#dd harry

Here you go! It’s dirty so fair warning 🙊

~

It wasn’t a want by this point, it was a need. Harry needed her to come or he was going to die.

“Come on, baby,” he panted, his thrusts sloppy with exhaustion and the dizziness of his approaching orgasm. He curled his hands into fists on either side of her head and dug his nails into his palms. His hope had been that the crescent moons of pain biting into his skin would be enough to take the edge off, hooking around his neck like Little Bo Peep’s crook and dragging him away from the precipice. Harry’s libido had firm heels, however, and stood firm, leaning, stretching, aching to tumble in a free-fall into the waiting sea of pleasure.

“Need y’to come for me,” he groaned, trying to focus on the angle with which he was pounding into her. He knew he was playing a dangerous hand, gambling his need for a slower pace so he could last longer by taking the wager that this was the tempo she needed and any moment now, any moment… “Gonne come, pretty baby? Baby?”

“I’m trying,” YN hissed and slapped the junction of his ass and thigh to express her frustration at his persistent urges. The unexpected sting of skin on skin took Harry by surprise and with a strangled moan he spilled into the condom, mind spinning like a globe whacked by an angry hand and spurting ecstasy through his nerves along with every heartbeat. The pleasure coiled through the spongy tissue of his body; he could picture it the way cordial spread through water, tainting the plain liquid with something sweet and fruity.

“Fuck,” he said, pulling out quickly. He was so annoyed with himself the high faded fast, diluting until it ebbed at the periphery of his consciousness. Okay, so maybe it didn’t fade entirely, still thrumming in his bloodstream while, cock still pulsing, he wriggled down YN’s body, dragging his lips on her skin as he went. He fixed his mouth to her clit and pushed his fingers inside, trying to keep the momentum going he’d had before.

No more than a few minutes later, he heard YN sigh. Harry prided himself on being a good listener. His teachers from school may have disagreed, because he loved the sights out of the window and the rhythmic sounds of his pencil hitting the bars of his uncomfortable school chair, but he really was a good listener. He just didn’t listen to the things other people wanted him to. He’d listen to the sounds of a warm body under (or above) his, though, intently. He’d listened to enough of YN’s sighs that he could orchestrate them into a symphony should he have the inclination or concentration, which many night he did. He’d heard sighs of shocked excitement and pained overstimulation. He’d pricked his ears at sighs of delayed gratification and fuzzy highs. That sigh, puffed through her lips like air out of a broken inflatable, was none so sweet.