kissing harry potter hesitantly, at least at first. tentative presses of your lips together, and then pulling apart. moments between each touch, the time between getting smaller and smaller until he's cupping your jaw with one hand and pulling you close with the other, and you're digging your nails into his chest. your bodies pushed together as the hesitance melts away completely. he knows what he's doing. or, he's doing the right thing, you don't know if he means to or not. he lets you set the parameters—it's you who introduces tongue at first and it's you who gently moans the first time—but then he takes the authorization in stride. he doubles it.
he runs his tongue along yours, he groans into your mouth when you accidentally knock your hips into his belt buckle and the, now extremely obvious, confined shape right beneath it. he gets really into it and uses the break that you politely ask for to bury his head in the crook of your neck and pant against your skin. when you run your nails through the short hairs at the back of his head, his breathing skips and he audibly shudders. he's greedy with it, taking whatever you can give and just a tiny bit more.