barry let out a visible sigh of relief, and Caitlin shook her head with a soft laugh. Harry immediately forced his eyes back down to his tablet, offering a completely normal, perfectly reasonable response. It would have been a lot more convincing, however, if he hadn't looked back up at you a mere three seconds later.

You caught him looking. Of course you did. That signature, dangerous smirk arrived on your lips instantly. You looked incredibly knowing, and far too pleased with yourself.

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"There you are," the low words left Harry's mouth before his brain could step in to stop them.

The entire room went dead silent. You blinked in surprise behind your sunglasses, Cisco froze mid-sentence, and Barry literally choked on his water. Harry wished the particle accelerator would suddenly malfunction again just so the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Slowly, very slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. "Aw, Harry. You missed me."

"No," he snapped, his ears turning red.

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You totally did," you teased, stepping closer. Harry absolutely hated this conversation, but Cisco was clearly loving every second of it, which made the entire ordeal infinitely worse.

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An hour later, Harry returned to his private office only to find a sleek shopping bag sitting directly on his desk. Immediately suspicious, he carefully opened the tissue paper and peered inside. Resting at the bottom was a box of expensive, imported tea—the exact specific brand he'd casually mentioned liking once, months ago, in a passing conversation.

Harry stared down at the box, a strange warmth blooming in his chest. He looked out into the cortex, where you were currently sitting on top of a high counter, swinging your combat boots lazily through the air. You were watching him. The exact moment you realized he'd found it, your smirk returned.

"What is this?" Harry asked, stepping out of his office with the box in hand.

"A gift," you replied coyly.

"Why?"

You offered a casual shrug of your shoulders, your eyes locked onto his. "You looked grumpy."

"I always look grumpy," Harry countered, tilting his chin up defensively.

"Exactly."

Harry looked back down at the imported tea. The gesture shouldn't have mattered so much to him. It was just tea. And yet, out of everyone in his life, you were the one who had actually remembered.

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That night, the busy cortex slowly emptied out. Barry left first to get dinner, then Caitlin packed up her medical files, and finally Cisco headed out for the night. Eventually, only Harry and you remained in the facility—a surprisingly common, lingering occurrence lately.

You sat curled up tightly on the high storage shelf in his workshop. Your shelf. Somehow, over the last few weeks, you had entirely claimed the metal structure as your personal territory, and Harry wasn't entirely sure when that had happened, or why he had allowed it. By all accounts, he should tell you to get down.

Instead, he walked over and quietly handed you a strawberry candy bar. You stared at the wrapper in surprise, then slowly accepted it from his fingers. "Thanks, Harry."

Harry froze right where he stood. You rarely ever said thank you; usually, you just stole things from his drawers without a single care. The quiet, vulnerable sincerity in your voice caught him completely off guard, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you felt comfortable, easy... dangerously easy.

Harry eventually cleared his throat and returned to his work at his desk, and you returned to quietly watching him from above. It was a normal evening. At least, for the two of you.

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Several quiet minutes later, Harry glanced up from his monitors to check on you. You had fallen fast asleep, curled up warmly against the concrete wall. One of your slim arms was tucked comfortably beneath your head as a pillow, and the strawberry candy bar still rested loosely in your relaxed palm.

Harry just stared at you. Something incredibly strange and heavy settled deep within his chest—something warm, completely unwelcome, and entirely unavoidable. Because somewhere along the way, you had stopped being a mere distraction to his work. You had stopped being a daily annoyance, and you had stopped being just Cisco's chaotic best friend.

You had become a vital part of his life. A part of his daily routine. And Harry Wells was beginning to realize that if someone became a part of your routine for long enough, they stopped feeling like a guest. They started feeling like home.

The sheer realization was so alarming to his logical brain that Harry immediately buried his face back into his research files. Unfortunately, his racing thoughts didn't stop him from quietly rising from his chair, taking off his heavy jacket, and gently draping it over your sleeping shoulders. Just in case you got cold.

"Fuck, what a day!" You exclaim as you walk into your shared apartment, Harry trailing behind you. 

"Yeah..." he lets out a stifled yawn. "I didn't say it earlier, but your outfit looks so good today." 

You were wearing a micro-skirt, barely covering your baby blue thong. An oversized, Central City Stars jersey hung off your shoulder, enough jewelry to make a metal detector at the CC airport go off, and fluffy white fur boots. 

You and him were the perfect pair. A rich man, worked his way from the ground up, button down and irons slacks. 

And you? A city girl, born in the slums of central City, your smarts and 3 Scholarship earned PHDs bringing you right to the rich man, wearing skirt that showed your panties and see through shirts. 

the both of you dressed like you were going to two separate every time you went to work, but, you cleaned up nicely with Harrison's money buying you nice dresses and shoes for every gala. 

"Oh yeah? You like it, Mr. Business man?"

"Yes..." He gulped as he looked you up and down. 

"Then why don't you take it off me?" You challenged. 

"Say no more." Harrison answers, easily picking you up and carrying you to your bedroom, throwing you casually on your bed. 

"Mmmm, I love when you manhandle me" you smile. "Dominate me, daddy"

"Yeah?" Harrison yanked your skirt down, not that there was much to yank down. "Take that jersey off." he demanded. "Im not letting you wear another man's last name while I fuck you"

"You should give me yours, then." You pull off the jersey, revealing a few extravagant but perfect tattoos. 

"I will, (y/n), I will" Harrison answered. he shrugged off his blazer and took his red bottoms off, putting them possessively around a pair of your red bottom pumps. Unbuttoning his black button down. Revealing toned abs. "Bra and panties off. Now"

"Yes sir" you grin as you strip further, bare under his fiery gaze. 

"Fuck, I've missed you" he groans. 

"baby, we live together." You smile.

"So? I can miss you" he shrugged, laying down on his back beside you. He gripped your hips and pulled you onto his thigh, letting your legs straddle it. "Ride my thigh, puppy" he stated. 

You begin to slowly grind your cunt on his clothed thigh. 

"Like this?" you ask knowing as you flicked your hips. 

"Mhm" he hummed, gripping your hips, holding onto you. "You're my Good girl, right?" 

"Yes daddy" you respond, voice nearing a moan at the friction of his dress pants on your clit. 

"Good." he wears a wolfish grin as he helped your hips move a little faster. 

Your near moan became a moan that tore through your lips. 

"Move faster, baby. Be my good little doggy and go faster" Harrison instructs, watching your face. Every flutter of those pretty lashes, every time those pretty lips opened up to whimper. 

"Mhm" you whimper. "Fuck, daddy, this feels so good" 

His gaze darkens, his pupils blown wide with lust and pride as he watching your body grind against his thigh. Knowing that the way you were whimpering right now was for him. 

"Daddy, please fuck me" You beg shamelessly. 

Your desperate pleading voice vibrates through him. His jaw tightens, but it's not like he cares. That stupid grin still plastered on his face. 

"No. You're gonna cum on my thigh" he replies, gripping your hips harder, guiding you. You whine frustratedly in response. A dark chuckle coming from his throat. "Aww my poor, upset puppy... You feel my thigh? My jeans? Yeah? Then that's all you need. Right here. Don't beg for more, it's not gonna help you. Just take what I'm giving you." 

"please, daddy?" you beg pathetically, voice high and whimper. Tears prickling your eyes. "please? I want your cock" You grind your slick, wet cunt on his leg impossibly faster.

Harrison lets out a sharp breath, his control fraying at the edges. The way you looked at him would be the death of him. His hands tighten on your hips, not to stop you but you match your frantic pace, his cock hardening painfully in his slacks.

"No.  Not yet." His voice a ragged, breathless whisper as you put your hands on his bare chest, nails digging into his pecks painfully, but deliciously. "You're gonna finish this way. You wanted me to dominate you, this is how I wanna do it." 

"mmm, but, daddy" you whine.

"Shut up and fucking take what I'm giving you, you pathetic dog" harry spits, his grin sharp and evil. 

Your cunt throbs at the filthy words.

"Im so close" you moan out.

"That's it. Good girl." He praises. "Good doggy"

"yeah?" you moan breathlessly, "I'm a good doggy?" 

"Yeah. You a dumb doggy too. So desperate. So good for me." He breathes. "Just a dumb dog in heat. grinding against my thigh like this 'cause it's all I'll give you."

You can do nothing but whimper, moan, and whine as your cunt throbs. His words music to your ears. 

"Oh? That moan was so pretty." He notes. "That's all you are right now, (y/n). A mindless fucking dog. So wet you're soaking my fucking jeans. So obsessed with this feeling. So obsessed with my validation that you'd do anything I'd ask you to do, wouldn't you? Just to keep the feeling going?" 

You don't respond, throwing your head back and moaning loudly, impossibly loud. 

"Fucking say it" Harrison growls. 

"I would do anything" you say, your voice a half sob as you near your climax. "I'm just a dumb doggy who wants to get off on your thigh." 

His eyes blaze with a dark, possessive flame. His entire focus narrowed down to you and the raw need you're displaying for him right now. His strong Hands keeping you moving in that relentless rhythm against his thigh. 

"Good girl" he smirks. "You're my doggy. My dumb little mutt in heat. You're not stopping until I say you're done. now cum for me" 

You whimper, tears falling down your cheeks, flicking your hips faster. Your orgasm building in strong pulses. 

"Please, daddy. I want your cock so bad. I wanna be bred like the doggy I am." You moan.

The plea seeming to be the edge of Harrison's perfect control. His body tensed up beneath you, a low guttural sound escaping his throat. his hands on your hips becoming vises, forcing the pace, making the friction relentless. 

"You'll get it, after you cum, baby. Prove you're a good doggy and cum like this first. Then, maybe, I'll give you cock." he says, tight words coming through his gritted teeth.

His eyes are locked on yours as your hips stutter, marking the nearing of your eventual climax. The air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. The sounds of your filthy lewd moans and his words. 

"I'm gonna cum daddy" You moan, a high-pitched moan that made his cock throb. 

"That's it, baby. Rut against my thigh. My good girl. My perfect, mindless, dog. Cum for me" 

"Will I be a good doggy if I cum?" You ask through tight moans. 

"Oh, yeah, the best doggy. Cum for me, show me how good you can be for daddy" His voice dropping to an intense, guttural whisper. 

"im gonna cum." You whine. "Oh daddy I'm gonna cum" 

The words barely made it out of your mouth before your orgasm ripped through you. An intense wave of pleasure washing over you as you slowed your hips, raking your cunt against his thigh, riding the waves. 

"Good dog" he encouraged. "Such a good fucking dog." 

You collapsed beside him, breathing heavily. he rustled in the sheets, pulling his jeans and boxers off his legs and dropping them off the side of the bed. His cock red and angry, dripping his precut on his lower abdomen. 

You immediately perk up, your reward awaiting you. You try to mount him. Met with his dominate hands gently pushing you back down. Pulling a whine from you. 

"Awww" he teases, towering over you, both hands placed on the sides of your head. "My poor, sad, impatient puppy" he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. "A good doggy doesn't whine, (y/n)" 

"Daddy..." you trail, your fingers ghosting the fresh scratch marks on his chest. 

"Ooo, those look pretty" he looks down at his chest. "Leave more" 

He pushes a finger in your slick cunt, pulling it back out and licking his fingers clean. Letting out a satisfied groan. 

"You taste as good as you look." he chuckles darkly. "Wanna taste yourself?" 

You nodded. 

He pushed his finger back in, pulling it back out and licking it clean. His thumb traced your bottom lip, gently pulling your mouth open, before spitting your release and his saliva into your open mouth. 

"Swallow it, doggy" he smirks. And you do. "Good girl" 

He slowly pushes his tip in, barely breaching your cunt to fill you, but just enough to drive you wild. 

"Baby..." you whine, gripping his hips and trying to pull him in. His hips remained firm against your pulls, your fingers leaving new scratch marks. 

"Nope. I'm gonna watch you squirm for a bit" harry chuckles. 

His hands pin your hips to the bend, his own nails digging into your skin, preventing you from seeking more friction. He continues his maddening teases stroke, each tiny push into you making you you gasp and arch your back. His breath hot on your neck. 

"Moan for me, puppy" he nips your earlobe, before moving his lips to your neck, biting and sucking them kissing it gently to soothe the burn. "Let me hear how much you really want my cock, since you wanted to beg for it so much. 

A violent, frustrated moan ripped through you. 

"Oh, that was a good one" he said, amusement barely ghosting his lips. he increases the pace slightly, the tip of his cock rubbing against that sensitive bundle of nerves with each shallow trust. His usually blue eyes were now dark pool of satisfaction as he watched you writhe underneath him, completely at his mercy. 

Another loud, unfiltered moan escaped you. 

That loud moan that tore through bolts through him. His eyes fluttering closed for a second, a sharp intake of breath, hissing through his perfect teeth. When he opens his eyes again, they're blazing with pure, unadulterated hunger. 

"That's my good girl. That's exactly the sound I want from you" His voice a ragged, approving growl. "Good doggy" 

But, Harrison doesn't give you more. Instead, he slows the teasing motion even further, drawing out each shallow, barely-there thrust until its pure agony. He moves his hand, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles that contrast with the frustrating lack of penetration. 

he leans closer to your face, lips brushing your, "again. but louder this time" 

he increases the pressure of his thumb, his hips still moving in that infuriatingly shallow rhythm. He's watching your face intently, cataloging every twitch, every gasp, reveling in the control. The muscles in his arms are corded with the effort of his restraint. 

"mmmm fuck!" you whimper loudly. 

The loud whimper seems to be the final key. His control snaps. A guttural sound rips from his throat, and he drives into you in one deep, claiming thrust, finally filling you completely. The sudden, overwhelming fullness makes you cry out, arching off the bed.

"No more teasing. You're mine. All mine." His voice is a broken, possessive rasp against your neck. 

Harrison sets a punishing, relentless rhythm from the start, each deep thrust a deliberate claim. There's no finesse, no calculation—only raw, desperate need. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he drives into you, his body a solid, unyielding weight atop you.

"Daddy" you whimper, your knees closer together at the feeling of his cock inside you "It feels too good, I can’t take it anymore" 

The desperate whimper of "Daddy" and your knees drawing together seem to ignite something feral in him. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his hips stuttering for a moment before he pins your legs apart with his own, driving even deeper.

 You'll take it. You'll take every inch. You asked for this, right, doggy? "His voice is a ragged, possessive growl"

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing, dominant kiss that steals your breath. His pace is brutal, each thrust hitting that deep, perfect spot that makes you see stars. One hand tangles in your hair, holding your head still for his kiss, while the other slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again with unerring accuracy.

"Fuuuuuck" you cry, tears ruining your makeup, you rake your fingers down his abdomen, leaving more deep red scratches on his abs. 

The sharp sting of your nails raking down his abdomen draws a sharp, pained hiss from him, but it only seems to fuel his frenzy. His hips piston into you with renewed, brutal force, each thrust punctuated by a ragged grunt. Tears streak your makeup, and he watches them fall with a dark, possessive intensity.

"That's it, doggy." he growls "mark me, so that I see you every time I take my shirt off" 

His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling with a relentless, punishing rhythm that pushes you rapidly toward the edge. His own release is clearly building; his movements become less controlled, more frantic, his breathing harsh and uneven against your skin.

"Cum for me, puppy" He says, against your neck, biting and leaving marks all over your skin. "be a good doggy and cum for me"

"Dogg- I'm gonna cum" you whimper. "Fuck I'm gonna cum"

The broken, stuttering admission is the final trigger. A guttural, triumphant sound rips from his throat as he feels your inner muscles begin to clench around him. Instead of slowing, he drives into you harder, faster, refusing to let up even as your body starts to convulse with pleasure.

"That's it. Cum for me, my good doggy. Cum all over my cock" 

He fucks you straight through the peak of your orgasm, his pace relentless as you cry out beneath him, your body seizing and trembling. He watches your face, mesmerized by the tears and ruined makeup, by the utter loss of control.

"mmmmh, daddy" you cry. 

Your body is still shuddering with the aftershocks of your climax, oversensitive and trembling, but he doesn't stop. His thrusts become shorter, deeper, more possessive, grinding against that sensitized spot inside you that makes you whimper with a mixture of pain and unbearable pleasure.

"I'm not done yet, though. You're in heat for me, aren't you?" He asks, breathless. "My perfect, desperate mutt. I can tell you're in heat by the way your pussy pulls me in" 

"Yes daddy" You sob, pleasure racking through your body. 

He groans, a deep, feral sound, as he feels your inner walls flutter around him again, pushed into a second, overwhelming wave of sensation by his relentless pace.

"Fuck, im gonna cum" he groans. "Im gonna give you my puppies, my whole fucking litter, all for you" The words were filthy, making you scream. 

 His hips snap against yours with a brutal, final rhythm. His cock exploding deep inside you. 

His body goes rigid above you, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he finally finds his own release. You feel the hot, pulsing rush deep inside you, but he doesn't stop moving. His hips continue to rock against yours in shallow, possessive thrusts, milking every last drop, keeping you pinned and filled.

"Good girl. Taking all my cum. Such a good doggy for me" Harrison praised. 

He keeps moving, slowly, deliberately, even as his own body trembles with the aftershocks. His cock, still semi-hard inside you, stirs the sensitive, overspent flesh, making you whimper weakly. He shifts slightly, a few drops of his release escapes pop out at him, slicking his lower abdomen.

"Aww look at that, my doggy's pussy is so full she can't keep her cum inside." he teases. He dips his fingers into the wetness on his stomach, collecting it. His eyes lock with yours, glazed with satisfaction and a raw, unwavering ownership. "Clean it up. Be a good doggy for me." 

He doesn't ask; he presses his fingers against your mouth, his gaze commanding you to taste him, to taste the proof of his claim.

You open your mouth without hesitation, your eyes locked on his. A dark, approving hum rumbles in his chest as he slides his fingers past your lips. The taste is salty, intimate, unequivocally his.

"That's it, such a good girl" 

He watches intently as you suck his fingers clean, his own breath still coming in ragged pants. When you're done, he withdraws his fingers, his thumb stroking your bottom lip.

"So good for me." Harrison says, leaning his face down to yours. "Always so good" He captures your lips in a searing kiss. 

He feels the tremors wracking your legs, a visible, physical testament to the intensity of your shared release. A slow, deeply satisfied smirk spreads across his lips, his eyes dark and possessive as he watches you fall apart beneath him.

"Look at you. Shaking just for me. You're doing so good." His voice is a husky, approving murmur, his hips still moving in slow, shallow circles that make you gasp. 

He doesn't stop the gentle, persistent motion, his semi-hard cock still nestled deep inside you, stirring the oversensitive flesh. He leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead.

" Taking my cock so well. My perfect, good doggy." Whispering against your skin.

His hand slides down to your hip, his thumb stroking your skin in a soothing rhythm that contrasts with the continued, low-grade stimulation. He watches your face, cataloging every whimper, every shiver, with a look of absolute, unwavering ownership.

"I'm your good doggy" you repeat in a weak dazed whimper. Pleasure completely numbing your mind. 

"yes, you are. Mine" his voice is low, almost reverent. 

He stays buried inside you for a long moment, his body a heavy, comforting weight. The only sounds are your shared, slowing breaths and the faint purr of Plato, who has settled just outside the bedroom door. Finally, with a soft groan, he carefully withdraws, collapsing onto the bed beside you.

"Hey, don't move. I'll get a cloth" Harrison says, getting up. He returns a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth. His movements are surprisingly gentle as he cleans you up, his touch meticulous, almost clinical, but now devoid of any coldness. It's a quiet, caring act of aftercare.

"Sleep now, pretty girl. You've earned it" he tosses the cloth aside, pulling the comforter over the pair of you. 

He settles behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. His nose brushes against the nape of your neck, and you can feel the steady, slowing beat of his heart against your back. 

"Good girl" from his lips is the last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his low, murmured whisper.

You and Harry had developed a definitive routine. It wasn’t anything flashy or special, just purely functional. You would deliberately go out of your way to annoy him, and he would inevitably ease up a little whenever you pouted in the exact way he secretly liked.

Over time, his cold exterior had melted enough that he started letting you sleep undisturbed in his bed or quietly sit right next to him while he worked. His attraction to you hadn’t faded in the slightest; if anything, it had only grown exponentially stronger with each passing day.

Your outfits were entirely too revealing for his peace of mind. They lingered heavily in his thoughts late at night when he was completely alone, and your bright smile stayed engraved behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes to sleep.

Your lost items stayed scattered everywhere in his lab, though they were always put neatly into the cardboard box where he routinely set them. It was the very same box you still hadn't realized was slowly cluttering up your favorite nap space atop his highest storage shelf.

Harry knew he shouldn't get too close to you. But from a safe distance, he had slowly, undeniably become utterly obsessed.

He had spent days being entirely unbothered by his complex emotions and his erratic employees, but now? He had been completely adopted by a cute, chaotic little alley cat known as (Y/N).

He had learned over time that you were nowhere near as helpless or clueless as you sometimes made yourself seem; you were just deeply eccentric. Yet, Harry constantly wondered when you’d finally decide to drop the act, get a little deeper, and start truly sharing your emotions with him.

Cisco had told him all about your past during high school and college, and back then, you were nowhere near the way you were now. Before you arrived at S.T.A.R. Labs, you were just Catwoman—conniving, sexual, and quiet, a thief who would effortlessly take hearts and rip them right in half.

But Harry could tell that now, you’d gotten softer. You were actively allowing yourself to curl up close to him, but never too close, almost as if you still held reservations about his true intentions. Harry Wells constantly wondered when you'd finally open up more to him.

He could tell outright that you didn't wear your heart on your sleeve for just anyone; this intricate show was a game reserved just for him. And by God, did he love the game.

He genuinely looked forward to the daily banter, the routine of telling you to get down from his shelf, and the unending frustration you brought into his life. He simply loved pretending that he hated it. He liked having you around, and he thoroughly enjoyed his little alley cat.

But within that enjoyment, he desperately wanted to play with her. He wanted to know if you tasted like the bubblegum pink or the cotton candy blue fabrics you so proudly wore. He wanted to be absolutely feral with you, the exact way he was with his own hand late into the night.

But at the same time, he also just wanted to cuddle you. How could he possibly express a paradox like that?

"Hey, (Y/N), I wanna fuck the shit out of you but then get really deep and talk about our feelings," he thought, instantly grimacing. Too douchy.

"Hey, (Y/N), I wanna get really deep and talk about our feelings and then fuck the shit out of you?" He shook his head in the dark. Too fuckboy-esque. Where exactly was his middle ground?

It wasn't like he could just ask Cisco for romantic advice. No, Cisco would make fun of him endlessly for the rest of his natural life.

"Fuck," Harry muttered, turning over aggressively in his bed.

His phone lit up in his hand as he stared blankly at your contact photo. You had sneakily added your number to his device one afternoon when he left it unlocked on his workstation, sending his phone a seriously inappropriate photo in the process.

The image displayed you posing in a full white fishnet get-up with a matching pastel pink bra and panty set—an exceptionally revealing outfit you’d never actually dared to wear to the lab. And God, did he love that full-sized photo.

You were pure visual torture, and he loved every single second of it. He would stare at that photo for hours on end until his cock finally became hard enough that he had to turn his screen off and jerk off in the pitch black, thinking exclusively of you. He had felt a twinge of guilt the very first time he rubbed one out to your picture, but it had resulted in the hardest he had ever come.

"Fuuuck!" he drawled into the quiet dark of his room, casting his phone to the side.

His hand wrapped tightly around his angry, throbbing cock, pumping it with an aggressive, desperate rhythm. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" he groaned loudly as he finally came, his body shuddering with the release.

He laid motionless in his bed for a long moment, the warmth of his cum dripping off his hand and onto the blanket.

"What are you doing, Harrison?" he sighed heavily to himself, staring up at the dark ceiling.

On Earth-2, Harrison "Harry" Wells is the absolute center of gravity at STAR Labs. To the public—and to the rest of Team Flash—he is a sharp-tongued, hyper-fixated force of nature. He lives in charcoal button-downs, dark tailored vests, and a perpetual scowl, always multi-tasking between dark matter equations, structural algorithms, and micro-expressions that scream he has no time for anyone's lack of intellect. His wire-rimmed glasses are practically an extension of his authority, perched precisely on his nose as he paces the cortex, muttering complex physics formulas to himself.

But behind the locked doors of his private quarters in the STAR Labs facility, the absolute laws of physics tend to break down.

Lately, his most prominent variable has been you. As an associate researcher who actually possesses the brainpower to keep pace with his rapid-fire deductions, you’ve become the only thing capable of derailing his focus. Harry prides himself on being the most composed man in any room—until you decide to consciously test his threshold for distraction.

There’s something incredibly hot about riding your nerdy boyfriend until his glasses slide down his nose.

He’s usually so fiercely composed, always wrapped up in his meticulous layers, always with those cute wire-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on his face, always muttering about dark matter anomalies or system code or whatever multi-verse theory he’s nerding out about that day. But right now? The founder of STAR Labs is a complete, unscientific mess.

You’re straddling his hips, knees planted firmly on the plush mattress of his private quarters, riding him to the absolute hilt. Every slow, deliberate roll of your hips makes his thick, heavy length slide perfectly inside your slick walls, ruthlessly hitting that exact internal spot that makes you moan softly against the quiet of the room. His large hands—the ones that usually handle delicate quantum tech with precise stability—are gripping your thighs with white-knuckled intensity, his long fingers digging into your skin like he desperately needs an anchor to keep from drifting out of his own mind.

“Baby—” Harry stammers, his deep voice cracking in a way you never hear in the cortex.

His glasses are already failing him, sliding hopelessly down the bridge of his nose as his head tips back hard against the pillow. His cheeks are flushed a dark, beautiful crimson, his usually neat salt-and-pepper hair is entirely messy from your fingers, and his lips are parted as he tries—and utterly fails—to keep his breathing steady. You smile triumphantly down at him, deliberately grinding your hips in a slow, agonizing circle, watching the way his blue eyes flutter behind the slightly fogging lenses.

“You look so cute like this, Harry,” you murmur, leaning down into his space to capture his mouth.

His sliding glasses bump awkwardly against your nose, but you don’t care about the physics of it. You just keep riding him, picking up the tempo now, taking his mass deeper and deeper into your core. He lets out a ragged, unrefined moan directly into your mouth, his powerful hips jerking up instinctively to meet your downward descent. One of his large hands slides up your bare back, his calloused palm warm against your spine, while the other stays firmly anchored on your hip, guiding your trajectory as you bounce up and down on his rigid length.

“God, (Y/N)... you feel so good,” he breathes out, the words a shaky, broken rasp. “I can’t—I’m gonna calculation—fuck, I’m gonna—”

With a sudden, violent tilt of his head, his glasses finally slip off his face completely, landing forgotten somewhere on the pillow beside his head. Without the lenses obscuring them, his pretty, slightly unfocused blue eyes lock directly onto yours—wide, wild, and entirely desperate.

You ride him harder, chasing your own peak while watching the smartest man on Earth-2 completely fall apart underneath you. When your climax hits, your walls clenching in tight, desperate spasms around him, Harry follows right after with a broken, guttural groan. His hips stutter in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm as he spills his thick, hot heat deep inside you, his chest heaving as if he’s running out of oxygen.

Afterward, he lies there panting heavily, his chest rising and falling in erratic, uneven patterns. His glasses are askew on the pillow next to a stray data-pad, and the great Dr. Wells looks completely wrecked, blissed out, and utterly defeated by his own biology.

You lean down, resting your chest against his broad, bare torso, and kiss his jawline softly before brushing a few stray strands of his messy hair back from his damp forehead.

Harry lets out a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, the rough vibration traveling straight through your chest. He wraps his heavy, muscular arms tightly around your frame, pulling you down flush against his skin as if he never wants to let the distraction go.

“Completely compromised,” he mutters into your hair, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely fond. “My data is ruined. You've completely ruined my data, (Y/N).”

You kiss his chin, smiling against his skin. “Did I mess up your timeline, Dr. Wells?”

“Shut up,” he rumbles, though his arms only tighten around you, his fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your lower back. He reaches blindly with one hand toward the pillow, blindly fumbling for a second until his fingers brush the frame of his glasses. He doesn't even bother putting them back on; he just tosses them onto the bedside table with a soft clatter, completely surrendering his focus to you.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, his breath warm against your forehead as he tucks you securely beneath his chin. “Tomorrow, I go back to saving the world. Tonight... you stay right here.”

Harry should have been working. Instead, his eyes were entirely fixed on you. Not intentionally—at least, that was the convenient lie he kept telling himself. He was currently making a series of highly detailed mental notes about your outfit today: a black mesh top, another vibrant pink bra—pastel pink this time—and that dangerously short leather micro-skirt.

You were sitting casually on the high railing overlooking the lower level of the cortex, a precarious position that would have given most ordinary people a sheer heart attack. One leg swung lazily through the open air while you listened to Jay Garrick ramble on about something tedious involving alternate dimensions. 

Harry wasn't paying a single shred of attention to the lecture, and while Cisco certainly was, Harry could tell with absolute certainty that you weren't. He could read it plainly in your subtle body language; your eyes kept glancing elsewhere, constantly scanning the room, watching the team, tracking the exits, and calculating everything. 

You were doing exactly what Catwoman would do. The realization still occasionally caught him off guard, because while most people just saw a chaotic girl who stole fries and sat on furniture incorrectly, Harry saw the master thief underneath—the woman constantly calculating, constantly aware, and constantly moving. And somehow, that realization was infinitely worse for his focus.

A sudden burst of laughter violently pulled him from his thoughts. You had shifted precariously, looking as though you were about to fall straight off the railing—or so Harry thought. Cisco instinctively lunged forward, grabbing the sleeve of your jacket before you could tip backward into the drop. "See?" Cisco breathed, his heart in his throat.

"It would've been fine," you brushed it off with a careless wave of your hand. "I was just trying to flip off the railing."

"You could've died!" Cisco insisted, exasperated.

You quirked an eyebrow at him, entirely amused. "From fifteen feet? I would've landed."

"That's not the point."

"It kinda is," you shrugged. Before Cisco could stop you, you dropped backward, executing a flawless flip off the high edge and landing silently on your feet on the hard floor below. Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at the blatant display of theatrics. Across the room, you caught the motion immediately, a brilliant grin landing on your face. Of course it did. Your grin only widened at his irritation, and Harry instantly regretted making eye contact at all.

"Hi, Harry," you called out, your voice dripping with that melody that always teased him.

"Nope. Walk the other way," Harry ordered, pointing a stern finger toward the opposite exit.

"Fine," you said smoothly, though Harry knew damn well it wasn't. He watched in sheer disbelief as you somehow scaled your way right back up to the high railing, moving so quickly and fluidly that his eyes couldn't even register exactly what steps you took to get back up there.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Later that afternoon, Harry was deeply immersed in reviewing system diagnostics when someone quietly hopped up onto the high storage shelf inside his private workshop. He didn't even need to look up to know exactly who it was. "No."

"What?" you asked innocently from your perch.

Harry finally looked up from his tablet, met with the sight of you blinking down at him with mock ignorance. "You know exactly what."

Harry sighed heavily. "I really don't."

"Liar."

"Harry!" you gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest.

"Get down from there," Harry said, watching you get comfortable against the wall.

"No."

Harry let out another slow sigh. The conversation was becoming painfully, beautifully familiar, and unfortunately, he was beginning to genuinely enjoy the banter—which was a deeply concerning development for his sanity. For a few quiet moments, neither of you spoke. Then, you leaned far forward, holding your weight precariously over the very edge of the shelf. Harry immediately became suspicious, his experience suggesting that caution was always wise around you. 

"What?" Harry asked, his voice dropping.

You tilted your head, watching him closely before shaking it. "Nothing."

"You're staring."

"So are you." You counter, voice bored.

Harry froze. It was only briefly, but in your eyes, briefly was more than enough. Your victorious grin appeared instantly.

 "You looked first," you said dismissively.

"I absolutely did not."

"You totally did."

Harry hated how incredibly pleased you sounded about the victory. At some point during the back-and-forth, you had slipped down from the shelf completely noiselessly, sliding into the vacant chair directly across from his desk. 

The silver rings on your fingers tapped a soft, rhythmic pattern against the wood, and Harry suddenly became acutely, overwhelmingly aware of how close you were sitting. It made him incredibly nervous. The perpetual problem with you was that you simply didn't seem to understand the concept of personal space—or perhaps, more accurately, you understood it perfectly and simply chose to ignore it. Harry wasn't entirely sure which possibility was worse. He was a grown man; dealing with a distracting woman shouldn't be this difficult, yet somehow, with you, it was impossible.

You offered a soft smile when he glanced up again. It wasn't your usual mischievous, sharp smirk, but something gentler. More curious. 

"What?" Harry asked, immediately regretting speaking because it only confirmed he'd been caught looking at your lips.

"You've got a little line right there," you told him softly, pointing a finger at the space directly between your own eyebrows. Harry frowned automatically at the comment. "See? That's a frown," you said, a light, genuine smile forming on your lips.

"No."

"It is. It's your permanent little frown," you said cutely. Harry felt his chest tighten, his stern heart actively melting at the sheer sweetness of your expression. He forced himself to look offended—or rather, he desperately pretended to be. You let out a bright, melodic laugh, and the sound hit him significantly harder than it should have.

  Concerning. Very concerning. Harry was beginning to get genuinely frustrated with his complete lack of self-control whenever you were in the room.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

By that evening, the cortex had emptied out almost entirely. Cisco had gone home for the night, Barry was out on a city-wide patrol, and Caitlin had disappeared into her lab hours ago. For once, the facility was completely quiet. Harry sat at his main workstation, and you sat perched directly on top of the desk right next to his monitors. 

Neither of you acknowledged the proximity. At some point during the evening, you had reached into his drawer and stolen another one of his candy bars, and Harry hadn't done a single thing to stop you. Neither of you acknowledged that either.

The heavy silence between you felt surprisingly, terrifyingly comfortable—a dangerous thought that Harry immediately tried to reject. Then, you let out a yawn. It was a small one, barely noticeable, except Harry caught every single movement. It was adorable. 

You blinked slowly, your eyes heavy with exhaustion, before resting your chin comfortably on your folded arms, just watching him type away. The sight did something strange and inconvenient to his chest, because for once, you weren't actively teasing him, you weren't stealing his things, and you weren't causing absolute chaos. You simply looked... comfortable. Comfortable with him. The realization lingered in his mind far longer than Harry would have liked.

"You can go lay in my bed if you'd like," Harry rasped, his voice suddenly thick as he deliberately avoided eye contact.

"I think I might actually go home," you murmured, standing up from the desk and stretching your limbs elegantly.

Harry felt a sudden, sharp prickle of disappointment wash over him. He had grown incredibly comfortable with the routine of you being in his space; you were silent, cute, and you smelled entirely too good. 

"Do you want me to walk you?" he asked, the protective words leaving his mouth before his brain could step in to censor them.

"No, it'll be alright," you answered softly, stepping toward the exit. "I'm Catwoman, remember?"

"Right," was all Harry could manage to say, his throat tight.

You stepped close, pressing a light, lingering kiss to his cheek before walking away. Pausing right at the threshold of the doorway, you turned back to look at him. 

"Hey, Harry?"

Your voice sounded unusually soft, completely stripping away the usual performance. 

"What?" he asked, looking up from his monitors.

For a long, suspended second, you just looked at him in the dim lighting of the cortex. Then, you smiled—a small, real, and completely genuine smile.

 "I'm glad you're here."

Harry froze entirely. 

The words weren't dramatic, and they shouldn't have mattered, yet somehow, they meant everything. Before he could even think of a proper response, you had already disappeared around the dark corner, walking away as if you hadn't just said something incredibly important, and leaving Harry staring blankly after you. 

He was left completely confused and entirely distracted. Because the problem wasn't just that he liked having you around anymore; the real problem was that he was beginning to suspect you liked having him around, too.

Which, to him, wasn't a problem at all. The thing about stray cats is that once they finally pick their person, they stay with them forever. And you were just so cute, and so beautiful, that Harry truly wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pretending he found you annoying.

He drags you across his lap like you don’t weigh a thing.

It isn't because you did anything wrong. You haven't mouthed off or disobeyed—not this time, anyway. You didn't. You’ve been remarkably good, keeping your head down in the cortex, running the diagnostic algorithms just like he demanded. But as Harrison "Harry" Wells of Earth-2 looks down at you, his heavy, broad hand resting firmly on the small of your back, you realize that being good doesn't grant you an ounce of mercy from a man like him.

He doesn't need a logical reason. He does it because he can. He does it because your thighs twitch the exact second he leans in, the sharp scent of coffee, ozone, and rich leather filling your senses as he breathes against your ear. He does it because your breath hitches when he tugs you down, your chest pressed flat to his thick, powerful thigh, leaving your ass arched high, aching, and completely vulnerable. Because your entire body melts the second his palm spreads across your lower back like a brand, pinning you with the absolute authority of a man who owns the very air you breathe.

“You know why I’m doin’ this?” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, dripping with that trademark, mean Earth-2 cynicism.

He reaches down, his long, calloused fingers grabbing your chin and tilting your head back so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His piercing blue eyes are dark, predatory, and fixed entirely on yours from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

You shake your head, utterly unable to find your voice beneath the weight of his stare.

He lets out a rough, dismissive grunt, his thumb brushing firmly over your lower lip. “Didn’t think so.”

Smack.

The first slap lands hot and loud. It’s a deep, heavy sound that echoes sharply in the quiet, sterile room of his private workshop. You flinch, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, your hips jerking instinctively against his thigh. He pins you down instantly with one hand, his long fingers spreading possessively over your skin to keep you from squirming away from his reach.

“Because I like the sound you make,” he says, his words slow, deliberate, and intense. “That little gasp. That tremble. Knowing I'm the one putting it there gets me fuckin’ hard.”

Smack. Smack.

You whine, your thighs clenching together in a desperate reflex. The sting is starting to sink in now—no longer just a sharp bite, but a thick, blooming heat that you can feel radiating deep into your gut. He watches your reaction with a clinical kind of hunger, his brilliant eyes tracking the exact way your breath becomes a series of jagged, helpless hitches.

“You gonna wriggle like that the whole time?” he mutters, his hand moving down to squeeze a handful of your soft, exposed flesh with a bruising grip. “Trying to make me lose my fuckin’ mind, (Y/N)?”

You whimper, your heart hammering frantically against your ribs. Harry doesn't wait for an answer. He doesn't care for excuses. He keeps going.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Every single strike is controlled. Measured. Calculated to maximum efficiency. He’s playing a brutal beat into your very bones, and the rhythm is starting to turn your blood into liquid fire.

“You’re not even fighting it,” he mocks, leaning down until his lips are brushing the sensitive shell of your ear, his gravelly voice vibrating through your skull. “You love this. You’re so fuckin’ easy for me. I could throw you down, tear into you, and you wouldn’t even ask why, would you?”

Another slap lands, and this time, a raw, loud moan breaks completely from your throat. You can't help it; the sheer overstimulation is starting to boil over. He leans down further, his sharp teeth grazing your shoulder in a sudden, possessive bite that leaves you shivering.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, his intense presence completely surrounding you. “Mine to grab. Mine to bend. Mine to fuckin’ wear out.”

You nod against his thick thigh, your voice a fractured thread. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” he prompts, his heavy hand hovering just above your raw skin, waiting, demanding the proper data.

You swallow hard, the heat between your legs becoming absolutely unbearable. “Yes—yours.”

Slap.

“That’s right. My favorite little toy.”

His fingers dig into the crimson marks he’s painting across your skin. You can feel the sheer size of him beneath you—the hard, heavy length of his erection pressing firmly against your hip through his tailored trousers. You grind down against him, just a little, desperate for a different kind of friction to ease the ache.

Harry lets out a dark, strained groan. “You don’t get to tease me now,” he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly growl as he delivers another sharp slap. “Not when you’re the one laid out like a brat waiting to be used.”

You moan, your body burning with a hunger that feels like it’s going to entirely consume you. It isn't pain anymore; it’s a desperate, pulsing heat in your teeth and in the wet sound of your breathing. He slaps you again—just once—harder than all the others, making your vision blur for a split second as the shockwaves ripple through your core.

Then, he stops. He lets his broad, heavy hand rest there, pressing firmly over the throbbing sting, letting his warmth sink into your bruised flesh.

He leans in impossibly close, his voice heavy and raspy in your ear. “I could fuck you just like this,” he murmurs. “Arched. Spanked raw. Still squirming like you’re begging for more.”

You shiver, your entire frame vibrating under his touch. He slides his long fingers between your thighs, touching you once, a slow and deliberate stroke through your slick heat that makes you cry out. “Still so wet,” he teases, his voice dripping with absolute, unshakeable arrogance. “Didn’t even need a reason to get you like this.”

He pulls his hand away, and the sharp sound of his leather belt shifting is the loudest thing in the quiet room. You hear his breath catch as he prepares himself, the cold calculation vanishing into pure, unadulterated lust.

“You want it?” he mutters.

You nod, desperate and ready to break completely for him. “Please. God, please, Harry.”

“Then keep still,” he commands, his voice turning cold, sharp, and authoritative. “And don't you dare cum until I say so.”

He doesn't give you a single second to breathe or collect your scattered thoughts. He flips you over on the workbench, his large hands rough and certain as they grab your hips. He bends you forward until your chest hits the surface, leaving your ass high, aching, and completely exposed to his gaze.

“You look wrecked,” he mutters from behind you. You hear him adjusting himself, the sheer physical presence of him looming over your frame making the air feel thick and suffocating. “Still twitching from the spanking and you’re already leaking all over for me.”

You whimper into your arms, your fingers clutching the edge of the table. You can feel him now—hard, heavy, and absolutely massive. He drags the thick head of his dick through your slick mess, the intense friction making your hips buck involuntarily against him.

“Sloppy for me,” he rasps, his hands gripping your waist like iron bands. “I’m gonna stretch you out so good.”

He grabs himself, stroking twice, and then he pushes straight in. There is no warning. No gentle transition.

It is just pure, unyielding pressure and a deep, heavy stretch that makes your breath punch completely out of your lungs. He is so much bigger than what your body expects, filling every single inch of your entrance until you feel like your walls are going to split under the magnitude of him.

“Fffuck, you’re so tight around me.”

He bottoms out in one steady, relentless thrust. His hips press completely flush against yours, his full, heavy weight pinning you down. One of his massive hands stays locked on your lower back, holding your spine in place while he grinds in deeper, seeking the very back of your core.

“Feel that?” he pants, his voice shaking with the immense effort of holding back his own release. “That’s your spot. Right there.”

You let out a broken scream, your head tossing back as your eyes go wide. “Oh my god,” you breathe out, the raw honesty of the pleasure finally breaking through your remaining pride. “You’re so... you’re so big, Harry. It feels so good.”

He lets out a low, mean chuckle that vibrates violently through your entire pelvis. He pulls back just enough to catch his breath before slamming right back in, his length angled so deep you literally see stars.

“Yeah? You like being filled up like this?” he grunts, his pace beginning to pick up into a brutal rhythm. “You clamp around me like you’re begging to be broken. Like you want to drown in it.”

You try to speak, to tell him he's absolutely right, but all that comes out of your mouth is a wrecked, wet moan. He leans heavily over your back, his large hand finding a tight fistful of your hair. He pulls back firmly, forcing your head up so you have no choice but to see your own undone reflection in the glass cabinet across the room.

“Look at you,” he praises, his voice thick and dark with lust. “Getting fucked dumb, bruised up, and still so damn greedy for more of me.”

Then he starts moving in earnest. Hard. Heavy. Brutal.

His dick hits that exact same sensitive spot again and again—that one place that makes your legs lock and your brain turn to pure liquid. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows the sheer size of him is a weapon, and he’s using it to utterly ruin your composure.

And then—Smack.

He spanks you again right in the middle of a deep thrust, his open palm landing on your raw skin with a sharp, echoing crack. You jolt forward, your muscles spasming violently around his length, clamping down on his shaft in a frantic, suffocating rhythm.

“Oh yeah,” he groans, his own authoritative voice breaking with pleasure. “You like that. You like being reminded who’s in absolute control.”

His free hand slides down your front, his rough, hot fingers finding the sensitive, swollen space between your thighs. He doesn't care about being gentle or tentative; he plays with your clit like he owns every single nerve ending in your body. He strokes messy, heavy circles, his thumb applying a crushing pressure that makes you cry out in a high-pitched, helpless wail.

“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mutters into your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe. “Fucked from behind, spanked raw, while I fill you from the inside.”

You choke on your breath, trying to brace your body, but it’s mathematically impossible. He’s too deep, his thrusts far too relentless. Your whole body is bouncing violently with the force of his hips, your knees going completely weak as he continues to pound mercilessly against that one spot.

“There,” he grunts, his teeth gritting as his pace turns feral. “You feel that? That’s where I live now. That’s mine.”

Another devastating thrust. Another sharp, stinging spank. Your whole body seizes, the pleasure turning into something that borders on physical overload.

“You’re gonna cum,” he says, his voice a dark, gravelly prophecy. “I know you are. Just a few more. Just like this, my pretty little slut.”

His rhythm turns sharp and cruel. Every single stroke punches hard against your center, his fingers working your bud at the exact same time, his voice a constant, filthy stream of praise and harsh commands. “Cum for me, (Y/N). Give it all to me right now.”

You do.

You shatter completely. Your back arches, your thighs clench, and everything in your world narrows down to the shattering feeling of his length inside you. You wail into the workshop bench, your release hitting you so hard your entire body convulses in violent waves, your tight walls squeezing around him in a desperate, rhythmic plea for mercy.

“God damn,” he grunts, his voice dropping into a guttural, animalistic growl as he fucks you straight through the climax. He doesn't stop; he keeps spanking your raw skin between heavy thrusts, riding the absolute edge of your oversensitive, twitching nerves until he’s just as wrecked and undone as you are.

You’re trembling. Spent. Completely and utterly undone.

And then he goes entirely still.

He buries himself as deep as he can possibly go, a low, ragged curse escaping his lips. He cums inside you with a heavy, soul-deep groan, his thick dick pulsing hot and heavy against your contracting walls while his hand stays tightly fisted in your hair. He stays there for a long moment, his full, heavy weight pressing your chest flat into the table, his chest heaving violently against your back as he catches his breath.

When he finally pulls out—slow, wet, and breathless—he grabs your bruised ass one more time, his long fingers digging deeply into the red marks he left behind.

“Next time,” he pants, his voice still thick and raspy with the aftermath, “I tie you up first. So you really can’t move while I’m using you.”

You would say yes. You would say absolutely anything he wanted. But your body is still twitching too hard to form a coherent sentence.

You’re slumped forward, your cheek pressed to the cold surface, your frame still jumping in little, involuntary aftershocks. You think he’d stop. You think that after making you sob and filling you up to the brim, the great Harrison Wells would let you catch your breath.

But he isn't finished with you yet.

He grabs you by the hips, his large hands unyielding and dominant as he spreads your raw thighs open again. He pushes two thick fingers straight back inside—slow, thick, and deep.

You jolt violently, a choked, startled sound leaving your throat.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his wide chest pressing flat against your back, pinning your warmth. “Don’t squirm now. We’re not done yet.”

You whimper, the heavy stretch of his fingers feeling absolutely massive after the intense fullness of his length. You're still incredibly slick, still sore, but he doesn't care about your comfort—only your complete submission.

“Gotta keep you full,” he mutters, curling his fingers just enough to hit that deep spot, making your hips twitch automatically. “Can’t waste what I gave you.”

His other hand rests heavily on your lower back, grounding and solid, reminding you with every ounce of his posture that you aren't going anywhere until he allows it.

“You took me so good. Came all over yourself like you were starving for it.”

His fingers start to move—slow, deliberate, deep thrusts that drag heavily against that same bruised spot, making your thighs shake all over again. You moan and try to crawl forward to escape the intensity, your body bucking against the renewed sensation.

He presses your hips down, hard, his grip leaving temporary white marks on your skin. “Where the fuck do you think you’re goin'?”

You gasp, the air leaving your lungs entirely. He leans over your trembling back, his breath warm, humid, and heavy against your bare shoulder.

“I said we’re not done,” he croons, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous cadence that sends shivers down your spine. “You stay still, you take my fingers, and you say thank you.”

You shake your head against your arms, your mind a buzzing, chaotic mess of overstimulation. You can't even think straight, let alone speak a sentence to a genius like him.

Smack.

His palm lands on your sore, marked skin again—sharp, loud, and final.

“Try again, (Y/N).”

You bite your lip hard, gasping the words through a throat that has gone completely raw from screaming his name. “Thank you.”

He hums, a low, satisfied sound that vibrates directly against your spine. He’s still moving ruthlessly inside you, deep and rhythmic.

“Again.”

You cry it out now, the sheer desperation taking over your pride completely. “Thank you—ahmn—God, Harry, it feels so good...”

“For what?” he asks, his long fingers curling with a cruel, mathematical precision inside your slick walls.

You don’t answer fast enough for his liking.

Another heavy thrust of his fingers. Deeper. He’s stretching your entrance out completely, his thumb finding your sensitive center and applying that heavy, agonizing pressure that makes your vision blur.

“Say it.”

Your voice cracks completely. “F-for... fucking me. For filling me up. For making me—mghn—fuck—cum again...”

He groans, his fingers working your internal nerves perfectly. “Good toy,” he mutters, the rough praise making your heart swell with a desperate affection even as your body breaks down beneath him. “Took all of it. Gonna take more.”

You tremble, your frame reaching its absolute physical limit, but Harry doesn't let up for a single second. He pulls his fingers out just enough to watch your slick entrance clench around nothing but empty air, then pushes them back in to the hilt, grinding the heel of his broad palm against your clit with a heavy, crushing force.

You cry out, a wrecked sound that is half-pleasure and half-complete sensory overload.

“Gonna milk my fingers too, baby?” he asks, his gravelly voice dropping to a harsh whisper against your neck. “You really that fuckin’ needy for me?”

You don’t answer. You physically can’t. You’re panting too hard, your vision swimming in the dim light of the workshop. But your body is already answering for you—twitching violently around his fingers, dripping slick heat down your thighs, clenching tight as another massive wave of release builds rapidly in your gut.

Harry smirks against your skin. He can feel the exact moment your walls begin to clamp down in desperation.

“Yeah. That’s it.” His voice drops low, nearly reverent, but still carrying that sharp, unyielding edge of command that defines him. “Come on, (Y/N). Make a mess for me. Let me see how good you break.”

You do.

Again.

Your entire body locks up, your breath catching hard in your throat as you come violently around his fingers. He works you ruthlessly through every single frantic pulse, staying deep inside, holding your entrance wide open, making sure you feel every single bit of the beautiful ruin he’s caused.

Finally, he stops. He pulls his hand away, slick and glistening, and lets your trembling frame fall flat against the bench. He presses one single, lingering kiss to your bare spine, right between your shoulder blades.

Then he leans in close, his voice low, steady, and absolute.

“Mine,” he whispers into the quiet room. “Always mine.”

And this time, you nod without a single shred of hesitation.

Harry left his room at S.T.A.R. Labs at seven o'clock sharp. The cortex was completely quiet, predictable, and exactly the way he liked it. Coffee in one hand and his tablet in the other, he made his way toward his private office without a single interruption. No one appeared out of nowhere to startle him, no one stole a sip of his fresh coffee, and no one aggressively invaded his personal space. Harry safely considered this an exceptionally successful start to the day.

Three hours later, however, he looked up from his work as a sudden realization hit him out of nowhere. The lab was quiet—entirely too quiet. Harry frowned, the silence suddenly feeling strange rather than comforting.

Normally, by this time of the morning, someone would have gone out of their way to thoroughly annoy him. Specifically, one person. His eyes drifted instinctively toward the main entrance of the cortex, but it remained completely empty. He shook his head and immediately forced himself back to work.

At noon, Harry finally left his workshop. Cisco sat rolling around in his desk chair, and Barry was casually talking to Caitlin near the medical bay. Everything appeared entirely normal, except Harry paused, his eyes scanning the room.

Where was the cute, distracting laugh? Where was the body draped lazily over all the least layable surfaces in the lab? Where was the blatant snack stealing? There were no heavy combat boots swinging in the air, no silver jewelry clicking against the metal desks, and no familiar voice echoing through the room. Nothing.

His eyes narrowed as the thought arrived before he could stop it: Where is she? 

Harry immediately disliked himself for even thinking it. Why would he care where you were? He didn't, obviously. He was simply making a routine observation—an objective, perfectly reasonable scientific observation.

Cisco looked up from his monitor, catching his expression. "What's with your face?"

"What face?" Harry frowned deeply.

"The one you make when you're thinking way too hard about something."

Harry instantly became suspicious; you had told him the exact same thing a week ago. "Do I have a specific face for that?"

"Unfortunately," Cisco replied.

Harry ignored the jab entirely, but the question slipped past his lips before he could reel it back in. "Where's (Y/N)?"

The moment the words hung in the air, Cisco froze, Barry froze, and even Caitlin looked up from her paperwork. Harry immediately regretted everything. A slow, knowing grin spread across Cisco's face. "Oh my God," Caitlin whispered quietly under her breath.

Harry closed his eyes, already knowing the agonizing teasing that was coming. "No," he said immediately, raising a hand.

"Hey, you asked," Cisco said, his grin widening.

"I did not ask."

"Oh my God, you miss her!" Cisco pointed an accusing finger at him.

"I definitely do not!" Harry deflected sharply, briefly considering committing a light murder right there in the cortex.

Upon enduring Cisco’s relentless pestering for another two minutes, Harry finally discovered the actual truth: you had been gone for two whole days. Two. Entire. Days. Harry absolutely hated that information, mostly because he hadn't consciously noticed your absence sooner—or perhaps, terrifyingly, because he secretly had. Either way, he couldn't stop wondering exactly where his stray cat had run off to.

That afternoon, Harry stopped by Jitters. The line was short, the coffee was acceptable, and the service was predictably slow. After ordering his usual black coffee, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the pastry and candy display beside the register.

Without a single conscious thought, he pointed a finger at the shelf. "And one of those." The cashier nodded, bagging the item, and a moment later Harry accepted his order and left the shop.

He made it halfway back to S.T.A.R. Labs before he actually realized what he had done. Harry stopped dead on the sidewalk, slowly looking into the paper bag, and let out a heavy, defeated sigh. Resting at the bottom was a strawberry candy bar. Your absolute favorite.

Harry stared down at it for several long seconds before shoving it back into the depths of the bag. It wasn't a big deal; people made mindless mistakes all the time. It just happened. Except, deep down, he knew remembering someone's favorite snack wasn't an accident—it was a mindless, habitual act that only happened when you spent entirely too much time thinking about someone.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

It became significantly more difficult for Harry to justify his behavior when he mindlessly did the exact same thing the next day. And then again the day after that.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

By Friday afternoon, Harry had accumulated a total of four strawberry candy bars. He quietly placed them in the back of a desk drawer, strictly refusing to think about what that meant, though he still made sure to look up and confirm your cardboard box of lost trinkets was still safe on his top shelf.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The following Monday, Harry arrived at work to a chaotic cortex. Cisco was arguing loudly with Barry about a breach calculation, and someone had already managed to spill coffee near the computers.

Everything appeared perfectly back to normal, and then, a bright, familiar laughter sliced through the noise. Harry froze right where he stood. The sound came from all the way across the room, and before he could stop himself, his eyes locked onto you.

You were standing right beside Cisco, your silver jewelry flashing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. You wore your classic combat boots, your leather jacket, and that ridiculous, brilliant smile that Harry secretly loved so much.

You were alive, healthy, and entirely fine, and Harry immediately felt a massive wave of pure relief wash over him—a realization that completely horrified him.

Suddenly, you turned around, and your eyes met his. A dangerous, knowing grin spread across your face, looking as though you had somehow figured out his exact thoughts.

Harry immediately looked away, but he should have known better; he had looked away a second too late. You were already heading straight toward him, moving incredibly fast.

Before he could even brace himself, you jumped directly into his arms, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist and forcing him to instinctively grip your thighs to keep you from falling.

His mind went absolutely numb. Fuck... His brain was entirely too obsessed with you to process the physical contact in a normal, professional way. He was acutely aware of your revealing outfit, the cool click of your jewelry, and the way your fingers automatically started playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. God, you were making him incredibly horny, and the sheer proximity was dangerous.

"There he is," you cooed, leaning in to press a firm kiss to his cheek, your pink lip gloss leaving a sticky, vibrant stain against his skin. "You know, I actually kinda missed you, Wells."

Harry flatly refused to make direct eye contact with you, doing everything in his power to keep the sudden flush of red from creeping up his neck. "Let go so I can put you down," was all he managed to say, his voice tighter than usual.

"Nope!" you popped the word cheerfully.

Harry let out a heavy sigh. Of course. Deciding he couldn't handle the friction of your body against his for another second, he let go of your thighs anyway, letting you drop to the ground. But as usual, you landed perfectly on your feet without a sound.

He quickly turned on his heel and marched straight toward his private workshop, desperately trying to adjust his posture to conceal the sudden, rigid erection pressing against his jeans. God, he was so happy to see you that even his cock was getting excited.

A second later, you followed him inside, leaning casually against his desk. You blinked, your eyes dropping down to the open drawer right beside his hand. Harry’s stomach sank instantly. He had opened the wrong drawer to grab a cable. Resting inside, perfectly lined up, sat the four strawberry candy bars.

You stared down at them, a heavy silence falling over the room, before you slowly lifted your gaze back to his. Harry stared right back, his heart hammering against his ribs for one horrifying second, then two, then three.

Then, that damned smile appeared on your lips—but it was slow, soft, and entirely different from your usual performative, teasing grin. "Oh," you breathed.

Harry immediately slammed the drawer shut with a sharp click. "No," he deflected instantly, desperately trying to shut down any and all questions.

"You bought my favorite candy," you noted, your voice dripping with amusement.

"I did not."

"You bought four of them," you pointed at the closed drawer.

"I forgot they were even in there."

"Four separate times?"

Harry absolutely hated this conversation. "I do not have to justify my personal snack purchases to you, (Y/N)."

Your smile somehow softened even further, which was significantly more dangerous for his sanity. "No," you said quietly, stepping a fraction closer. "I guess you don't."

For once, you didn't tease him, you didn't laugh, and you didn't push him for a confession. You just looked oddly, deeply pleased. Slowly, you reached past him, slid the drawer open just enough to steal one of the strawberry bars, and walked away.

Harry stood frozen, watching you retreat out into the cortex. Unbelievable. A moment later, he opened the drawer all the way; three candy bars remained. He stared down at them, then looked toward the empty doorway you had just disappeared through, and then back down at the chocolate. This was becoming a massive problem, and for perhaps the very first time since meeting you, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to solve it.

As surprising as it was that you ended up working with the dregs of the scientific community, it didn't shock anyone when you joined Harrison Wells’s team on Earth-2. Such a wasted talent you were. If only you had been born into one of those prestigious, legacy families in Central City—the ones with names plastered on university wings—everyone knew you would have been a shining jewel for the scientific community.

Instead, you were born to a pair of low-income workers, leaving you with very little hope for your future. If it wasn't for that man.

The local pastor at your community center had practically begged you to visit his office and confess your sin of envy, seeing you getting greener and meaner day by day as the scholarship rejections rolled in.

You deserved more than everyone else; that's what your face read.

Born a gifted kid, your intellect exceeded any expectations. Therefore, when at fourteen you built your first functioning quantum stabilizer out of scrap metal, the academic world was ready to see you shine.

Linguistic and Cryptographic Aptitude.

What a rare and unique mind.

You were just a kid when that realization hit the school board. Thin as a spring daisy, latched to your childhood dreams of space travel and advanced mechanics, your inner wisdom was always a sign that something bigger was coming your way.

That day, surrounded by all your neighborhood friends, you had played a game, imagining what type of specialty would choose you. Aerospace engineering would have been so beautiful to master; spatial physics would have helped you travel around the world. God, you were so excited to see your natural talent unfold.

Your mother had worked in a local diner; she would replenish your energy and focus thanks to her home-cooked meals. Your father's masonry work was celebrated in the whole sector; even wealthy estate owners would rely on him to build their vintage facades. It was all coming up to you, wasn't it?

Your mother had cried tears of pride, and your father clapped his strong, calloused hands when you, small and bubbly, got picked for the elite youth fellowship at the university.

Cryptographic and Ancient Dialect Linguistics. The wise professors of the academy were enthusiastic about the recognition you would bring. With your talent, you were going to be able to decode the most ancient, ciphered tomes and historical blueprints still kept secret by the government. Your future seemed set in stone: after years of deep studies, you would reach the Capital, join the elite research divisions, and serve the advancement of Earth-2, opening doors to unknown worlds with your mind.

But then it all went wrong.

Your father fell ill, a degenerative respiratory condition from years of inhaling stone dust, and he couldn't continue with his work as before. The less money he brought home, the less medical provisions you could afford. Medication at the local pharmacy seemed to get more expensive by the week, affecting both your parents' livelihoods. If your mother couldn't afford groceries, your father’s recovery couldn’t really catch up. Nor could you pay for high-end STAR Labs-grade healers or physicians.

There was only one painful but inevitable solution.

With a heavy heart, you gave up your studies at the advanced academy to find a job in the lower sector that could provide for your family. With the weight of your home on your shoulders, you served cheap ale and greasy stews at a dingy, underground casino-tavern, always with a forced smile, but crying inside.

You watched them all leave for the Capital—your childhood friends and their completely mediocre intellects. You grew colder and crueler, blaming fate or whoever weaved the miserable strings of life for what they did to you. They were out there, with their common degrees, mingling with other average minds, while you were a sparkling diamond forced to stay under the dirt.

Someone like you, able to decode and translate complex, lost algorithms and ancient inscriptions, had to spend your nights among drunkards who never knew when to keep their hands at bay. You deserved more than that. You were born for more than that. All that talent couldn't have gone to waste.

Always more isolated, your family started to grow worried. Lost in your thoughts, sneaking rare, specialized reference manuals from the local university archive into your bag, they believed you were going down a dark path. Who knew what kind of forbidden science you were studying, what kind of obscure, dangerous technology you were uncovering.

Darkness called to you, like a siren with her hypnotic song.

You were going to take your destiny into your hands. If life wasn't going to give you what you deserved, you were going to take it yourself. No matter what.

There was a certain allure to the forbidden, high-risk tech fields that you couldn't deny. The data logs you were learning to read on your own were so full of wonders and secrets. It didn't matter how exhausted you were; if you came home from the tavern at the break of dawn, you looked forward to hiding under your blankets with even a small flashlight to read your stolen tech-tomes.

Of course, you would return them, at some point.

Your parents never noticed them, or if they did, they never asked. There was so much out there—theories of singularity breaches, dark matter anomalies caged in the depths of theoretical physics. All with energy yields so absolute you couldn't begin to imagine them. Stories of the first grand engineers, of the quantum storms they tamed.

There was so much in this world, and you deserved to be a part of it. You deserved to have a piece of that power.

That night was particularly hectic at the tavern. You hated those kinds of nights, when dozens of failed tech-academy washouts and fired lab assistants reunited to drink and forget their missed opportunities. Disgraced soldiers retired after cybernetic injuries, former technicians who had served their time in municipal prisons after the city council found them guilty of taking advantage of their roles.

They were just the worst. They started the night already quite high, and by the end of your shift, even your clothes stenched of stale beer, cheap cigars, and sweat.

"Born to be a high-level scholar, forced to clean up after drunkards' vomit," you muttered, brushing the sticky floor hard, covering your nose from the disgusting smell.

"What was that, (Y/N)?!" your boss's voice came loudly booming from the kitchen.

"Nothing, nothing!" you groaned with annoyance.

"Get your ass back here! The high-stakes table asked for more top-shelf whiskey."

Of course they did. You made sure to keep that thought to yourself, but not for long. "Look, boss, are we sure we want to keep accommodating them? We are losing standard customers every time those corrupt high-rollers sit at the back table. Is it really worth it?!"

Your boss was an old, greasy man, short in height but full of rage. "Since when did I ask your opinion on business matters?! When I need the opinion of a vomit-cleaning maid, I will come to you! Now, off you go, and make sure I don't hear your voice for the rest of the evening!"

The unspeakable curses you swallowed burned your throat, but you knew better than crying, at least in that man's presence. You waited for when you were under your blankets, surrounded by your books, to cry over your misfortune.

"Are you still here?!"

"I'm going, I'm going." Your hand slightly shook when lifting the overfilled tray.

If you hadn't burned down that place yet, it was only because of the little money that kept your family going.

The smell of alcohol filled your nostrils and made you dizzy as soon as you stepped into the back room. The back room was the aisle reserved for illegal high-stakes gambling: the worst kind of men, usually addicted to card games, dice, and underground tech-speculation, spent their nights and their fortunes there. Whether it was cards, chips, or betting on illegal metahuman fight rings, those men would even bet on their lives. Many times they were left with nothing to offer and tried to drag you into their games—someone had even tried to put your body on the table as collateral, as if you were a good they could exchange.

As if you would ever give yourself to a loser like them.

"Here is the beauty of the house! Are you included in the luxury service, precious?" someone chanted as soon as you stepped in.

"Ah, ha, ha. Never heard that one before," you rolled your eyes, landing the heavy glasses on the table. "Bold of you to even ask for a luxury service when you haven't paid your bar tab from last week, sir."

The room boomed with a roar of laughter at your comeback.

Insulted in his pride, the man tugged hard at your apron, forcing you to bend down toward him. God, he reeked of cheap gin. "Listen here, precious. Shoot another of your smart comebacks at me, and I will make you pay for that mouth of yours, one way or another."

As if he could intimidate you.

You snatched back your apron firmly. "Sure thing, sir. As if you could ever afford my intellectual rate."

Now, a completely new sound surprised you.

A sharp, mocking, incredibly condescending laugh you had never heard before caught your attention among the others. Your eyes quickly scanned the table of loyal, vile customers, and immediately your heart skipped a beat.

Wow.

There was a man sitting there. He had never been here before; you were absolutely certain of it. You knew all those local fools by name, and this stranger was definitely a new entry.

God, what was a man like that doing in a dump like this?

He wore an impeccably tailored, dark, multi-layered leather jacket over a tailored vest. His sharp, handsome features were hardened by a deep, perpetual scowl. He had salt-and-pepper hair, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, behind which burned eyes of intense, piercing blue. He looked like an aristocrat who had taken a wrong turn into purgatory.

"She clearly has a sharper mind than anyone at this table," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly, authoritative rasp. He didn't pull a knife; instead, he casually tapped a high-tech, sleek metal stylus against his knuckles, pointing it toward your harasser. With a dark, terrifyingly cold snarl, he threatened, "I think you’ll want to think twice before speaking to the lady like that, you absolute troglodyte. Sit down before I make sure your credit score is the least of your worries."

You stood still like a salt statue. No one ever stood up for you, especially not like that—holding a room of dangerous drunks at bay with nothing but sheer, terrifying intellectual dominance and a menacing aura.

That stranger had awakened something dormant in you. A thirst for life that made your blood boil. His voice was a rich, baritone rasp, laced with a brilliant, cynical charm that made it impossible to forget. It was almost magnetic. His eyes were like those of a hawk.

A high-society scientist or tycoon, you were sure. No one had eyes that sharp or an attitude that arrogant in this miserable sector of the city. He was cynical, gleaming.

Wildly intelligent.

Everything about that man called to parts of you you believed dead for good. Beneath his pristine, expensive layers, you could see the broad set of his shoulders, the powerful build of a man who didn't just sit behind a desk, and the deliberate, rhythmic way his gloved fingers tapped against his glass.

The stranger took a sip of his neat whiskey, and your throat ran dry. The way his lips set into a firm line made your legs quiver.

"Are you going to stand there and analyze my facial structure much longer, my love?"

He didn't even look up from his data-tablet, yet he knew somehow.

Fuck.

With a start, you stepped back. "I'm not your love, asshole."

That low, raspy chuckle dug straight into your chest. "We will see about that."

Needless to say, you couldn't focus on anything for the rest of the night. Your boss noticed it—how you dropped plates, forgot orders, and misplaced tables. "What is wrong with you tonight?! God, you are so useless!"

What was wrong with you? You wished you knew. There was a man at the high-stakes table, among the worst scum you knew, who had gotten completely under your skin with just his voice. How dare he call you "my love"? How dare he make fun of you for staring at him? There had to be something you could do about your blushing cheeks.

"Hey, boss," you tried to sound casual, pretending you didn't want to go back to the back room, though you were secretly praying for them to order more drinks just so you could catch a glimpse of him. "Do you know who that guy is? The one in the leather jacket? I've never seen him here."

The short man peeked through the door and chuckled darkly. "Tsk. Is he actually back in the lower sectors? Harrison Wells."

So he knew him. Your boss made a greedy face, brushing his palms together. That wasn't a good sign.

"That man..." your boss pointed with his thumb, "...is Harrison Wells. Founder of STAR Labs. Genius, billionaire... and lately, one of the biggest stubborn losers in the high-end tech courts. He’s gambling away old asset permits because the board is breathing down his neck."

You curled your lips. Well, that was disappointing. So brilliant, so powerful, and yet a reckless gambler. He shouldn't be sitting at this table.

Now, you noticed something that those bunches of drunk pigs would never be able to decode. He was noting down his card points and mathematical strategies for the game in a highly complex, proprietary algorithmic shorthand—a hybrid language of advanced physics and encrypted code. It was a language you knew well, one you had decoded in your stolen academic books.

But god, was he losing tonight. Your boss was right; this brilliant, muscular, arrogant scientist had already bet and lost his custom engineered watch and his tailored overcoat, having no more liquid capital on his digital accounts to wager.

Every time you had to serve his table, you had to hold your breath to not get lost in his scent—expensive cologne, ozone, and rich leather. His piercing blue eyes always locked with yours, as if he perceived your exact trajectory before you even stepped into the room. And you couldn't resist them. The way he looked at you was... no, you didn't want to think about it. He was a cynical, arrogant gambler.

How could he even lose with such an easily mathematically solvable deck?

All night long, you wanted to try and do something—a test. Finally, when everyone was a bit too drunk to notice, you took your chance. As you set down his glass, you leaned in slightly, your eyes darting to his data-pad.

Using the exact verbal phonetics of his encrypted algorithm, you whispered a single, highly specific technical term directly into his ear: "Celeritas."

The moment you said that word, his head snapped up with whiplash speed. His blue eyes widened behind his glasses.

Bingo. You were right.

He must have thought he was completely losing his mind, or that the alcohol was finally causing him to hallucinate his own proprietary coding language in a dingy slum bar. But as shocked as he was, never taking his intense eyes off you, he subtly shifted his gaze to the cards in his hand. He realized what your hint meant, selected the optimal card based on the calculation you had just unlocked for him, and threw it firmly onto the table.

To the other players' utter discontent, Harrison Wells won.

And for the rest of the night, you played a dangerous game with him, cheating for him right under everyone's noses. He clearly understood the mathematics of gambling but was too distracted by his own brooding thoughts to read the tells of the local grifters. So, every time you brought over a fresh tray of drinks, you used his encrypted shorthand, whispering colors, numbers, and probabilities in a language only the two of you understood.

Slowly, the brilliant scientist won back his custom watch, his expensive overcoat, and started draining the other players' digital accounts. It had never happened before, causing the entire back room to crowd around to witness the unique event.

Why did you want this arrogant man to win? Maybe because his rare, genuine smirk freed all the butterflies in your stomach. Maybe because, for once, you had met an intellect that actually challenged your own. Or mostly, it was because you loved having his intense, possessive eyes on you—always scanning your frame whenever you turned your back, or tracking the lines of your collarbone whenever you bent over the table.

For the first time since you started working at the tavern, you wished your shift would never end.

But it did, as always. Your boss handed you your digital pay for the day—less than half of what your labor deserved, but better than nothing.

It was dark and chilly outside. You loved to feel the cold wind on your face after a suffocating night in the tavern. The dark of the night shielded you from your financial troubles, and the cold washed you clean of the grime. With your coat tucked under your arm, you slammed the heavy metal door open to leave for good, wincing at the obnoxious chime of the security bell on the doorframe.

At first, you didn't notice him, hidden deep in the shadows of the alleyway. But the moment the tail of your eye caught a tall, imposing silhouette in the corner, you gasped and jumped back.

"FUCK!" You almost dropped your bag from the sheer scare. "God, you scared the hell out of me!"

Yet, he didn't seem remotely apologetic. Harrison Wells was leaning against the brick wall, one foot propped against the stone, enhancing the powerful size of his thighs through his dark, tailored trousers. He was tossing a small, sleek metallic gadget between his gloved hands, his leather jacket pulled tight against the chill.

The man stretched out his arm, offering a high-end, sleek silver thermos flask. "Warm caffeine. You look like you need it."

At a loss for words, you didn't know how to react. If it were anyone else, you would have run away or drawn your defense taser, but with him... you felt an bizarre, magnetic pull of trust. You shouldn't have; your conscience was screaming at you. You don't talk to arrogant, disgraced billionaires who spend their nights gambling in slums and staring at you.

"No, I don't drink caffeine this late."

He shrugged, his scowl deepening in a way that was oddly charming. "Better for your nervous system, I suppose."

"What... what are you even doing here, Dr. Wells?"

In the dark, he looked incredibly intimidating, as if he belonged to the night—as if he were born from the very shadows of Central City. His sharp jawline, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the faint neon light, his looming stature... everything about him screamed authority, brilliance, and a dangerous edge.

And it called to you.

"What? A man can't enjoy the night air without being cross-examined by a brilliant bartender?" He loved to play intellectual games, his voice dripping with condescension.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "As if you haven't been cross-examining my anatomy all night from across the room."

Wells let out a low, raspy laugh, stepping out of the shadows. "God, you do have a silver tongue, don't you? Does that pretty, defiant mouth of yours ever get you into trouble?"

"More than you can possibly imagine."

He lifted an eyebrow, thoroughly intrigued, stepping closer. "And do you have a name to accompany that spectacular brain of yours?"

You swallowed hard. Never give your name to a stranger in a dark alleyway. But before your rational mind could stop you, your mouth had already given it off. "(Y/N)."

Harrison let the name roll over his lips, his voice deepening. "(Y/N). Fascinating."

"And you," you shot back, trying to steady your racing pulse. "Do you have an apology to accompany that massive ego, Dr. Wells?"

The scientist stopped, standing mere inches from you now. "You know exactly who I am."

"Your reputation precedes you. You really are terrible at reading baseline human bluffs at a card table."

He offered you his gloved hand, a sudden, surprising gesture of formal courtesy. "Harrison Wells."

You took his hand, and the sheer size and temperature difference made you weak at the knees. His strong, firm grip seemed to completely encompass yours, the leather of his glove warm against your skin.

"Wells," you murmured, looking up into his piercing blue eyes.

Harrison squeezed your hand, and taking advantage of the grasp, he reduced the remaining distance between the two of you, forcing you to lift your head fully to look at him.

"What does a girl who effortlessly decodes STAR Labs' most secure, proprietary encryption algorithms do in a sub-level tavern, serving drinks to lowlife gamblers?"

That confirmation almost made you want to gasp out loud. "So I was right. It was your personal quantum encryption shorthand."

Harrison looked genuinely surprised, though he was trying his absolute best to maintain his trademark stoic, unbothered expression. He was clearly failing.

"It's the first time I've met someone in this miserable sector who actually recognizes my advanced data models, let alone speaks the language fluently. How?"

And it was the first time for you that someone of his caliber truly acknowledged your talent. For you, it had just been a desperate, private study, but to him, it was a marvel. It was your uniqueness.

"My mind," you said softly, a sudden wave of vulnerability hitting you. "I have an innate aptitude for linguistics, structural cryptography, and advanced system tracking. I can read almost any data pattern, no matter how encoded."

Harrison took a slow, deep breath, his blue eyes darting down to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours. The proximity was intoxicating. You could feel your cheeks burning like bonfires in the crisp night air.

"I've never seen a mind like yours wasted in a place like this," he murmured, his raspy voice sending a jolt straight down your spine.

No one had ever looked at you with such intense, unadulterated intellectual appreciation, and now you were suddenly afraid you would annoy him by overexplaining. "Oh, it's... uh, well... the algorithms are just logical progressions, really. If you calculate the baseline frequency—"

Harrison stopped you, gently pressing a gloved finger directly against your lips. You halted, your breath catching instantly.

"I want you to tell me about it tomorrow... or has the environment finally dulled that sharp tongue of yours?" The effect he had on you was the closest thing you knew to being completely intoxicated. You felt light, floating above the pavement in his imposing presence. Your mind went entirely blank.

You started muttering, trying to regain your footing. "Oh, well... uh—" You nervously adjusted your coat. Did you look alright? Were you a complete mess after a twelve-hour shift? "My aptitude allows me to... break down any linguistic or digital barrier. All of them, actually. Advanced alien dialects, high-tier military encryptions, corrupted ancient mainframe codes... Your STAR Labs coding matrix is actually quite elegant compared to municipal firewalls, you know, and—"

Harrison moved his finger from your lips, his hand sliding down to cup your jawline with a sudden, fierce intensity. His thumb stroked your cheekbone. "Which brings me back to my first question. What is a girl like you doing in a tavern like this?" His blue eyes were burning into yours, digging beneath your skin. "Why are you not running a department at an elite research facility? Why are you not at STAR Labs?"

Ouch. Did he have to strike the exact nerve that ruined your life?

"Did I strike a chord?" Harrison tilted his head, his harsh expression shifting into something that looked dangerously like genuine concern.

You lowered your gaze, staring at his expensive leather vest, suddenly ashamed. "No. It's fine. I just... I can't afford the security clearance or the placement fees. I can't afford to be there."

Harrison remained silent, his hand lingering on your jaw, letting you continue.

"My family isn't doing well," you admitted, your voice cracking slightly. "My father is terribly ill from his years in the labor sectors, and the medical bills are drowning us. My mother does what she can, but we are barely staying afloat. I wanted to be a scientist. I did. I studied at the local tech academy for a while, but... my family needs immediate income and medication, Dr. Wells. Not textbooks and research theories."

Harrison hinted a very faint, complex smile, the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitching, but he didn't speak for a few heavy seconds.

"Next week, STAR Labs is hosting its annual elite recruitment and testing trials at the Capital facility," he said quietly, his gaze unwavering. "Come."

For a moment, you believed he was being intentionally dense. Had he not listened to a single word you just said? "I can't, Harrison! My family won't survive a week without my daily wages! And it would be a stupid, reckless waste of time. I don't have the high-society connections or the corporate funding. I would never be chosen, so—"

"If you are chosen," Harrison interrupted, his voice cutting through your panic with absolute authority, "your family will be provided with full corporate housing, premium medical care from my personal staff, and a stipend that will ensure they never have to worry about a single bill again. I pay my top researchers exceptionally well, (Y/N)."

At this point, the sheer overwhelming hope and fear made you want to pull away. It was too much. You turned your face to leave, but Harrison's grip tightened on your arm, pulling you back toward his chest with surprising, undeniable physical strength.

Too close. Too dangerous.

"What the hell are you doing?! Let go of me!" You lashed out, kicking his shin with your boot, but the impact barely made him flinch. Instead, a loud, genuine laugh rumbled from his chest—a sound that could have woken the quiet alleyway.

"And you say you don't have a fierce survival instinct?!" He had your wrist pinned gently but immovably against his broad chest. You could feel the rapid, powerful thudding of his heart beneath his layers. His chest was so solid, his presence so entirely dominating, that you couldn't help but stare up at him, breathless.

"You will be chosen, (Y/N)," Harrison said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakeable confidence.

"How can you possibly know that?!"

"Because you have a mind that I—that STAR Labs—cannot and will not afford to lose out on. The things you could decode, the advanced systems we could build together... Come to the Capital. Come to my labs."

You were completely lost in his eyes, in the deep, authoritative inflections of his voice, feeling the literal vibration of his words against your pinned wrist. "Why? Are you going to be there personally evaluating the candidates? Will you actually be at the testing trials?"

He smirked, a brilliant, arrogant expression, and reached up with his free hand to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. The gesture possessed a surprising, breathtaking gentleness that contrasted entirely with his gruff, brutal demeanor.

"Yeah. I’ll be attending."

What were you? A desperate, naive girl thinking about changing your entire life based on the word of a brilliant, cynical stranger you met in the dark? Yet, his intensity was so utterly compelling, and his body was looming over yours so invitingly. You noticed how his blue eyes had dropped completely to your lips, his chest rising and falling in heavy, deliberate breaths.

"Suddenly so quiet, (Y/N)?" Harrison pressed your frame slightly closer against his chest, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Where did all that fierce, brilliant dialogue go, huh?"

Where had your self-control gone? You had absolutely no idea. The proximity to Harrison Wells—a powerful, wealthy man from the upper echelons of the city who had just single-handedly reignited your dying dreams—was making your blood run entirely hot. All of your instincts were screaming. You were starved for this, starved for him. You wanted to hear him say your name over and over in that rough, commanding cadence.

The physical reality of his massive build compared to yours completely stole all logic from your mind. Your body was reacting to him with a feral intensity; since the first moment he had stood up for you at that table, he had unlocked a primitive need within you.

"You're still analyzing me, (Y/N)," Harrison murmured, his thumb lifting your chin slightly. "My eyes are up here."

Your lips felt incredibly dry. "I could say the exact same about you, Dr. Wells. You’ve been tracking my vitals all night."

"Mhm," he hummed, a low, vibratory sound in his throat. "Dropping the formal title already? Who gave you permission to look at me like that, my love?"

Your cheeks set entirely ablaze, a deep, heavy warmth blooming rapidly between your thighs, your pulse throbbing wildly in your ears every time his gravelly voice vibrated against you.

"I don't need anyone's permission to do anything, Harrison."

Harrison took a sharp, deep breath, every single muscle in his powerful frame tightening visibly. A dark, possessive growl escaped his throat, and he suddenly cupped both sides of your face with his large hands.

"Let’s see how well that spectacular mouth of yours handles real pressure."

Chapter 4: The Eclipse of Reason

Harrison devoured your lips.

He invaded your mouth with a bruising, desperate intensity, letting out a low, rough moan when he found your lips instantly parting, completely ready to return the kiss. You kissed him back out of pure, unadulterated instinct, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his heavy leather jacket, pulling him down to you. God, he tasted like expensive whiskey, winter air, and pure, intoxicating dominance. You almost fell to your knees right there in the dirt. His kiss was wild, demanding, brilliant, and brutal.

"You are so remarkably good at this," he panted heavily against your lips, before plunging right back in, capturing your mouth again with an overwhelming hunger. He knew exactly how to command your body, and the sheer thought of it made your mind fracture.

"Mark me," you breathed out frantically between desperate gasps for air. "My neck... Harrison, please."

Harrison kept your face locked firmly in his large hands, as if he were terrified you would vanish into the night if he let go. He pressed his lips hard against your jawline, his sharp teeth grazing your skin to make sure he wasn't hurting you, but finding nothing but absolute, burning compliance from you.

You wanted it; nothing he did could possibly hurt.

Harrison buried his face deep into the crook of your neck, where your skin was thin and sensitive, sending a massive, electric shiver straight down your spine, making your toes curl inside your boots.

"Fuck, Harrison," you whined, arching into his touch.

"Do you like that?" he rasped fiercely against your heated skin, his teeth biting down just hard enough to sting, leaving a deep, dark mark before instantly soothing it with a hot, heavy lick of his tongue. "Do you like knowing you belong to my department now? Knowing you're mine?"

You nodded frantically, completely in a trance. Having his mark—the literal, physical proof of Harrison Wells's possession—made your core ache with a desperate, throbbing wetness. Your entire body was on fire. Just from his touch, thin trails of electric heat were flowing straight down your thighs. Not just anyone, but him. This brilliant, cynical titan of science had appeared out of nowhere, sent by the universe to drag you out of the mud. He was your destiny; that was the only logical conclusion your brain could find for letting go so entirely with a man you had just met.

You wanted him. All of him.

"I want you," your moan was a desperate sob against his ear, making Harrison's entire upper body shudder, his fists clenching tight against your coat.

"Say that again, (Y/N)," his low, commanding baritone echoed against your skin, and you wrapped your arms tightly around his broad shoulders, burying your fingers deep into his thick, salt-and-pepper hair.

"I want you, Harrison. Right now."

That must have been the exact signal he was waiting for.

Because Harrison bent down instantly, his large, powerful hands wrapping fully around your hips, giving your thighs a rough, possessive squeeze before lifting you completely off the ground. After locking your legs tightly around his waist, he leaned you back against the alley wall, looking at you straight in the eyes.

A brilliant hunter with his perfect prey.

"Good. Because I have been calculating exactly how to ruin you all night long."

Harrison Wells was a man of absolute data and sharp instinct. He trusted his calculations, and tonight, his gut told him he had just uncovered the most valuable asset in the city. Ever since he had stepped into that low-tier tavern, ready to recklessly gamble away minor patents out of pure, frustrated spite, he knew he wouldn't be leaving empty-handed.

The moment he saw you, his primeval awareness had locked in. He was an apex mind, and you were his perfect intellectual and physical match. Your defiance, your sharp, mocking replies, everything about your brilliant rudeness was utterly intoxicating to him. And god knew how hard he had struggled all night to hide the intense, tightening ache in his trousers every single time you walked past his table.

How your smooth skin caught the dim light of the bar, how the curve of your chest made him absolutely starve. The perfect shape of your frame filling those cheap garments was mesmerizing; how many hands of cards had he lost simply because his mind was entirely consumed, watching you walk away just to catch a glimpse of your movement? But there were far too many layers of fabric for his liking. Thank goodness he was an expert at dismantling complex systems.

As he held you against the wall, his strong fingers dug deeply into your hips, anchoring you to him as you whimpered into his mouth.

"Oh, yeah? You want me to take you?" Repeating your own desperate desires back to you made you fully confront the reality: Harrison Wells was going to take you, and the anticipation was feverish. You couldn't wait another second. Every single heavy, deliberate step Harrison took as he carried you toward the back entrance of the building—where his private, high-end transport vehicle was parked in the secure lot—made your heart flutter violently.

Confidently, Harrison didn't miss a single step, his lips never leaving your jaw, biting and tasting you as he walked.

"Mhm, mhm," he confirmed against your skin, his grip unyielding. "I wouldn't dream of leaving this sector without making you mine first."

Harrison noticed exactly how his commanding words affected you. Your garments were soaked from your own burning desire, so entirely that the heat of your core was radiating straight through his clothing. "So desperate for me already, and I haven't even uncovered you yet? You don't seem so bossy now, do you, (Y/N)?"

It wasn't your fault; it was entirely his. You had never met an intellect or a presence that made you succumb to absolute lust so completely. For all you knew, he could be the most ruthless, cynical corporate tyrant in the Capital, but it didn't matter. Your brain was entirely fogged by desire; your entire body ached for him. Your chest was crushed tightly against his broad pectorals, your nipples hardening to points of painful sensitivity just from the heavy friction of his vest, sending jolts of pure electricity through your nerves. Your thighs were numb, and your core... well, you were trying to maintain a shred of decency to keep from begging him to fill you right then and there.

Harrison kicked open the door to his private, sleek transport vehicle. The heavy, soundproof door slid open smoothly, and he didn't care about anything other than tossing you onto the luxurious, wide leather seating in the back.

"Harrison..." you gasped out, instantly stretching your arms back out for him, needing his massive, solid weight back on top of you, needing his scent to completely overtake your senses again.

Harrison stood over the seat for a fraction of a second, quickly unbuttoning his heavy leather jacket and casting it aside onto the floorboards. A visible, translucent dampness from your own heat was visible against his dark shirt.

"Look at what you're doing to my focus, you brilliant, reckless distraction," he rasped out, his chest heaving.

Hungrily, you reached for his trousers, your trembling fingers trying to undo the secure fasteners and belt that separated you from absolute pleasure. While you scrambled with the knots, Harrison stripped off his shirt, leaving your mouth dry and your eyes entirely glazed.

"You are so incredibly handsome," the words left your lips as if you were completely hypnotized. His abdomen was remarkably defined, hard to the touch, and his broad, powerful chest was coated in a thin layer of dark hair.

"Take your clothes off. Right now," Harrison commanded, his voice a low, rough sigh, his chest rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. He wanted this just as much as you did.

You didn't let him repeat himself. The moment your top came undone and your chest was fully revealed to his gaze, Harrison let out a low, ragged groan.

"Fuck."

His remaining garments disappeared from sight, making you fully aware of the massive, thick length of his erection. You had had partners in your past, sure—you had never complained—but this... there was no physical way that could comfortably fit inside you. And yet, your pulsing, desperate core was aching for the challenge.

"Harrison... you're so big," you licked your lips, watching him grip the base of his length, stroking it once, his veiny shaft glistening in the dim, blue ambient light of the transport.

Shivers spread rapidly across your center. His large, calloused hand could barely circle the thick girth of his rock-hard length. Droplets of precum glistened on the heavy head, leaking down the veiny, powerful shaft. Harrison stood proud of his build, completely aware of his dominance; he was born to command, that was clear as day.

It was so clear that it turned you into a breathless, staring mess. Speechless, a tangle of clothes and soft purrs, you welcomed Harrison Wells—the cynical genius who had utterly entranced you—between your legs. His large hands tore into your remaining undergarments, ripping them apart with raw, unbridled physical force.

"Let me see you. Let me see exactly how much you want this," Harrison growled out, lifting your legs high, pushing your knees straight up toward your chest, exposing your slick, gleaming center entirely to his view.

He exhaled a deep, heavy sigh, the warm breath sending a ghost of a breeze over your soaked sex. Like a soft rain over a burning fire.

Harrison took his time to admire your naked form. After trying to calculate and imagine it all night through your cheap tavern uniform, his hyper-analytical mind could have never done justice to the absolute perfection you were. The firm, beautiful shape of your chest, how perfectly they filled his hands as he reached down to cup them, your sensitive nipples, and the way you instantly squirmed the moment his rough thumbs flicked over them. Your hips and waist were completely perfect for his hands to anchor onto; he made sure to give them a bruising, heavy squeeze as he pulled you directly underneath his massive frame, asserting his absolute dominance over your body.

And then, your core.

"This belongs to me now," he growled out, towering over you, pulling your legs up to rest securely over his broad, powerful shoulders.

Drunk on his piercing gaze, you nodded frantically. "Yes... yes."

"Yeah? Is this brilliant little piece of anatomy all mine, (Y/N)?" He cocked his eyebrows, his scowl twisting into a wicked, triumphant expression, mockingly imitating the absolute, desperate look of need on your face. "Say it. I want that sharp, arrogant mouth of yours to explicitly state that you belong to me now."

There was something in the absolute authority with which he commanded you that turned your brain into complete, unthinking mush. His sternness, the magnetic, gravelly tone of his voice, his massive, dominating size...

"It's yours, Harrison. It's all yours. Just please..." You bit your lip hard. You were begging? You were actually begging now? What had this cynical scientist done to you to reduce your brilliant mind to a pleading, submissive mess?

A wicked, brilliant grin spread across his lips, and Harrison pushed himself slowly against your entrance, his immense physical weight completely crushing any remaining resistance you possessed.

"Please... what? What were you trying to say, (Y/N)?" The heavy head of his length nudged firmly against your opening with a slick, wet sound.

You tilted your head back, fighting with the absolute last ounce of self-control you had left, but your center completely surrendered when Harrison reached down and stroked your swollen clit with his thumb. His length was ready to penetrate you, and his hand was playing ruthlessly with your bud; if your legs weren't pinned securely over his broad shoulders, you would have kicked them straight into the air.

Harrison made slow, heavy circles around your wet, swollen center, and the intense stimulation was a complete trap for your body. Through your growing, louder moans, you felt his length finding a seamless, easy access inside you. Your muscles were loosening, yielding. God, Harrison knew exactly how to dismantle a human body's defenses.

And the sudden, burning thought of his brilliant, dominant mind completely consuming you made you burn with a desperate desire to satisfy him.

Now, he didn't stop ruthlessly adjusting your center as he leaned down, biting your collarbone fiercely, whispering into your ear, "Please... what? Say it. Show me exactly how unrefined that wicked mouth can be under real pressure."

Harrison reached up, capturing your mouth and choking out your loud moan with a deep, punishing kiss. His light stubble was grazing your skin; everywhere his lips touched, your skin felt entirely on fire. "Are you only good at giving smart comebacks to bar patrons? You keep bragging about your intellect, but until now, I've only tasted complete desperation from you. Are you really going to beg me to take you, huh? Is that what you were trying to say?"

You were on the absolute verge of tears, starved for Harrison as if your entire survival depended on his powerful body taking yours. You needed his touch, as rough and commanding as he could possibly be. You needed to disappear completely underneath him, to be utterly conquered by his mind and his strength. You had never wanted anyone as much as you wanted this arrogant man.

"Harrison... please," you sobbed out, cupping his jaw with your hand. He followed the movement, his lips curling into a dark smirk.

"What a good, compliant little researcher you are. I'll offer you a deal."

A deal? If there was trouble, you were far too late to escape it now.

"What... what do you want?" your voice was a breathless sob.

"You. I want your mind, and I want your body."

"I don't understand..."

"If you beg me to take you right now, you are mine. You will belong to my labs, you will belong to my personal team, and this spectacular, soaking center of yours will belong exclusively to my length."

Whatever his terms meant, it was exactly what your entire body was screaming for. Did he want to claim you? Were you going to be his personal, private obsession? You should have reflected on it—on the professional consequences, on the corporate conditions—but how could you possibly calculate anything when a man like Harrison Wells was devouring your chest, filling his mouth with your soft flesh, nibbling and sucking your nipples until you were screaming?

"Take me!" it finally escaped your throat in a desperate cry. "I am yours, Harrison!"

Chapter 5: The Experiment of Excess

A hard, incredibly deep thrust filled you to the absolute point of choking you.

Harrison pounded his way entirely inside you with a brutal, rapid surge that made your pubic bones clash violently against his, his mass smacking hard against your hips. His length reached so impossibly deep inside you that you gasped for air, while a low, guttural roar ripped from his chest. Your center stretched all at once to accommodate his massive size, your muscles wrapping tightly around his throbbing shaft, squeezing him with an intense, iron grip.

Harrison didn't take his piercing blue eyes off you for a single second, a triumphant smile spreading across his face upon seeing you finally getting exactly what you had begged for. He stayed still for a moment; for as rough as his initial penetration had been, he still possessed the analytical awareness to realize how incredibly big he was for you, waiting a few agonizing seconds for your body to adjust to his thickness.

You reached up, grabbing a fistful of his salt-and-pepper hair.

"You are mine now," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper, like a binding corporate contract signed in the dark.

Harrison was entirely inside you, his massive length throbbing heavily against your walls, his head already nudging a deep, sensitive spot that no one had ever uncovered before. You moaned his name again, and he grabbed your wrist, pinning it firmly above your head against the leather seating. He kissed you deeply, entwining his long fingers with yours.

That kiss was suddenly different—less brutal, less purely carnal. He kissed you as if he...

No, you couldn't be that stupid. You didn't even know him. You knew nothing about his personal life on Earth-2. There were no strings attached whatsoever. This was just a mutual release, an intense reaction, but just casual. Nothing else, right?

His slow, passionate, burning kiss seemed to argue otherwise. But the moment he began to shift his hips, you forgot how to think entirely.

In and out of your body, Harrison began to slowly pound into you. He moved so deliberately that he made you absolute die in anticipation for the next thrust, yet deep and rough enough to make you scream out loud against his mouth.

"Now that is a frequency I like hearing from you," he rasped.

His sharp teeth were once again on your neck, right beneath your jawline, marking you ruthlessly. Harrison was leaving a literal collar of marks against your skin. The absolute contrast between the shattering pleasure of his length in your center and the sharp sting of his teeth on your skin sent you into a complete spiral. Your free fingers dug into his broad, muscular shoulders.

"Faster," you moaned into his ear, completely losing your mind. "Harrison, faster."

And faster he went.

Harrison panted and growled out loud; he wasn't the kind of man to keep his pleasure silent or contained. On the contrary, he possessed absolutely no restraint when it came to groaning out loud at what your tight, squeezing walls were doing to his length. Every single thrust was faster than the last, the wet, smacking sound of your bodies and the slippery, heavy friction of his shaft proof of how completely your fluids were mixing together. His precum mixed with your slick heat, dripping onto the luxurious leather sheets, which were already drenched in sweat.

"You like it like this, don't you, sweetheart? Is this velocity fast enough for your desperate little center?" Harrison smirked even through his heavy growls, completely unbothered when your nails scratched sharply down his bare, muscular back.

"You are an arrogant piece of shit," you managed to cry out, his immense weight and deep thrusts knocking the literal air out of your lungs.

"You have absolutely no idea," Harrison growled, squeezing your chest hard as he continued to drill into you.

If he kept pounding at that depth, you were certain he was going to break you completely in half, but your body felt as if it had been perfectly engineered for his length. He was molding you to his exact shape, and you just couldn't get enough of the gravelly sound of his voice—of knowing that you, a simple tavern worker from the lower sectors, were driving the great Harrison Wells entirely insane.

"Where the hell have you been hiding that spectacular mind until tonight?" He finally arched his back as your nails dug deeper into his shoulders, your question catching him completely off guard.

You wanted him. You wanted to ruin his composure completely. "Tell me I'm yours, Harrison."

Every word coming out of your mouth was nearly incomprehensible with pleasure.

"You're mine. You are completely, scientifically mine," he growled out, every single word accompanied by a devastating, deep thrust.

That was all you needed to know. You were his to command.

"I want to ride you, Wells. Let me get on top."

He barely let you finish the sentence before his large hands were firmly on your hips, gripping you tightly and rolling over on the wide leather seat. Harrison held your frame stable, and now that you were sitting completely astride his thick, powerful thighs—observing his broad torso coated in a shiny layer of sweat—you fully realized how remarkably massive he was compared to you. Your entire frame could practically fit onto just one of his powerful legs. His wide chest spread across the seating, looming large beneath you.

Harrison crossed his massive, muscular arms beneath his head, rocking his hips upward with a sudden, heavy jerk that made you bounce violently on his shaft.

"You said you wanted to ride me, (Y/N). Are you all talk, or are you going to show me your data?"

God, what an absolute bastard he was. You wanted him to completely destroy you.

That arrogant, challenging sneer on his handsome face made you grip his length—slick with your combined fluids—and guide him directly back to your opening. It was incredibly heavy in your hand, throbbing with intense heat. A part of your mind, the most irrational, pleasure-drunk part, almost wanted to lean down and taste him instead—to take that massive, veiny shaft into your mouth, to discover exactly how much of him you could swallow before choking, to see the great Harrison Wells crumble completely from your lips.

But Harrison had entirely different plans for your body. With another sudden, upward thrust of his powerful hips, he buried his length fully inside your center.

The loud, gasping whimper you let out made him let out a dark chuckle.

"Now that is the data I was looking for." He watched you lose your very last crumb of sanity as you collapsed forward onto his broad chest. His length drilled straight up against your deep walls, creating a visible, pulsing heat in your core, touching nerves no one had ever come close to unlocking. Looking for stability, your hands gripped his solid pectorals, your tongue peeking out slightly in pure, unadulterated bliss.

Harrison didn't miss the chance; he leaned up, capturing your tongue with his own, mockingly whispering against your lips, "You look completely intoxicated by my length, sweetheart. Do you like being dominated like this?"

With his rough, cruel fingers, he reached down between your bodies, finding your swollen clit and stroking it ruthlessly, even as his hips kept up a steady, devastating upward pulse.

"Huh? Do you like being used like this? Look at your face. Look at how helpless you are for me."

The wet slickness of your pleasure was being rubbed fiercely by Harrison's thumb, spurting over his dark hair, his heavy thrusts reaching deep into your womb. Like an absolute predator claiming his match.

"Ngh... Harri... son..."

A completely new, terrifying energy was building rapidly inside you—an electric current that spread across your thighs and shot straight up your spine.

"Yeah? Are you close to maximum yield? Are you going to release for me?"

You nodded your head frantically, your eyes literally seeing stars in the dim light. With every single deep, upward thrust he slammed into your center, his powerful thighs slapped hard against your frame, the heavy, wet friction of sweat melting your skins together. If he kept drilling at this exact pace and depth, you were going to pass out from the sheer magnitude of it. You ground your hips down against him, desperate to absorb every single millimeter of his length.

That sudden take of charge made Harrison let out a loud, ragged moan. Your tight walls twitched violently when his rough voice reached your ears.

"That's it... that's a good girl, keep grinding... fuck."

Inside you, his massive length throbbed heavily, expanding even further as his own release neared. Harrison's shaft was growing impossibly harder. He tilted his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, entirely lost in the pure, unbridled lust of your tight walls clenching around him. Your body was literally sucking him in and out, the lewd, wet sounds of suction proof of how entirely addicted your bodies had become to one another.

"Ha... Harrison... I'm going to—"

Harrison didn't open his eyes, but his large hands instantly locked onto your hips, anchoring you down with an iron grip, making it completely impossible for you to escape his next movement.

"Release on my length, fuck!" he roared out loudly, suddenly rocking his hips upward with maximum velocity, driving himself into you as hard as he humanly could. "Give it to me, ugh!"

Your climax blossomed inside you like a literal supernova. The spark ignited deep in your center, a liquid, blinding light exploding behind your eyelids as you briefly lost all consciousness. You came harder than you had ever conceived possible. Your legs went entirely rigid, your back arching violently as if you had been struck by a literal bolt of lightning. Your tight center exploded around Harrison's length, contracting, twitching, spasming in massive waves.

Instantly, Harrison was there to catch you, his powerful arms wrapping around your frame and pulling you down hard against his chest, the movement driving his length even deeper into your pulsing core.

"HARRISON!" you screamed out, your senses entirely invaded by the scent of rich leather, ozone, and sweat radiating from his skin. His hot, ragged breath collided violently against your neck as you completely vanished into his massive embrace.

And he kept ruthlessly pumping his length inside you, ensuring he stole every single lingering wave of your orgasm. When his brutal pace finally slowed, his breathing entirely ragged and unsteady, your head was spinning in circles.

"Where do you want my release, (Y/N)? Answer me quickly before I fill your core," he panted out heavily.

His. You wanted to be entirely filled by him. "In my mouth," you hiccuped out, completely unthinking. "Harrison, please."

Harrison remained entirely silent for a fraction of a second, his analytical brain making sure he had heard you correctly through the heat of the moment. Did you actually just say you wanted his release in your mouth? Had his ears not deceived him?

"Say it again."

"Let me taste your release, Harrison. I want all of it."

With absolute, dominant arrogance, he lifted your hips off his length, your body glazing his shaft as you slid off. Your core leaked your thick, creamy release straight down his thigh, and with a heavy sigh of relief, your body was freed from his massive size. You felt entirely empty the moment he was gone, already completely addicted to his presence and his shape.

You lay back against the edge of the leather seating, your legs wide and completely trembling, while Harrison knelt over you, jerking his thick length at absolute maximum speed. The wet, heavy friction made him look completely aching to release. His head was down, focused, his brow deeply furrowed, his broad chest heaving in short, ragged gasps. You could tell he was on the absolute precipice just by how tight his frame had become.

"Will you belong to my labs?" he growled out beneath his breath, giving a devastatingly hard stroke to his glistening head. "Will you be mine?"

"I'll be yours," you nodded weakly, ready to take all of him. Whatever his terms were, you wanted them. You wanted to be completely ruined by this arrogant titan of industry. There was a definitive line in your life now: before Harrison Wells, and after Harrison Wells. You knew the second he had first kissed you that no other mind or man would ever compare. How could anyone possibly compete with that intellect, that stamina, that sheer physical dominance?

"No one touches me like you do," your body spoke the absolute truth for you; your rational brain had long since shut down.

That honest confession erupting from your lips made Harrison completely shudder. Without ceasing his rapid pace, his large hand reached out, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling you firmly toward his lap.

"Take it. Open that beautiful mouth for me," he commanded roughly, your lips instantly meeting the heavy, salty scent of his length. "Take it."

You obeyed completely. The dark, swollen head of Harrison's length caressed your lips and your tongue, and the scorching contact made him completely explode. Harrison leaned over your frame, his hand holding your head perfectly stable as he released his massive load. With your eyes locked onto his handsome, strained face, you watched him hiss and roar out loud.

"Fuu... unf... Fuck!" he let out a loud, beastly, deep growl.

Suddenly, your mouth was entirely filled with a thick, burning liquid. The sheer volume of Harrison's seed was staggering. How long had he been keeping all that tension locked away? And you had unlocked it—this was all your doing, the direct result of your brilliant, intoxicating effect on him. His length throbbed heavily against your lips, shooting thick ropes of heat over your tongue. He tasted like rich whiskey, intense heat, and absolute satisfaction.

Harrison kept your head held down firmly until you had swallowed every single drop of his release. He let out a long, deep sigh, finally releasing his grip and collapsing backward against the wide leather seating.

Before you could move, his powerful arm reached out, dragging your trembling frame directly onto his broad chest. He swallowed hard, running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. Regaining his trademark analytical lucidity, he ran the tips of his long fingers gently down your bare back.

"Are you intact, (Y/N)?"

You lifted your head from his chest, nodding weakly.

"Did you actually swallow all of that?" Harrison seemed genuinely surprised by the data, as if his calculations hadn't factored in your absolute compliance.

"Well, obviously. That's why I asked for it, Dr. Wells."

Harrison let out a low, breathless sound, throwing his forearm over his eyes. He was completely exhausted, thoroughly relieved, and utterly consumed by you. That brilliant, defiant mouth of yours was going to be his absolute ruin, he knew it.

Reaching up, he cupped your cheeks and pulled you into a deep, slow kiss, savoring his own taste still lingering on your lips. It was a soft, possessive kiss—exactly what you both needed after entirely losing your minds to one another.

"You are a remarkably dangerous distraction, (Y/N). Where did you learn to challenge a man like that, huh?" He gave your hip a playful, heavy squeeze as he pulled a luxurious blanket over both of your frames, shifting onto his side. "Do your stolen tech manuals detail how to completely dismantle a billionaire's focus?"

You hid a soft laugh, your fingers tracing the hard, powerful lines of his abdominal muscles. "I have a natural aptitude for complex systems, remember?"

Harrison's blue eyes darkened instantly, his playful smirk vanishing in an instant before he crashed back onto your mouth, pinning your frame beneath his imposing weight once more. He kissed you with slow, burning, deliberate finality, never taking his eyes off yours as he fought the roaring urge to claim you all over again.

"You are mine now. Understand?"

Would it have ruined the perfect atmosphere if you asked exactly what that meant for your employment contract? You really didn't care. A deep part of your mind knew he was entirely right. You would be looking for his intensity, his brilliance, in every single room you ever walked into for the rest of your life. Harrison Wells had completely claimed you.

"Only mine to evaluate..." Harrison murmured, his lips tracing down your jawline. "...only mine to touch..." He leaned down, his lips brushing against your chest. "...only mine to employ... to ruin." He stopped his lips right above your waistline, his hot breath hovering over your skin.

Biting your lip, you were already waiting for the feeling of his lips moving lower, his mouth so impossibly close.

"Jerk," you whispered out when he cruelly crawled back up to your face, a triumphant, mocking smirk on his lips.

He let out a low chuckle. "Ready for another round of testing, huh? Did you appreciate my methodology that much?"

You nodded, your fingers scratching gently against his light stubble. "I've never experienced an evaluation like that."

Harrison gave your hips a firm, possessive squeeze, nudging his nose against yours. "You can say that out loud to the entire board, my love."

Chapter 6: The Calculation of Departure

Harrison Wells snored.

Not that it surprised you that a gruff, blunt man like him would maintain his unrefined demeanor even in his sleep; what surprised you was that the low, rhythmic rumble of his breathing actually woke you up. You had completely forgotten that you had even drifted off to sleep.

He was sleeping like an absolute baby—a brilliant general proud of a hard-won victory. His massive bicep was tucked beneath his head, one hand resting heavily over his abdomen, one powerful knee propped up to hold the tangled blanket in place.

When you woke up, you were still completely bare, a sudden shiver running over your skin as the sweat cooled in the transport's air-conditioned interior. You must have fallen asleep together after the sheer exhaustion took over; you were both incredibly sore. You were so physically aching that even shifting your weight on the leather seats caused a sharp pang. God, that man had completely taken you apart; your thighs were literally twitching from muscle cramps.

You looked at him for a long moment. He looked remarkably handsome when he wasn't scowling at the world. His chest rose and fell in deep, peaceful breaths, a rare, dreamless serenity settling over his sharp features.

But you couldn't stay the night. What would your tavern boss say if he saw you arriving for the morning prep shift with one of his highest-paying corporate customers, especially in the physical condition you were currently in? What would your parents think if you didn't return to the lower sector house before daylight?

It was just a physical reaction, you firmly reminded yourself. You didn't know this man's corporate secrets. You didn't know his daily operations. No strings attached—just spectacular, breath-taking, completely unforgettable intimacy.

When you gathered your clothes from the floorboards, you realized they were a complete disaster—entirely torn apart by his bare hands. Then, your eyes caught something glittering in the dim, blue console light of the transport.

You glanced back quickly, ensuring Harrison hadn't stirred from your footsteps against the vehicle's flooring, and peeked inside his open leather briefcase on the opposite seat.

There lay a sleek, silver corporate badge—an elite executive pass with an embossed emblem. A stylized STAR Labs logo. That was his literal crown jewel. Beneath it, far more practically interesting, lay a thick, encrypted digital ledger sachet containing the bearer-bonds and gold tokens he had just won back from the tavern grifters.

So much wealth. What did a billionaire need a physical asset sachet for anyway? He had explicitly stated he was heading back to the STAR Labs Capital facility for the elite recruitment trials. And he had explicitly commanded you to join him.

It was then that a brilliant, calculating thought entered your mind.

You had single-handedly helped him win that wealth back. In fact, if it wasn't for your cryptographic aptitude, he wouldn't have walked out of that tavern with a single dime. That meant a significant percentage of that wealth was technically yours by consulting right, wasn't it?

When Harrison Wells woke up the following morning, he was entirely alone in the back of his transport. For a fraction of a second, his analytical mind believed last night had been a vivid, chemical hallucination. The most beautiful, brilliant dream he had ever processed.

But your scent was entirely covering the leather interior—your sweet, distinct aroma filled the vehicle. Yet, you were nowhere to be found. Not that he expected a high-society breakfast served to him, but it was the absolute first time in his life that someone had run away from him in the middle of the night after an encounter. Usually, he was the one leaving the data logs and departing.

You were an unending series of surprises. Arrogant, fiercely clever, the absolute best partner he had ever calculated, and a literal runaway. Weren't you just a spectacular catch?

His elite intuition was never incorrect, and it instantly guided his eyes to his open briefcase.

With a loud, booming, "HA!" Harrison Wells burst into a massive fit of laughter, seeing that every single gold token and bearer-bond had completely vanished from his ledger. In their place, resting neatly inside the silver sachet, was a small scrap of parchment.

The ink was barely dry, written in his own proprietary cryptographic shorthand. It read:

I'm terribly sorry, Dr. Wells. I simply extracted my fair consulting fee. I suppose I will see you at the STAR Labs testing trials next week. Do not forget your promise. You truly possess the most magnificent asset I have ever evaluated. See you at the Capital, Harrison.

You clearly had absolutely no variable calculation for the sheer magnitude of trouble you had just gotten yourself into.

Harrison crumpled the piece of parchment in his gloved hand, stuffing it securely into his vest pocket—a physical data point to keep your presence close—and went about his morning, a wide, dangerous smirk breaking across his handsome face.

"Oh, you will see, my love," Harrison muttered darkly to the empty car, his eyes gleaming with intense anticipation. "I will be waiting right at the finish line."

Harry discovered the earring on a Tuesday. It was caught tightly beneath the heavy metal leg of a stool right near his main workstation. Harry picked it up, rolling the cool metal over in his fingers to inspect it—a small, silver paw print. It was tiny, delicate, and immediately recognizable. Yours. 

Of course it was. Nobody else at S.T.A.R. Labs wore enough silver jewelry to single-handedly supply a small country. With a quiet sigh, Harry slipped the earring into his top desk drawer. You'd eventually realize it was missing... probably. Maybe. Hopefully. Some small, deeply buried part of him secretly wanted the praise for finding it; he wanted to see that sudden, bright light in your eyes when he told you it was safe.

But you didn't ask. Three days passed, then five, then an entire week. The silver earring remained nestled in Harry's drawer, seemingly forgotten by its owner, though Harry found himself checking to see if it was still there every single morning.

Then, the bracelet appeared. Harry found it hanging carelessly from the arm of a chair in the cortex. A week later, it was a ring left by the sink. Then a layered necklace.

Then, somehow, an entire black leather glove. Harry wasn't entirely sure how one human being managed to lose this many personal belongings, but more importantly, he wasn't sure why he always ended up being the one to find them. It was becoming a distinct pattern, and it was one that irritated him deeply.

"(Y/N)," Harry's sharp voice cut through the hum of the cortex.

"Hm?" you hummed lazily without looking up. You were lying flat on your back, halfway on the main computer console and halfway off it, one arm draped over your eyes as you lightly napped.

You wore a cropped Kansas City Chiefs football jersey, your matching red leather micro-skirt practically disappearing beneath it whenever you shifted, leaving a hint of lavender fabric on full display. Definitely a lavender bra. 

Cisco was actively working around your resting body as if this were a perfectly normal occurrence, which, frustratingly, it was. Harry stood there, his eyes tracking the soft curve of your waist, liking the way your body ached for his attention so much that he completely forgot to speak.

"What?" you asked, peering out from under your arm and snapping him right out of his sudden trance.

Harry cleared his throat, holding up the silver bracelet between his fingers. Immediately, your eyes lit up. "Oh!"

"You've been looking for this?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing.

"For weeks," you nodded, sitting up.

Harry stared at you, incredulous. "Weeks."

"Yeah."

"Then why didn't you just ask if anyone had seen it?"

You offered a careless shrug. "I figured it'd show up eventually."

Harry looked genuinely offended by your lack of order. "You lost an entire bracelet."

"I lose lots of things," you countered easily.

"Clearly," Harry muttered.

"She's lost three entire phones," Cisco chimed in, looking up from his computer screen with a grin.

"I found two of them!" you defended, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"You found one of them inside your freezer," Cisco reminded you dryly.

You pointed at him again, completely unbothered. "Which means I found it."

Harry closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You know, for a literal thief, I'm genuinely surprised you don't lose things at the actual places you rob."

"Hey!" you shouted, suddenly executing a flawless, casual back handspring right off the console without disturbing a single nearby object or making a single sound. "I am very good at my job."

Harry didn't hear a single word you just said. He was so busy rewatching the fluid, breathtaking physics of your movement in his mind that the rest of the room completely faded away. "Huh?"

"Pay attention," you murmured, stepping directly into his space and lightly cupping his face in your hands, forcing his blue eyes to lock onto yours. If anyone else in the multiverse had dared to touch him like this, he would have completely lost his mind.

But under the gentle pressure of your slim fingers, Harry nearly melted like ice. He felt a sudden, heavy throb ignite in his jeans, his cock jumping behind his zipper at the sheer proximity. "I said, I'm very good at my job, got it?"

"Oh, he gets it," Cisco chuckled from his desk, thoroughly enjoying Harry's visible internal crisis.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

The following Thursday, Harry finally got tired of opening his desk drawer and finding a growing collection of jewelry. The paw-print earring sat beside the ring, the bracelet, the necklace, and the leather glove. It looked utterly ridiculous. 

This is ridiculous. With a heavy sigh, Harry found a small storage box—nothing fancy, just plain, practical cardboard. He dropped your items safely inside, closed the lid, and shoved the box onto the highest storage shelf in his office. Problem solved.

But the damned box continued to fill anyway. A hair clip appeared on his desk, then another. A silver necklace charm. Three distinct rings. A small compact mirror. Soon, it was a handful of random trinkets Harry merely suspected had once belonged to you but couldn't definitively prove.

Every single time he found something out of place, it went straight into the box. The process became completely automatic, almost a routine, and Harry actively chose not to think about what that meant. But every time he handled one of your missing things, he did it with precise, lingering care.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

A month later, Harry walked into his private office and stopped dead in his tracks. You were sitting directly in his chair—his chair—with your combat boots propped carelessly up on his desk and a familiar bag of chips resting in your lap. "Were those mine?" Harry asked, his eyes narrowing instantly.

You looked down at the crinkling bag, then back up at him with a tilt of your head. "Maybe."

"They were inside my closed desk drawer," Harry sighed knowingly, stepping up to the desk.

You considered that bit of information, turning it over with mock thoughtfulness. "Maybe."

"You stole them."

"I borrowed them," you shrugged, using the exact defense you always did.

"That is still not how borrowing works."

You simply shoved another handful of his chips into your mouth, completely ignoring him. Gone. Again. "You know," you said thoughtfully, brushing a stray crumb from your lip, "you should really stop leaving snacks where I can find them."

"They were inside my desk," Harry stared, incredulous.

"Exactly."

"That isn't accessible space."

"It was for me," you smirked. Cisco snorted loudly from somewhere out in the corridor, quickly passing by the open door before Harry could throw the dry-erase marker currently gripped in his hand.

You hopped out of his leather chair, and for a moment, you simply stood there in front of him, watching him closely. Then, your gaze drifted down toward the silver bracelet resting around your wrist—the very one he'd returned to you earlier that week. A soft smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "Thanks for finding this, by the way."

Harry glanced down at the metal. "You left it in the cortex."

"I leave everything in the cortex."

"I've noticed."

Your smile widened, becoming softer. "You keep finding it."

Harry shrugged, looking away to hide the warmth creeping up his neck. "Someone has to."

For a second, you just looked at him. You weren't teasing him, and you weren't smirking; you were just looking at him with an intensity that made his breath hitch. Then, you laughed softly. "You're sweet."

Harry nearly choked on the spot. "No."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You keep bringing my stuff back."

"Because you carelessly lose it."

"Most people would've just thrown it away by now," you pointed out, stepping a fraction closer.

Harry just stared at you. Apparently, something raw in his expression gave him away, because your brilliant grin returned in a flash. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"That face."

"I have many faces," Harry sighed, trying to steady his heart rate.

"That specific one says you're pretending not to care."

"I don't care."

"Sure, Harry," you hummed. The melodic way you said his name made it sound like you didn't believe a single word coming out of his mouth—which was deeply irritating, mostly because you were entirely right.

Before you turned to leave, you reached into the neckline of your jersey, dipping your fingers into your bra and dropping a smooth candy bar directly onto his desk. Harry frowned, but his immediate, treacherous inner thought was a loud, echoing 'Ooo, bra candy.'

"What is this?" he asked, staring at the wrapper.

"A replacement."

"For what?"

"The chips."

"You've stolen hundreds of dollars worth of snacks from me at this point," Harry noted aloud, crossing his arms.

"Total exaggeration."

"It isn't."

"Fine," you grinned, pausing at the threshold. "Dozens."

Harry rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders had completely vanished. Halfway through the doorway, you stopped and looked back over your shoulder. "You should smile more," you told him softly, your eyes lingering on his lips. "You're hot, actually. I like it."

"You should stop stealing my snacks," he countered, his voice dropping an octave.

"Never."

Then you disappeared down the hall, leaving his office feeling oddly, heavily quiet. Harry looked down at the candy bar resting on his desk, then glanced up toward the highest shelf above his workspace—the shelf hiding a box completely full of things you'd carelessly forgotten, things you didn't even remember losing.

With a slow sigh, Harry picked up the chocolate. This entire situation was getting completely out of hand, but unfortunately, he was already wondering exactly what you'd leave behind for him next.

Let me say this for the record:  Harry Wells loved breeding. 

He was obsessed with cumming inside of things. Specifically you. He wouldn't cum in your mouth, or pull out. 

He needed to cum in your slick cunt night after night or he would go insane. 

So when you told him you were on birth control and he could just go raw, he went absolutely feral. 

Harry never pressured you, never made feel like you had to have sex. Never made you feel bad about it. Never treated you any differently. 

You said no sometimes. But sex every night was glorious.

He was sexy just by himself. And his foreplay was amazing. You couldn't complain. He ate you out before sex every time, and never expected you to return the gesture. He always wanted you to experiment with whatever you wanted. 

He treated you like a princess. Always did the work, unless you said you wanted to do it. 

And as an added bonus, Harry always made you cum first. Holding himself off until you came. 

Harry was absolutely obsessed with cumming, addicted you could say. 

When you got your IUD out, Harry would be fiendishly searching for a release. 

And you knew that but you were smart, 

"Harrison" you call from the kitchen one day. 

"What?" He walked in, his glasses haphazardly slipping down his nose. 

"Make you a bet" 

"I'm a betting man" he smirked. 

"I get my IUD taken out next week on Thursday." 

"I'm aware of that. I already bought tampons and pads, ice cream, extra Tylenol, ibuprofen, and Midol, I bought a new heating pad for every room of the house and bought a hotels worth of new towels. And I-" 

"Hare" you stop him. 

"What?" 

"The bet, darling" 

"Oh yeah." 

"If you make it from Thursday to whenever I'm feeling my absolute best, I will let you cum inside me" 

Harry's mouth hung open. His mind running with a million possibilities. 

"Like... breed you- cum inside? Or condom on- cum inside?" 

"Like, get me pregnant, Harry" you giggle. 

"Oh fuck" he drawled. His cock already getting hard. "If I don't make it till then?" He asked. 

"Condoms for a month" you narrow your eyes. Feeling out his emotions, "and laundry for a month too" 

"And if I make it?" Harry asked, he knew what he would win, he just wanted to hear you say it. 

"Breed me... and, I will get you Big Belly Burger whenever you want for a month" 

Big Belly Burger and Breeding? 

Harry was in heaven. 

"You're on" he extended his hand.

You shook it. Certainly, you'd be off laundry duty for a month. 

But- 

You lost. 

Harry stood victoriously in front of you in the bedroom after his shower. 

"So... I take it I won the bet?" He said drying his hair as you laid in bed with nothing but your sexiest panties on.

"I appears that way, doesn't it, honey?" You smirk. Your eyes traced down his body, landing firmly on the excitement jumping in the towel wrapped around his waist. 

"Mmm" he hummed happily. 

Harry took 3 deliberate steps toward you, closing the distance between you. 

"Mind if I taste you, beautiful?" 

"Please" you breathe out. And that was all he needed, within moments he was on his knees and slurping you away as if he'd never had you before. 

"Oh fuck!" He exclaimed, his tongue delving into you. "This pussy is the best pussy I have ever fucking had!" 

You couldn't respond. Too breathless to even form words. 

Harry wrapped his lips around your clit and he hollows his cheeks slightly, sucking gently before letting go with a pop . Then he gets back to licking, as if you weren't already soaking wet. 

You grip his hair, burying himself deeper between your legs. His dark chuckle vibrating against your pussy deliciously. 

You moan loudly, hips knocking against his face, and you can feel him chuckle more than you can hear it in this position. 

"Such a needy fucking pussy," he mutters, pulling away just enough to speak and circle his fingers over your clit before pushing his tongue back in and fucking you with it. "Tastes so fucking good."

He looked up at you through his lashes, blue eyes taking in the flushed skin, the sheen of sweat, the open mouthed moans. 

"Fuuuck!" You drawled as you neared your orgasm. 

"Oh? Is someone gonna cum?" He teased moving faster. 

"Harry, I'm gonna c- I'm gonna cum. Fuck I'm gonna c-c-cum" you whimper. 

Harry moved impossibly faster. Holding your cunt to his mouth as your orgasm crashed over you. 

Wave after wave, Harry kept himself to you, tasting every ounce of release you could give him. 

He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, drool dripping from his chin to his chest. 

"Baby? Can I cum in you now?" His voice was near a beg. His cock red, and angry. 

"Please" 

Harry thrusted into you, slowly at first but then sped up. His thrusts, usually precise and sharp, were unruly, sloppy, desperate. 

"Fuck baby" he groaned. "You're so tight" 

"Fuck me, Harry" 

"You feel so fucking good. I might cum sooner than I thought" his words were right, and strained. 

"Make me a mommy, Harrison" you said, voice raw with emotion. 

"Mmm I love it when you say stuff like that" he growled in your ear, biting into your neck, surely leaving a mark. 

"Please breed me, Harrison" you begged, his orgasm drawing closer and closer.

"Say my name again, baby" 

"Harrison" you repeat, wrapping your legs around him. Giving him absolutely no escape. 

"Mmmph" he moaned. "Fuck! I'm gonna cum" 

"Cum inside me" you say. "Please daddy, breed me, I wanna be a mommy" your voice whimpery, begging for his seed to be planted. 

"Yeah baby?" Harry moaned again. He couldn't do this much longer. "Fuuuck"

His hips stuttered as he thrusted his final thrusts. His cum spilling inside you like a glass of milk. 

His breath ragged. Heart beating too quick for his own good, probably. Sweat dripping from his forehead. 

He collapsed beside you, the pair of you still trying to catch your breath. He looped an arm around you and pulled you close to him. 

"I hope I got you pregnant" he gave the heavy laugh. 

"I think you did" you giggle, burying your face in his chest as you shudder with aftershocks. 

"You felt so fucking good, I couldn't hold it" Harry says after a moment. 

"Oh yeah?" You kiss his chest before looking up at him. "Wanna go again?" You smirk. 

"Yes, please" he grinned, pulling you on top of him.

Harry was trying to work. Unfortunately, you existed. You, with your cute, sexy, outrageously revealing outfits and your habitually pouty lips. To Harry, those two facts—his productivity and your physical presence—seemed entirely mutually exclusive.

He’d been staring blankly at the exact same line of code for nearly five minutes when a familiar, intoxicating scent drifted into the room. Vanilla. Harry froze in his chair, a heavy internal sigh echoing in his mind. No. Not right now.

Slowly, reluctantly, he looked up from his screen to find you leaning directly over his shoulder, entirely too close to him. You were close enough that a few pieces of your intricate silver jewelry brushed softly against the fabric of his jacket when you shifted your weight, close enough that he could feel the radiating warmth of your body heat.

Harry immediately rolled his chair backward to establish some semblance of a boundary. "(Y/N)," he said, fixing you with a stern look over the brim of his reading glasses.

"Harry," you mimicked perfectly, batting your lashes at him in the exact way you knew he found deeply distracting.

"Personal space," he said shortly, tapping his fingers against his desk.

"What about it?" you blinked innocently.

"You are currently in mine."

"Oh." You looked around the empty room dramatically, then turned your gaze back to him with a shrug. "I don't see your name on it."

Harry closed his eyes tightly, taking a slow breath as if he were actively centering himself. "You cannot simply appear behind people without warning."

"I walked," you countered with that signature, unbothered smirk.

"You made absolutely no sound."

"Maybe you're just getting old, Wells."

Harry looked genuinely offended at the jab, and a brilliant smile broke across your face. Mission accomplished.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Later in the day, Harry was halfway through a technical report when something small landed squarely on his desk. He looked down to find a candy bar resting on his papers. Frowning, he looked up to see you were already halfway across the cortex.

"What's this?" Harry asked, his sharp voice effectively stopping you right in your tracks.

You glanced back over your shoulder, offering a coy expression. "A gift," you replied smoothly.

"Why?"

"You looked grumpy," you shrugged, shifting your weight.

"I always look grumpy," Harry countered, tilting his chin up defensively.

"Exactly."

With that, you disappeared through a nearby doorway. Harry stared down at the chocolate, his mind instantly racing. It was a sweet gesture, but Harry narrowed his eyes at it suspiciously. What had you done? What did you take while he wasn't looking? What was your real intention?

Cisco walked past his desk ten minutes later, pausing when he spotted the snack.

"Did she leave you food?" Cisco asked, pointing at the candy bar in front of Harry.

Harry immediately pointed an accusing finger at the wrapper, his ears flushing a distinct shade of red. "This? No. It's nothing."

"Dude," Cisco gasped, his eyes widening in realization.

"What?"

"She likes you."

Harry nearly choked on his own saliva. "No," he said definitively, his voice clipping. "She doesn't."

Cisco looked completely unconvinced. "Harry, I've known this girl since the crayon-eating days. Believe me, she likes you," Cisco shrugged, leaning against the desk. "That's just how she shows affection."

Harry immediately hated having that information. Or, if he was being completely honest with himself, did he really? He secretly liked the fluid, cat-like way you moved through the labs.

Cats left dead mice at the doors of people they liked; you left chocolate.

Cats demanded to be in the direct personal space of their chosen people only when it suited them; so did you.

As annoying as Harry claimed you were, he secretly looked forward to the way you drifted effortlessly in and out of his workspace. The only real problem was that once Cisco planted the seed, Harry started noticing everything.

The fresh cup of coffee that occasionally appeared beside his station. The energy drinks you stole from everyone else in the building but never dared to touch when they were his. The way you always chose to sit near him—never directly beside him, but near him, like a moody feline pretending it wasn't actively seeking attention. And once Harry noticed, he couldn't stop noticing.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

A week later, the hyper-awareness became a serious problem. Harry walked into the main cortex to find you sitting on a workbench yet again, one knee drawn tightly to your chest and your combat boots hanging off the edge.

You were absently twirling a butterfly knife between your fingers, and Harry was quietly impressed with the sheer speed and precision of your hands. You wore a white mesh shirt that was a little too big, draping loosely over your shoulders to expose a vibrant red bra. 

Red bra means red thong. Harry found his thoughts wandering down a dangerous path, silently hoping you might move the right way so he could confirm the theory.

Cisco was saying something to him, but Harry wasn't listening at all. Suddenly, you let out a soft laugh, tipping your head back as you smiled right at him.

 How did she even know I was standing here? Harry looked away immediately, his heart hammering. No. The issue wasn't just that you were attractive; Harry was perfectly capable of recognizing an attractive person without losing his mind.

The real issue was that you had become familiar, and familiarity was far more dangerous than simple attraction.

"Harry," your voice broke through his racing thoughts, shattering the silence around him. He looked up to find you staring right at him. "Why were you staring?"

"I wasn't," he lied smoothly.

"You were."

"I was not."

The slow grin that spread across your face made him incredibly nervous. "You totally were," you pressed, teasing him.

Cisco looked between the two of you, reading the heavy tension in the room, and immediately grabbed his coffee mug. "I'm leaving."

"Sit down," Harry ordered sharply.

"Nope."

"Cisco," Harry warned, his eyes practically begging his friend to stay and put a safe barrier between him and the mesmerizing human being in front of him.

"I suddenly have somewhere very important to be," Cisco said, already backing out of the room.

"You don't."

"I do."

"You absolutely don't," Harry snapped, but Cisco was already turning the corner. "Good luck, man," Cisco waved over his shoulder before vanishing completely. Traitor.

You hopped down from the workbench, and Harry immediately became suspicious. Experience had taught him that his caution was usually warranted around you.

He watched you approach, waiting for you to stop, but you just continued approaching until you stood directly in front of him—entirely too close, as usual. Why do you do this? Stop doing this to me.

Harry looked down, the significant height difference catching him by surprise as you looked up at him. Neither of you moved. For one strange, suspended moment, the background noise of the pipeline and the cortex seemed to fade into total distance.

Your usual teasing smile softened slightly, not disappearing completely, but becoming less sharp. More genuine. Harry's throat felt unexpectedly dry, and he recognized the feeling as something deeply concerning.

Then, you reached your hand up toward him. Harry froze completely. When your fingers gently brushed against his shoulder, he nearly lost his breath at the sensation. You pinched a tiny piece of white lint between your fingers. "There," you said proudly, flicking it away into the air.

"There what?" Harry blinked, trying to clear his head.

"You had fluff on your jacket."

"Oh." A heavy pause settled between you.

"Oh?" you echoed, your expression shifting as if you expected a bit more of a reaction from him. Harry hated how amused you looked by his sudden lack of words.

"Thank you," he finally muttered. Your smile widened instantly, as if his simple gratitude was a prize. "You're welcome."

Neither of you moved. One second passed. Then two. Then three.

Suddenly, Caitlin walked briskly into the cortex, stopping short when she saw the two of you. "(Y/N), why exactly are you standing in Harry's lap?"

Harry jumped backward instantly, entirely removing himself from your space. "Oh, he had lint on his jacket!" you explained smoothly, turning to point at Caitlin. "I was just brushing it off."

Harry just stared at you, his chest heaving slightly. You flashed him a quick, parting wink, turning on your heel to walk away before he could even think of a response.

As you walked toward the exit, Barry zoomed into the room behind you, accidentally dropping a stack of research papers all over the floor. You instinctively bent over to help him grab them, seemingly forgetting just how tiny your skirt actually was.

Red thong. Harry mentally praised himself for correctly guessing, before stopping himself mid-thought. Why am I proud of that? Standing alone in the center of the cortex, Harry was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that he was in far more trouble than he’d originally thought.

Tag list

You’d been going to the S.T.A.R. Labs training room for a few days, pushing your speedster boundaries and hitting the physical weights to make yourself better, faster, and stronger to keep up with Harry. Even with the Speed Force, you had noticed you were an easy target for rogue metahumans if you couldn't handle yourself in close-quarters combat.

But that intense workout was the exact cause of your extreme tension right this second.

"God! Fuck!" you exclaimed as your inner thigh tensed up violently again. You gripped the edge of the cortex medical couch for dear life as you tried to sit down.

"Stop yelling. If Allen hears you yelling, he's going to dash in here with a protein shake and—"

"Is everything okay?" Barry suddenly blurred into the room, a worried expression on his face. "I heard yelling."

"Fucking classic. Go back to your treadmill, Allen, you can't help anyways," Harry rolled his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. Barry sighed, giving you a sympathetic look before jogging off. Harry turned back to you, leaning against the main console. "So, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"The training room is what's wrong with me," you said, your breath hitching as your muscles finally began to settle. "My abductors hurt like a bitch." You let out a heavy sigh, rubbing your sore legs.

"Need help stretching? I can assist with that," Harry stated, a rare, amused smile tugging at his lips. His eyes took on a slightly calculating, perverted gleam as he looked at your tight gym clothes. You nodded weakly. "Get on the floor and put your feet together."

As you started to move off the couch, you felt that agonizing tension rip through your muscles again.

"God, that fucking hurts," you said through gritted teeth. "Fucking hurts."

"It's a standard butterfly stretch. Stop fighting the resistance," Harry told you, his voice low and commanding. He dropped to his knees in front of you, placing his large, warm hands firmly on your knees. He guided your legs open and closed, applying steady pressure. You felt a wave of sweet relief before a sharp, tearing pain shot through your lower region again.

"Damn it," you groaned as he continued the rhythmic movement. You tossed your head back against the cushion of the couch, your chest heaving.

Harry couldn't help but stare, a faint trace of saliva nearly escaping his lips at the sight of you. Your head thrown back, your lips parted, and your eyes shut tight—he had seen you look exactly like this in his private quarters, but right now, in the middle of the lab, the view was driving his filthy mind wild. He slowly traced his hands higher up your inner thighs.

"Uhh okay, so now I need you to cross your legs," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming thicker. You did as he asked, folding your legs tightly. He moved directly behind you, pressing his solid chest against your back as he pushed you down and low, forcing your tight muscles to stretch while keeping your legs crossed.

"Ah!" you whimpered in pain.

"I know, baby, just let it work," he murmured comfortingly against your ear, his breath hot and deliberate. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging possessively into your hips as he began rocking your body back and forth to apply some dynamic movement. "No idea what specific routine your speedster metabolism is rejecting, but I'm glad this is working."

"Good," you managed to let your strained voice out, your thighs still burning.

Harry shifted his weight, pushing you all the way forward until you were forced onto all fours, your hips elevated as he sat directly behind you on his knees. It was quite the scandalous, deeply suggestive position to be in right in the middle of S.T.A.R. Labs.

"Ew! Harry! Not in the middle of the cortex!!!" Cisco exclaimed, walking out of the workshop and immediately covering his eyes with his tablet.

"Shut the fuck up, Ramon. I'm helping her stretch," Harry snapped, his voice sharp but entirely unapologetic. "We're not doing anything."

"I've been hitting the training gym lately and I'm just incredibly sore," you explained, your voice muffled against the couch cushion. A quiet, sheepish "oh" left Cisco's mouth as he quickly scurried away toward the pipeline.

Harry didn't miss a beat. He spread your thighs a little wider, his hands sliding down to your hips as he rocked your body back and forth again. Every single time he pulled you back, your ass came into direct, heavy contact with his groin. A smug, deeply perverted smirk plastered itself on Harry's face, and he discreetly scooted even closer, ensuring the friction was unavoidable. Your lower half hit him perfectly with every single motion.

"Harry," you sighed, a breathless laugh escaping you. "You can stop being weird. Trust me, I know exactly what you're doing back there."

"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry for being a supportive partner and helping you recover," he replied, his tone dripping with fake innocence. You quickly spun around on the floor to face him, sitting back on your heels.

"Oh, really?" you challenged, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," he replied smoothly, his eyes dropping down to your lips before he stood up and adjusted his jacket. "Come on, I want to go get a drink. I'm tired of this lab." He grabbed his breach device, opening a swirling blue portal right in front of you and gently pulling you through by your hand.

The portal deposited you both into a quiet, dimly lit Central City lounge. Harry looked around, his scowl returning for a fraction of a second. "Fuck, I forgot the layout schematics I wanted to show Cisco."

Before you could answer, he whipped out his tech, dialed a quick coordinate, and fired another breach right into the S.T.A.R. Labs workshop, reaching through and bodily dragging a startled Cisco Ramon right through the wormhole.

"Wh-wh-what the fuck, Harry!" Cisco exclaimed, stumbling over his own feet and looking around the bar in utter confusion.

"Shut up, Ramon. Sit down," Harry said, entirely unfazed as he guided you toward a booth. You followed closely behind him, smiling brightly as Harry looked back over his shoulder and threw you a sharp, wicked wink.

Harry should have known better. That was the singular, frustrating conclusion he'd reached exactly three hours after learning that you were Catwoman. He should have known better than to allow himself to become so intensely curious, because curiosity inevitably led to questions, questions led to answers, and Harry Wells had never been particularly good at leaving a mystery unsolved.

Unfortunately for Harry, you appeared entirely determined to make yourself a mystery—and a deeply captivating, frustratingly attractive one at its core. The real problem was that now Harry finally knew exactly where to look. The playful, lingering smiles, the ridiculously revealing outfits, and the constant, brazen theft of Cisco's food all suddenly looked different under a new lens. It was intentional.

A calculated distraction. A flawless performance. And Harry absolutely hated being manipulated, especially when he couldn't figure out the underlying why.

Which was precisely why he found himself aggressively staring at a security report instead of focusing on the calibration project he'd actually intended to work on. The document detailed a high-profile break-in that had occurred three months ago: no alarms tripped, no physical evidence left behind, and absolutely no signs of forced entry. Nothing. Whoever had entered the building had bypassed six separate, state-of-the-art security systems without leaving so much as a single fingerprint.

Harry was impressed—annoyingly, deeply impressed. Suddenly, a familiar shadow cast itself across the surface of his desk. Harry didn't even bother to look up from his screen. "If you've come to steal something, make it quick," he spoke flatly, his fingers tapping against the keys.

A soft, familiar laugh answered him, sending a ridiculous jolt through his chest. "You make me sound so rude," you hummed, your sweet voice filling the quiet room.

"You are rude," Harry countered bluntly.

"Fair," you shrugged.

Harry finally lifted his gaze, only to find you leaning precariously over the edge of his desk, placing yourself entirely inside his personal space once again. A fresh cup of coffee sat cradled in your hand—definitely not yours, and in all probability, stolen from a defenseless lab tech.

Your plush fur coat hung wide open, silver necklaces layered beautifully across your collarbone, highlighting the black lacy bra you wore for the whole world to see. Your signature smirk was already firmly in place; it truly seemed to be your default expression. "You're staring at security reports," you noted smoothly, your eyes darting to the monitor.

Harry immediately minimized the file with a sharp click. You grinned instantly at the defensive reflex. "Suspicious," you sang in a teasing, singsong voice.

"I wasn't aware that reading was considered suspicious," Harry quirked an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

"It is when you slam your laptop shut like that."

Harry frowned, letting out a heavy sigh. "When exactly did you get so observant?"

You dramatically gasped, placing a hand against your chest in mock betrayal. "When did I get observant? Oh my God," you continued, shaking your head in mock despair. "Harry thinks I'm stupid."

"I did not say that," Harry corrected, a rare, faint smirk ghosting his own lips despite his best efforts.

"You implied it."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did!"

Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. "You spend half your day stealing fries."

"I'm multi-talented," you shrugged carelessly.

"You sit on expensive laboratory equipment," he pointed an accusing finger at you.

"I sit gracefully."

"You once spent twenty minutes arguing with Cisco about whether cereal is considered a soup."

"Because it is!" you immediately rose to the defense of the argument, your eyes flashing playfully.

"It is not."

"It is."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, utterly exhausted by the logic. Suddenly, from all the way across the cortex, Cisco's voice echoed through the speakers, yelling, "It's definitely soup!"

"Thank you!" you shouted back over your shoulder, thoroughly delighted. Harry decided right then and there that he hated all of them.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

Later that afternoon, Harry was diligently reviewing system diagnostics when he heard a commotion outside the cortex. Raised voices—angry ones—sliced through the usual hum of the lab, and his attention immediately sharpened. A strange man stood near the main entrance, aggressively arguing with one of S.T.A.R. Labs' security officers. The officer looked deeply frustrated, while the stranger looked completely furious. Harry watched the interaction unfold for a moment, but then he froze.

You had gone completely, utterly still beside him. No jokes, no playful smiles, no teasing smirk. Nothing. The transformation was immediate and deeply unsettling. You just stared blankly at the man, your breath catching, while the angry stranger never even noticed your presence.

Then, just as quickly as the tension had gripped you, you looked away, forcing a bright smile back onto your face as the heavy moment vanished into thin air. But Harry had seen it. Interesting. Very interesting. Because for the first time since meeting you, he hadn't just seen another layer of the performance—he had caught a glimpse of something entirely real.

.✦ ݁˖ 𐙚⋆°｡⋆♡

That night, Harry found you sitting alone on the roof. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd gone looking for you in the first place, and the convenient explanation he settled on was lingering irritation. Unfortunately, deep down, he highly suspected that was a total lie.

You sat dangerously close to the sheer edge of the building, your combat boots hanging over the open air while the vibrant city lights stretched out endlessly beneath you, the faint sound of Thursday night traffic rumbling far below. You didn't look even remotely surprised when his footsteps echoed behind you.

"You know," you said quietly, keeping your eyes on the sprawling view of Central City, "most people use doors."

"Most people don't climb buildings," Harry retorted, stopping right beside you.

"Fair," you murmured.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, and the quiet night air felt surprisingly, deeply comfortable between you. Then, the burning question left his lips before Harry could even think to stop it. "Who was he?"

You glanced sideways at him, the shadows of the roof making Harry's striking blue eyes look dark and unreadable. "Who?" you asked, trying to play it off with a casual shrug, though you knew exactly who he meant.

"The man from earlier," Harry clarified, his voice dropping.

The lingering trace of your smile disappeared completely. It was just enough of a shift to make Harry worry, which was a terrifying realization in itself. Harry hadn't worried about you since the day he met you. In fact, you annoyed him on a daily basis and were a chaotic problem he simply couldn't get rid of.

He loved it, and he hated it all at the exact same time—this terrifying reality of growing attached to you. He liked the smug little smirk you always wore; he even liked the way you pouted when Cisco told you to stop stealing his food. But the way your armor completely vanished now was enough for Harry to know his instincts were right.

For once, you didn't crack a joke. You didn't dodge the question, and you didn't redirect his focus. You simply looked back out across the glittering city.

"Nobody important," you shrugged softly.

Harry studied your profile in the moonlight. It was a lie, and judging by the subtle way you looked down, knowing he'd noticed the shift, you knew he caught it, too. For a brief second, your eyes met his. The teasing expression was entirely gone—the playful attitude, the constant, dazzling performance, all of it stripped away.

And in that fleeting second, Harry caught a breathtaking glimpse of the raw woman underneath the mask, the one you kept so fiercely hidden away from the world.

Then, you forced a small smile, and the protective mask slipped right back into place. "You're doing the thinking thing again," you commented lightly.

"You keep saying that," Harry sighed, leaning against the rooftop railing.

"Because you keep doing it," you pointed out, your voice returning to its familiar, melodic lilt.

"Maybe you should stop being so incredibly suspicious."

"Never," you laughed softly.

Harry absolutely loved that sound. The way you looked when you genuinely laughed was entirely different from the performative grin you always wore for the team. It was raw, real, and maybe the only part of yourself that you didn't hide behind revealing outfits and cute, calculated mannerisms. And for reasons Harry couldn't even begin to explain to himself, he found himself looking forward to the challenge of breaking down your walls.

The S.T.A.R. Labs cortex lounge is filled with the sound of laughter and the aroma of popcorn as you, Cisco, and Barry lounge on the couch, watching a rerun of a classic sci-fi movie. Harry is at a nearby workstation, tinkering with a piece of tech, his back to you.

"Dude, Wells is so intense," Cisco chuckles, his eyes never leaving the screen. "I bet he can't even keep up with a modern workload anymore. Look at him, he’s basically ancient."

Barry snickers, his feet propped up on the edge of the console. "Yeah, he’s probably forgetting half the equations he formulated back on Earth-2. I bet he needs a cane just to get around the pipeline."

You join in, a mischievous grin on your face. "And have you seen the way he glares at his tablet? It’s like a permanent scowl. He’s probably going to turn into a grumpy grandpa any day now."

Harry, overhearing your comments, spins his chair around with a raised eyebrow, pulling his glasses down his nose. "Oh, really? You think I'm old, huh? You think I'm losing my edge?"

Cisco grins, not backing down. "Yeah, Harry. You're like, prehistoric. You should probably retire to the lounge and let the young minds take over the heavy lifting."

Harry chuckles, a sharp, challenging glint in his eyes. "Is that so? Well, maybe it's time I show you kids what 'experience' really means."

Barry rolls his eyes with a laugh. "Yeah, yeah. We've heard it all before, Harry. You're a genius, blah blah blah."

Harry smirks and walks over to the couch, his brooding presence completely commanding the room. "Alright, listen up. I'm gonna prove to you that age is just a number. And I'm gonna start with you."

He points directly at you, and you feel a thrilling mix of excitement and nervousness. "Me? What do you mean, Harrison?"

Harry leans in close, his voice dropping into a low, husky purr that only you can hear. "You'll see. Just be ready for a wild ride, Blue Bolt."

The night wears on, and the banter continues, but there's a heavy, underlying tension between the two of you—a dirty promise of something more. As the movie ends and Barry and Cisco head out for the night, Harry stands up and stretches, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Alright," he murmurs, his tone shifting into something intensely perverted and dominant. "It's time to put your money where your mouth is."

You swallow hard, a heavy flutter of anticipation in your stomach as your speedster pulse quickens. "What do you have in mind, Harry?"

He grins, a predatory, hungry smile that sends a delicious shiver straight down your spine. "You'll see. Follow me."

He leads you to his private workshop quarters, a space filled with strange quantum gadgets and glowing tachyon vials, but you barely notice, your focus entirely on him. He closes the door behind you, locking it with a sharp click, and the room seems to shrink, the air growing thick and heavy with anticipation. Harry turns to face you, his eyes dark with unbridled desire and a filthy, primal intent.

"Ready to see how 'old' I really am?" he growls, his voice low, dangerous, and thoroughly perverted.

You nod breathlessly. Harry’s rough hands immediately roam over your body, pulling your shirt up to expose your heavily tattooed skin. His fingers trace your ink with an aggressive, teasing grip, driving you mad with want. You arch your back against his touch, begging for more, and he obliges, his mouth capturing yours in a fierce, hungry, punishing kiss.

His hands slide down your torso, hooking firmly under the waistband of your jeans. He looks up at you, a silent, demanding question in his eyes, and you nod, your breath coming in short gasps. He strips you slowly, his eyes never leaving your body as he takes in every single tattoo covering your curves. Under his intense, perverted gaze, you feel completely exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly turned on.

When you're finally naked, Harry sits back on the edge of the mattress, his eyes slowly devouring your body. You feel a hot flush spread across your skin, but you don't look away. You want him to see you, all of you. He reaches out, his blunt fingers tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your inked waist, and the heavy swell of your breast. You shiver violently under his touch, your speedster metabolism making your body ache desperately for more.

Harry leans down, his mouth capturing yours in another fierce kiss. You wrap your tattooed legs tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, and he lets out a low, rough groan as his massive erection presses hard against your thigh. You reach between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his thick length, and he hisses through his teeth, his hips jerking forward automatically.

When he's ready, he positions himself at your soaking wet entrance, his eyes locking onto yours for ultimate permission. You nod, your body aching with absolute need, and Harry pushes deep inside with a single, heavy thrust, filling you completely. You cry out loudly, your nails digging into his back. He stills for a moment, letting out a ragged breath, giving your body a second to adjust to his size.

When you're ready, you lift your hips, urging him on, and he begins to move. He delivers slow, deep, punishing thrusts that send waves of overwhelming pleasure crashing through you. Blue static sparks faintly across your skin as your speed force reacts to the friction.

You meet his heavy thrusts, your bodies moving in perfect, intense sync. The room fills with the dirty sounds of skin on skin, your loud moans, and Harry's breathless grunts. His hands tangle firmly in your hair, his mouth capturing yours in a fierce, hungry kiss. You can feel your orgasm building rapidly, a tight coil of tension deep in your core, and you know you're right on the edge.

Harry breaks the kiss, his eyes locking with yours, a smug, dominant look on his face. "Cum for me," he growls, his voice full of filthy authority.

It's all you need. You cry out, your body convulsing wildly as waves of intense pleasure crash over you, blue lightning crackling across the bed. Harry follows soon after, his muscles locking up, his jaw clenched as he finds his own explosive release deep inside you. He collapses on top of you, his breath ragged against your neck. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him close, feeling entirely content, safe, and utterly ruined.

Harry lifts his head, a thoroughly smug, satisfied grin on his face as he adjusts his glasses. "So... you still think I'm old, Blue Bolt?"

You laugh, your body still tingling with pleasure and fading electricity. "Maybe you're not so bad after all, Harry."

He chuckles darkly and rolls off you, pulling you tightly into his arms. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

You snuggle into his bare chest, feeling a profound sense of wonder and satisfaction as you fall asleep in his embrace.

The next morning, you wake up to the quiet hum of S.T.A.R. Labs equipment. You stretch, feeling the delicious, heavy ache of muscles well-used. Harry is already up, pulling on his dark tactical shirt with a thoroughly satisfied, smug smirk.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice still incredibly husky and deep from the night before. "Ready to face the day?"

You nod, a contented smile on your face. "With you by my side, always."

Harry chuckles softly and ruffles your dry hair, kissing your forehead. "That's the spirit. Now, let's go see what kind of trouble we can get into in the cortex today."

As you both head out into the main lounge, you can hear Cisco and Barry already arguing over a calibration glitch on the treadmill. Harry rolls his eyes but can't help but let out a small, affectionate huff.

"Kids," he mutters under his breath. "They never change."

You join them at the main desk, feeling a deep sense of belonging and camaraderie. No matter what multiversal threats or speedster challenges lie ahead, you know that with Harry, Cisco, and Barry, you can handle anything. The future is uncertain, but one thing is for sure—it's going to be one hell of a ride.

As you settle into your rolling chair at the console, you can't help but wince slightly, the intense memories of Harry's pacing from the night before still fresh in your mind. Cisco immediately notices your slight discomfort and raises an eyebrow, stopping mid-sentence.

"Everything okay there, (y/n)?" he asks, a teasing grin starting to form on his face. "You look a little... physically exhausted."

You force a smile, trying to play it completely cool. "Yeah, yeah. Just a little... sore from last night's adventure."

Barry snickers from across the room, catching onto the unspoken, heavy vibe in the room. "Adventure, huh? Sounds like someone had a pretty wild night shift."

Harry, overhearing the conversation from the coffee machine, chuckles darkly, a thoroughly perverted, smug glint in his eyes as he looks at you. "Yeah, I think someone learned a valuable lesson about not underestimating the 'old' guy's stamina."

You blush furiously, but you can't help but laugh along with them, throwing a playful glare at your brilliant, arrogant partner. "Alright, alright. You win, Harry. You're definitely not as old as you look."

Harry winks at you, his smirk widening. "Glad you finally see things my way, Blue Bolt. Now, who's ready for breakfast?"

As you all gather around the main desk with a box of pastries, you can't help but feel a massive sense of contentment. With Harry Wells by your side, you know you're ready to face anything head-on. And as you take your first bite, you smile, knowing this is just the beginning of another incredible chapter.

⋆｡˚ the stray shop cat ˚｡⋆

chapter two — "Lockpick" pairing: harry wells x reader warnings: fluff, slow burn, mutual pining word count: 1.4k

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Harry walked out of his room for coffee at six-thirty in the morning entirely on purpose. The building was quiet at that hour—no conversations echoing through the cortex, no Barry asking endless questions, and no Cisco trying to convince someone that an objectively terrible idea was actually genius. Just pure, unadulterated silence. Harry appreciated silence; it allowed him to work. Coffee in one hand and his tablet in the other, he pushed open the door to his workspace, only to freeze right in his tracks.

Someone was sitting on the high storage shelf directly above his desk. Harry closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, but when he opened them again, you were still there. Of course you were. 

You sat perched on the highest shelf in the room as though the cold metal had been designed specifically for you. One knee was pulled tightly against your chest while your other leg dangled carelessly over the edge, black combat boots swinging lazily through the air. Your leather jacket hung wide open over a baby blue bra, your silver jewelry gleaming beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. The ridiculously short skirt you wore disappeared beneath the jacket whenever you shifted positions, leaving your matching baby blue thong staring him directly in the eyes. Fuck... Harry realized with a jolt that you were eating chips, and he recognized the bag instantly. It was his.

"What are you doing?" he asked roughly, setting his coffee down with far more force than necessary.

Your face immediately brightened at the sound of his voice. "Good morning, Grumpy," you smirked, looking up from the snack.

"Those are my chips," Harry stated, stepping in front of you and pointing aggressively at the crinkling foil bag.

You peered down into the bag, then looked back at him with a slow shrug. "Oh." A brief pause stretched between you. "Not anymore."

Harry just stared at you, his glare only serving to coax that damned, beautiful smile right out of you. God, you were so irritating, and he was completely addicted to it. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he sighed, "You cannot be in here."

"Sure I can," you replied casually.

"No," Harry countered, his voice clipping. "You're not."

"I literally am," you chuckled, gesturing vaguely to the room around you as if he didn't already know where he was standing.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose again. It was six-thirty in the morning, he had been awake for exactly forty-eight minutes, and you were already making his day infinitely more complicated. "How did you get up there?"

You glanced around the room, then upward at the ceiling, and finally back down at him. "I climbed," you said easily.

Harry hated how calm your voice sounded. There was absolutely nothing nearby that you could have used—no ladder, no chair, no reasonable path to the shelf. He looked back up at you, and you just grinned in return. Of course. Moving around his desk, Harry finally sat down in his chair and sighed, "(Y/N)."

"Harry," you mimicked.

"Go home."

"No."

"I wasn't asking," he snapped.

"Neither was I," you giggled, making Harry's eye twitch as your grin widened.

For several blessed minutes, the room fell quiet, and Harry almost allowed himself to think you might actually leave him alone. Then he heard a crunch. Then another. Then a third. Every crunch followed a strict thirty-second interval, and his jaw tightened. You were doing that entirely on purpose. Another loud crunch echoed from the shelf—definitely on purpose. Harry tried his best to ignore you, but every time his eyes drifted upward, you were still there, watching him silently. You were like a cat waiting to see if something interesting would happen.

Eventually, Harry snapped his gaze from his tablet to look directly at you. You were still staring. "Can I help you?"

You tilted your head at his sharp question. "No."

"Then why are you watching me?"

"You're interesting," you replied, shifting your weight to turn onto your belly, your boots lightly brushing the ceiling above you.

"I'm working," Harry frowned.

"I know."

"That isn't interesting."

"It is to me," you murmured, and that earned him another smile. Everything seemed to earn him a smile from you, and it was becoming deeply concerning.

Suddenly, a flash of metal caught his eye. Harry narrowed his vision, looking closer at your hands. A lockpick rested between your fingers—and not some cheap novelty set or a toy, either. It was professional, custom-made, and expensive. You immediately noticed his shift in attention, twirling the pick expertly between your slim fingers. "What?"

"Nothing," Harry deflected.

"You're staring," you casually mentioned.

"I am not," Harry defended, leaning back in his chair.

"You are," you said knowingly. With a practiced, effortless movement, the lockpick disappeared into your palm. It was fast, clean, and incredibly interesting. Most people couldn't handle a custom pick set, and most people certainly didn't carry one around casually. Harry studied you silently—the way you effortlessly balanced on the narrow shelf, the way you moved, the way you always seemed to know exactly where everyone was in S.T.A.R. Labs, and the fact that you never made a sound. His eyes narrowed further as the pieces began to click, and your smug grin slowly returned.

"Oh," you breathed. Harry didn't like that tone at all. "Oh what?" he asked carefully.

"You figured it out."

"I figured out nothing," Harry insisted, folding his arms across his chest.

"Sure," you said, your grin becoming positively radiant. Harry hated to admit it, but the look was undeniably cute. "You know, for someone so grumpy, you're pretty smart."

A dozen disjointed observations suddenly connected in Harry's mind: the lockpicks, the advanced security knowledge, the vanishing acts, the silence, the impeccable balance, and the fact that Cisco trusted you with absolutely no questions asked. His eyes widened slightly.

"There it is," you giggled, pointing a finger down at him.

"There what is?" Harry asked, feigning confusion.

"That look."

Harry stared up at you, completely captivated. You looked delighted—far too delighted. "(Y/N)," he warned.

"Harry," you countered.

"What exactly are you implying?"

You swung your legs, flashing Harry with another agonizing glimpse of the baby blue fabric he so desperately yearned to taste, before casually tossing another chip into your mouth. "I'm Catwoman."

To your absolute lack of a response, Harry just blinked. Once. Twice. Then a third time. "No," he let out a nervous, breathless laugh.

"Yes," you nodded, smirking down at him.

"No."

"Yes."

"That's absurd," Harry deflected quickly.

"You recognized my lockpick set," you pointed out, smiling sweetly.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again before stopping entirely. Because annoyingly enough, that wasn't the absurd part. The absurd part was how much sense it actually made. Every single thing he had noticed about you suddenly fit together perfectly, and you watched the realization wash over his face, your smile growing with every passing second.

"You are Catwoman. At least, on this Earth," Harry murmured.

"Technically, that's just what people call me," you shrugged.

"You broke into a federal building."

"Which one?" you asked thoughtfully.

"Which one?" Harry stared, incredulous.

"There have been several," you grinned, not sounding even remotely concerned. If anything, you sounded proud.

Harry sank back into his chair. For the first time since meeting you, he wasn't annoyed—not entirely. Now he was curious, which was significantly worse, because curiosity meant questions, and Harry Wells was very good at finding answers.

You seemed to realize exactly what he was thinking, because your grin faltered just enough for him to notice. For the first time, you looked wary. Interesting. Very interesting. "Don't do that," you warned.

"Do what?" Harry looked up.

"That thing," you told him.

"What thing?"

"The thinking thing."

Harry almost smiled. Almost. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he played dumb.

"Liar," you replied. Suddenly, you hopped down from the shelf. The drop was nearly eight feet, but you landed silently on the floor without a single stumble or wobble. It was perfect.

Harry watched intently, his eyes tracking your every move. "See?" you immediately pointed at him, letting out a small yawn. "You're doing it again."

Doing what? Watching? Observing? Trying to solve you. And for some reason, that made you nervous. The realization settled deeply into Harry's mind. For the first time since meeting you, he felt like he had finally gained ground. Only a little, but it was enough. Enough to make you wary, enough to make him intensely curious, and enough to make this entire dynamic very, very dangerous for both of you.

Harry never imagined he'd be into speedsters. Back on Earth-2, he always assumed he'd align with someone more calculated, a fellow scientist who matched his rigid, high-paced intellectual energy. But there you were. When you weren't out running, you were remarkably calm and quiet. You weren't dressed for S.T.A.R. Labs fieldwork today, but you already had your makeup on—eyeliner drawn to sharp, lethal points, eyelashes long and full, lips plump.

You were laid back on the cortex workshop couch, your tongue gently caught between your teeth as you read. You were currently reading Did it Hurt?, completely absorbed in the dark romance. You had music playing quietly over the surround-sound system you'd rigged up in your workspace.

Harry was sprawled out next to you on the lab bench, tossing a heavy wrench from hand to hand while messing with an algorithm on his tablet. He finally set the tablet down and looked over at you.

"Hey, are we just gonna listen to whatever this music is and ignore each other all day?" Harry asked suddenly, his gravelly voice cutting through the melody.

"Ignore you?" you replied, a light chuckle escaping your lips.

"Yeah, I'm sitting right here, and you're entirely inside a fictional universe," Harry said, his usual Earth-2 grumpiness carrying a rare note of affection.

"Oh... yeah, well, it's a good chapter," you said, turning a page.

He scooted closer, sighing heavily before flopping his head directly into your lap. His face pressed right against your clothed thigh. "What are you doing, Harrison?"

"Nothing. I'm just bored," his muffled voice replied against your leg.

"You know, I set up a whole secondary workbench for you right there where you can tinker and calibrate your tachyon tech. It's like three steps away," you giggled, pointing a manicured finger toward the equipment.

"No. I want your attention," Harry said flatly. When you didn't immediately close the book, too wrapped up in your story, he reached up and gently pulled it from your hands, careful to slide your bookmark into place.

You looked down at him through your fluffy eyelashes, pouting as he set the book safely on the end table. Before you could complain, he sat up and hauled you into his lap, shifting you off the couch and onto the makeshift daybed in the lounge area.

His kiss deepened immediately, his hand moving to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull you closer. His other hand found your waist, his grip firm and possessively tight. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the underlying intensity that Harry always carried. Your hands explored his chest, feeling the solid, lean muscle beneath his dark tactical shirt. Even without speed, his heart was pounding, quickly matching the accelerated rhythm of your own.

The kiss became more urgent, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fierce hunger. You moaned softly, your body pressing flush against his. He responded with a low, rough growl in his throat, his hands shifting to your hips, pulling you tight against him. You could feel his desire, hard and insistent, pressing against your stomach.

His kisses grew rougher, his teeth nipping lightly at your lower lip. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. Harry groaned, his hands moving to your lower back, grinding you closer. Instinctively, your speed flared for a fraction of a second, blue static sparking across your skin before you forced it down, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to pull him deeper into the kiss.

His mouth left yours, trailing harsh, breathless kisses down your neck, his stubble rough and electric against your sensitive skin. You arched your neck, giving him better access. His teeth grazed your collarbone while his hands cupped your breasts through your shirt. You moaned, your head falling back, your entire body on fire.

He kissed you roughly again, his tongue claiming yours, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. You could feel his need, his absolute hunger. You met his intensity stride for stride, your own speedster-fueled desire matching his. His kisses became almost brutal, his teeth nipping at your lips, demanding everything you had. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your body pressed tightly against his.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him down. His hands were on your bare skin now, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You could feel his hardness, his desperate need for you. You moaned, your body aching for the friction.

Harry's cock was already rock hard, throbbing with anticipation. He rubbed the tip against your entrance, teasing you, making you wait just a second longer. You let out a low, guttural moan that echoed through the quiet lab, begging him to finally close the distance.

Harry pulled your sweatpants down to your ankles, discarding them to give himself full access. He pushed your panties to the side. With a single, powerful thrust, Harry plunged into you, filling you completely. Your eyes rolled back, and you let out a sharp gasp, a mix of intense pleasure and surprise. Harry immediately set a relentless, punishing pace, his hips slapping hard against you with each deep thrust. The room filled with the heavy sounds of skin on skin, your loud moans, and Harry's breathless grunts—a symphony of pure lust.

Your body responded to every movement, your walls clenching tightly around him, drawing him deeper. Harry's hands gripped your hips like a vice, holding you perfectly in place as he pounded into you. You could feel the pleasure building at an impossible rate, your speedster metabolism sending the sensations firing through your nerves like a lightning storm.

"Fuck, Harry!" you screamed, your body suddenly convulsing as you squirted, the warm liquid gushing out, coating his cock and the sheets beneath you. Crackles of blue lightning danced across your skin from the sheer intensity of the climax. Harry didn't stop, his pace only increasing, his jaw clenched as he chased his own release.

With a final, desperate thrust, Harry came, filling you completely with his hot, sticky seed. You could feel it dripping out of you, a thick mix of your juices and his cum, a heavy creampie of pure pleasure.

Harry collapsed onto the mattress beside you, both of you panting heavily, your bodies slick with sweat. The room was heavy with the scent of sex and the sound of your ragged breathing.

"Holy shit," Harry muttered through labored breaths, running a hand through his messy hair and adjusting his glasses. "An energized speedster girl is absolutely insane."

"Oh yeah?" you chuckled, your heart rate finally returning to a normal baseline as you started to get up.

"Where are you going?" he asked, sitting up and watching you.

"To the restroom," you answered, walking toward the adjoining med-bay bathroom. "I always pee after sex... it's standard practice to help prevent UTIs."

"I don't have any of those, my health scans are perfectly clear," Harry said defensively, his brilliant brain temporarily short-circuiting from post-nut haze.

"No, dummy, it's a urinary tract infection. It's just a biological precaution..."

"Oh. Right. Obviously," Harry muttered, smacking his forehead at his own stupidity. You smiled, leaving the bathroom and leaning against the doorway to look at him.