💌Pervy!Harry Potter x Reader
💭MDNI: voyeurisme, Pervy!Harry, Harry obsessed with you, Harry having inappropriate fantasties about you, very smutty at the end, fingering, Harry kind of lost in the fantasy.
A/N: I’ve had this idea on my mind for a while, I had the two first parts written out but was struggling to finish the fic, it took me a while but i finally did it! it’s very different from how i usually write harry but this was so fun to write!
Harry Potter had a problem.
Normally, Harry Potter was a gentleman. He was polite, he was kind, and he was most certainly, not a pervert.
Except when it came to you.
It started when he first heard noises coming from your dorm room.
Nothing… loud. Just enough to spark his jealousy a little too much.
The right thing to have done would have been to mind his own business— not grab his wand and invisibility cloak and sneak into your room.
But once he saw that you were in fact not with another man, and just had your fingers stuffed in your pretty little cunt?
How was he supposed to walk away? It felt like he had been hit with “Petrifecus Totalus” and couldn’t leave.
And whiny. And sweet. And Harry just couldn’t bring himself to unglue his eyes from the way you touched yourself.
You had no idea you had an audience.
Not the first time. Not the second. Not the third. And every time after that.
And Harry had told himself he’d stop after the first. That it was a one-time slip—he got carried away, he wasn’t thinking, he was just curious. But when he saw you again in class, in the corridors, at dinner in the Great Hall, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you looked all flushed and breathless, moaning like you were thinking of someone.
Like you were thinking of him.
That’s what he told himself, anyway. That’s why he kept coming back.
That’s why he watched you again the next night.
And again the night after that.
He knew it was wrong. Knew it was perverted, that it would change everything if you ever found out. But each time, it got harder to stay away. Because it wasn’t just watching anymore—it was the way you moved, the soft, breathy whines of need, the way your thighs trembled, the way your lips parted around—
“Harry,” you moaned, high and desperate, your back arching against the sheets.
Harry nearly came in his pants.
You were thinking about him.
You were touching yourself thinking about him.
That was all the justification he needed.
You sit across from him at breakfast.
Wearing that stupid cardigan with the loose neckline that keeps slipping off your shoulder. Harry’s trying not to look. Trying not to think.
But he’s starving in ways food can’t touch.
He stabs at his eggs, jaw tense.
You lean closer. “You good?”
Harry looks up too fast. “What?”
You tilt your head. “You’ve barely touched your food.”
He shrugs, forcing a smile. “Tired.”
That earns a sweet frown. “Late night?”
You have no idea how late. Or how many nights. You don’t know that he’s been memorizing the way your hips rock, the breathless catch in your throat when your fingers sink deep, the way you whisper his name like it’s a sin.
You don’t know that you’ve wrecked him.
“Something like that,” he says.
You hum, totally unconvinced, and reach across the table to steal a slice of toast off his plate. He lets you. Of course he lets you.
Because he’d give you anything.
And then there’s the library.
You’re seated beside him, eyes trained on your textbook, lips mouthing each word without realizing it.
Harry hasn’t processed a single sentence on his page.
The table is wide and polished, lit with soft candlelight. You’re hunched over your notes, twirling your quill between your fingers like you’re not completely undoing him.
And Harry—well, he’s gone somewhere else entirely.
Because all he can think about is dragging your chair back. Turning you to face the desk. Pushing your chest down until your elbows brace against the wood. That cardigan you’re wearing bunched up around your waist.
You wouldn’t make a sound, would you? Not in the middle of the library. Not with Madam Pince stalking around somewhere nearby.
But you’d be wet for him. He knows it.
You shift beside him, thighs brushing. He exhales slowly through his nose.
You sigh. “Merlin, I hate Arithmancy.”
He hums in agreement—at least, he tries to—but he’s distracted by how your voice drops in frustration, breathy and quiet.
Just like it had the other night.
In his memory, you’d been just like this: murmuring curses, getting impatient, needy. One hand curled under the sheets, the other gripping the pillow as you rocked into it. Saying his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say.
You stretch your arms overhead. Harry’s jaw tightens.
You blink. “Done already?”
“Mmhm.” He doesn’t dare look at you. “Can’t focus.”
No. No, he’s not okay. He’s sitting in a very public library, hard as a rock, imagining what it would feel like to tug your knickers aside and finally give in.
But he just nods. “Tired, I think.”
You smile at him, totally unsuspecting. Sweet as ever.
And that just makes it worse.
Because he knows—knows—if he leaned in right now and whispered in your ear everything he’s been thinking, you’d go breathless for him in an instant.
And Merlin, wouldn’t you look pretty, bent over this desk for him?
You reach for your inkwell again. Your arm brushes his.
Harry inhales sharply—too sharp. You glance at him, eyebrows pinched. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, trying to sound casual, normal. “Yeah, fine.”
Because in his head, you’re still bent over the desk.
That sweet cardigan is pushed up to your elbows, your fingers gripping the edge of the wood. He’s behind you, hips flush to yours, and you’re gasping his name in that same voice you used the other night when you didn’t know he was listening.
And you’re just sitting there beside him, flipping pages like you’re not his favorite fantasy.
He shifts in his seat, one leg bouncing beneath the desk. His hand twitches on the table.
You glance over again, brow furrowed. “Seriously, what’s gotten into you?”
He snaps his book shut, the noise making you jump. “I need—uh. I need to get something from the dorm.”
You blink. “You want me to come with—?”
“No!” It comes out too fast, too forceful. He coughs, eyes flicking to the bookshelf like it might offer salvation. “No, it’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
You watch him stand, gather his things with trembling fingers, and rush off like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
You frown at the spot he left behind.
Meanwhile, Harry? He nearly trips rounding the corner. The second he’s behind the stacks, hidden, he braces a hand on the wall and exhales through his nose. Hard.
You—sweet, brilliant you—are giving him nothing. No idea that you’ve made him come apart more than once just from the sound of your voice.
And now he’s stuck with the image of you bent over the library table, cardigan bunched, legs spread. Your lips forming his name the same way they had that night, only this time—he’s the one pulling it from you.
He squeezes his eyes shut, head thudding against the wall. “Get it together,” he mutters.
But there’s nothing to get.
And yet, Harry knows—deep down, with the same certainty he casts spells with—that if he ever touched you like that?
You’d fall apart for him, just like you did when you thought no one was watching.
And Merlin help him, he wants to make that real.
And at the Quidditch match for the House Cup, Harry plays for you.
The roar of the crowd is a blur. He can’t hear it. Doesn’t need to.
His eyes are already on you.
You’re in the stands, scarf knotted loosely around your neck, your smile bright, face flushed with cold. You wave when he glances up, and it nearly kills him. Because you have no idea what you’re doing to him. No idea that he’s planning to fuck you senseless the moment this match ends.
He takes off like a curse on wings.
The wind burns his cheeks. The snitch gleams in the sun, darting like a streak of gold through the chaos. But all Harry can think about is you—sitting pretty, watching him, and how he’s going to make sure you never forget this game.
Every dive, every twist—he does it for the way your eyes follow him. For the way you bite your lip when he leans low over his broom.
He hears someone yell his name—commentary blurs—and then he sees it.
It’s a brutal chase. Nearly clips a Slytherin beater to get it, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t flinch.
Gryffindors flood the field. Teammates shout, arms thrown around him. But Harry? His eyes are already back on you.
You’re standing, clapping, beaming down at him. His victory.
His whole body thrums as he jogs toward the changing rooms. Heart racing, limbs shaking, hard again before he even hits the locker door.
Because all he can think about now is getting you alone.
You. Spread out in his bed, soft thighs parted.
You. Gasping his name, shocked at how good he is with his hands. As if he hadn’t already studied your body in secret. As if he hadn’t already learned you, every breath and arch and moan.
Outside the locker rooms, moments after the match, Harry steps out into the corridor, still toweling off his hair, clean clothes clinging just a little to damp skin. His heart’s still hammering, not from the win, but from one thought on a loop:
He scans the crowd outside—Gryffindors celebrating, chattering, high-fiving. Someone shouts his name. He barely hears it.
Because then—he sees you.
And suddenly the buzz of the win fades into background noise.
You’re lingering near the stands, wrapped in that scarf again, the one he likes too much. The one he’s imagined tugging loose while kissing down your neck. You’re glowing. Laughing at something someone said. You haven’t spotted him yet.
But he’s already walking toward you.
You glance up just in time for him to reach you, eyes going wide when you take him in—cheeks pink, curls damp, skin flushed. He looks like he should still be on the field, all high-octane energy and unspoken heat.
“Harry—” you start to smile, but the look in his eyes silences you.
His voice is low. Thick. Still soft-spoken, still Harry—but laced with something you’ve never quite heard from him before.
He steps close enough that you can smell his soap, clean and woodsy, the heat of his body still radiating through the cold air. His hand finds yours—calloused fingers lacing through yours like it’s second nature—and you don’t even think to argue when he starts walking.
“Dorm,” he says, glancing down at you. “Need to… change.”
But then again, maybe not. He is different. Changed.
The walk through the castle is quiet. Not in the awkward way, but in the something’s going to happen way.
The post-match buzz still hums in the air—distant cheers echo from the common room, music spilling from behind one of the walls, laughter bouncing up the staircases—but none of it matters. Not to Harry. Not when you’re beside him.
He hasn’t let go of your hand since the moment he found you. His fingers curl around yours like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He’s not pulling you along anymore, just holding—anchoring. Guiding you through the dark halls, neither of you speaking, both of you pretending the silence isn’t loud.
His jaw is tight. Hair still damp from his shower, curls a little messier than usual. He’s in casual clothes now—sweatpants and a fitted tee that does not help your brain focus—but he walks like he’s still in his Quidditch gear. Like he’s chasing something.
Your shoulders brush. Once. Then again.
You can feel him watching you from the corner of his eye.
Finally, you break the silence. “Are you really just going to change?”
You don’t stop walking, not entirely, but you feel his gaze drag over you when he does. He doesn’t answer right away—doesn’t need to.
That look says everything.
It’s a warning. A promise.
When he finally does speak, his voice is low, almost amused.
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. He says it like that is the proof. That you’re here means you wanted this—whatever this is turning into.
Your breath catches in your throat. “You asked.”
His lips twitch. “And you said yes.”
He stops in front of a door.
You blink up at him, confused, until he lets go of your hand and presses a palm to the wood.
It swings open with a soft click.
One of the perks of being Quidditch captain—his own room. Private. Quiet. No one around to walk in and interrupt.
He doesn’t step inside right away. He just watches you.
You hesitate in the hallway.
Harry tilts his head, eyes scanning over you with a look that makes your knees wobble.
“Are you coming in?” he asks, soft. Careful. Not demanding.
He steps aside, letting you pass, but as soon as the door swings shut behind you, the air shifts.
You hear the click of the lock.
Then feel him behind you.
And his voice, low and near your ear, as his hands skims your lower back:
“I won that game for you.”
His hands settles on your waist.
The way he touches you—like it’s a right, not a question—makes your breath stutter. Not rough, not forceful, but sure. Like he’s done this in his mind a hundred times already and knows exactly where his hands belong.
“You looked good today,” he says, voice low near your ear. “In the stands. Thought about you the entire match.”
You try to twist to face him, but his other hand joins the first—both resting on your hips now, pulling you gently back into his chest.
“Shh.” He presses a slow kiss to your neck. “Let me have this.”
Your eyes flutter closed.
“I won for you,” he murmurs, nose brushing your skin. “Every save, every goal—I didn’t give a damn about the cup. I just wanted to win so I could bring you back here.”
His fingers squeeze lightly at your hips, dragging you back until you feel the length of him, firm and unavoidable, against the curve of your ass. He makes no move to hide it. Doesn’t apologize.
“Wanted to see you like this,” he whispers, “shaky, nervous. Wondering what I’m going to do next.”
Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Your mouth is dry.
“You don’t—” your voice catches. “You don’t sound very surprised.”
His smile, when he speaks again, curls against your skin. “That you came with me?” He kisses just below your ear. “No.”
“That you haven’t tried to leave?” His hands skim under your shirt, dragging up slowly, reverently. “Definitely not.”
Your skin burns where he touches.
“And this—” he murmurs, his hands grazing the underside of your breasts, thumbs brushing just shy of anything indecent, “—this is what I’ve been thinking about.”
But he doesn’t push. Not really. Not yet.
He just holds you there, waiting.
Letting you realize: he’s not going to ask. He’s not going to confess.
He’s going to take his time.
And his hands are anything but hesitant.
They glide beneath your shirt, calloused fingertips tracing the soft curves of your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your chest. He touches you like he’s mapping something sacred, like he’s been aching for this moment—starving—and he can’t decide where to linger.
You twist in his arms, turning to face him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. Chest to chest, breath to breath. You’re trembling—just slightly—but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation. It’s finally.
“I’ve thought about you too,” you whisper, voice tight with something fragile and real. “A lot.”
His eyes drop to your mouth.
Instead, he murmurs, soft and maddeningly smug, “I know.”
Your brows lift, a spark of heat rising behind your cheeks.
But Harry just keeps his eyes on yours—deep green and knowing—and doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t need to.
His hands slide up your back, splayed wide, dragging you against him like he can’t stand the space between you. His mouth finds your jaw, then the column of your neck, open-mouthed kisses that are a little wetter, a little sloppier than before. He’s losing focus. Letting instinct guide him.
And Merlin—his hands. So greedy. They’re everywhere now.
Over your hips, slipping beneath the band of your jeans. Skimming up your back again, pushing under your bra strap. One hand cups the back of your neck while the other traces lower, over your ribs, your waist, gripping possessively like he needs proof you’re real.
You breathe his name. Just once. Quiet.
He groans softly—almost soundless—but the way his hands tighten says enough.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses into your skin, breath warm. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
And yet, still, he’s careful. Even now, even with all this want beneath his skin, he doesn’t rip your clothes off. He takes his time.
Because he’s wanted you for so long, and now that he finally has you… he’s going to savor every second.
You tilt your face up toward his, barely an inch of space between you.
He’s so close—too close—but not close enough. And for a second, just one suspended heartbeat, you hesitate.
Harry Potter. Your best friend. The boy who can’t keep his eyes off you lately. The boy who touches you like he knows what you need before you do. The boy who just told you—without telling you—that he’s thought about this for a long time.
It’s soft at first—uncertain. Your lips brush his like a question. Not shy, but cautious. Testing.
But Harry answers without words.
He groans low in his throat and kisses you back like he’s been holding this in for years.
His hands are on your face now—thumb brushing your cheek, fingers tangled in your hair—and his mouth is suddenly everywhere. Kissing like it’s the only language he knows. Like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.
He walks you backward, gently, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed.
Just long enough to break the kiss and look at you. His eyes are wild—hungry—but his voice stays low and careful.
You nod, breathless, shaky from nerves. “Yeah.”
His lips crash into yours again—hungrier now. His hands are under your shirt, pushing it up with greedy impatience. His body crowds yours, not rough but full of intent.
He kisses you like he knows what you sound like when you fall apart.
And you—you kiss him like you’re only just realizing it. Like it’s all finally clicking into place.
Like you don’t want him to stop.
He kisses you again before you can say anything else. This one is different. Rougher. Hungrier.
And then he’s touching you—hands diving beneath your clothes like they belong there, greedy and reverent at once. He peels your shirt up, breaks the kiss only long enough to tug it over your head and throw it aside without even glancing. His eyes? Fixed on you like he’s never seen anything more important.
Your bra’s next. Tossed somewhere near the shirt.
His fingers splay over your ribs, your sides, dragging over bare skin like he’s trying to memorize how you feel under his hands. He palms your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, watching the way your breath catches with something like awe and pride.
Then he groans—actually groans—when you tug at his shirt like you need it gone.
“Off,” you whisper, breathless.
He yanks it over his head in one motion, and Merlin—he’s gorgeous. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never for you.
Harry moves quickly after that. His mouth finds your neck, trailing kisses lower, while his hands make quick work of your jeans. When they hit the floor, he doesn’t even bother looking where they land. Because now, his attention is locked.
He steps back just a little to take you in.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice low and thick. “You’re even better than I imagined.”
You open your mouth to ask, imagined?—but the look he gives you shuts the question down before it’s spoken.
He doesn’t want to explain.
And you don’t really want him to.
Because then he’s kissing you again, guiding you down onto the bed with a hand on your lower back, his body following yours. His hands never leave you. They slide down your thighs, around your hips, back up your spine. Like he can’t stand the idea of a single inch going untouched.
Then he’s between your legs, grinding against your soaked panties, breathing harshly into your neck.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, voice wrecked, like it hurts to keep this slow.
You arch into him, whispering his name. “Harry—”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, green burning into you.
“You want this?” he asks. One last check.
You nod—fast, certain. “Yes.”
Harry slips his hand into your panties, and when he finds how wet you are—already—his control fractures. He swears under his breath and kisses you like it’s a reward. Fingers slipping inside you with practiced ease, like he knows exactly what you like. Like he’s touched you before.
Because, in a way—he has.
Your back arches when Harry slides two fingers into you—slow, steady, purposeful. He watches the way your mouth parts, the quiet gasp you let out, the way your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, breath fanning over your cheek. “Just like that.”
His voice—it’s warm, low, smug. Because he feels how wet you are. Because your body reacts to his like it’s instinct. Because you’re clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“You’re so warm,” he groans, lips brushing your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me already.”
You whimper, legs falling further apart, as his fingers begin to move in slow, curling strokes. Expert. Confident. Not fumbling or unsure like you’d expected. No—Harry knows exactly where to press, where to stroke, when to slow down, when to speed up. Like he’s been practicing.
And you’re too dazed to notice the slip of pride in his smile.
“Feels good?” he asks, soft and low, lips trailing down your throat.
You nod fast, nearly breathless. “Yes, oh my god, yes—”
He hums, pleased, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. His pace quickens just slightly, his palm pressing against your clit as his fingers work you open, and your hips jerk against him without thinking.
His voice is a whisper near your ear, thick with heat and satisfaction.
“My fingers feel better, don’t they?”
You moan—don’t even catch the words fully. You just nod. Frantic. Eyes squeezed shut as he fucks you open with careful, greedy precision.
And Harry? Harry’s beaming.
Not in a sweet-boyfriend way.
In a fuck yes I knew it kind of way. All slow smirks and possessive hands and the low, gravelled sound of your name in his throat.
You’re losing it in his lap, gasping his name like a prayer, and Harry’s watching you fall apart like he’s already memorized the whole process.
You gasp—loud, desperate—when he curls his fingers just right again.
“Harry—don’t stop, please, don’t—”
That does something to him. You feel the tension shift in his shoulders, feel the way his other hand tightens on your thigh like he’s trying not to lose control completely.
He looks at you—really looks at you—eyes dark and hungry and so full of something you can’t quite name.
“You like this that much?” he murmurs, fingers dragging slow, lazy strokes inside you. “Didn’t expect you to beg so quickly…”
Your face burns, but your hips are rolling against his hand, chasing the rhythm he keeps teasing you with.
He leans in, his breath hot against your cheek. “That’s it. Keep saying my name like that.”
“Harry,” you breathe again, and he groans—deep and wrecked like he’s the one losing it.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispers, thumb brushing your clit in a slow circle that makes your thighs shake. “How many times I’ve imagined you like this.”
You whimper. Your hands fist in the back of his shirt, pulling him closer.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he says, almost to himself. His lips brush yours, not quite a kiss. “So soft. So needy.”
You try to kiss him but can barely keep your mouth on his—you’re too close, too sensitive, every nerve singing.
“C’mon, love,” he coaxes, voice thick and warm, fingers pressing harder, faster now. “You gonna come for me?”
You nod helplessly, crying out again, and he just grins.
He keeps his fingers moving, keeps his thumb circling just right, and his free hand slides up your back, grounding you, keeping you close as your hips stutter and your mouth parts in a broken gasp—
And Harry—Harry holds you through it like he’s meant to, kissing your cheek, whispering, “That’s it. That’s my girl. Just like that.”
And when you finally catch your breath, blinking up at him in a daze, he’s smiling down at you like he’s never wanted anything more than this.
Your breathing slows—just a bit. Muscles soft and trembling, body still buzzing as you slump forward against him. Harry lets you, one hand stroking lazily up and down your spine, the other resting just at the curve of your thigh. Possessive. Warm.
You’re still straddling him, flushed and dazed, and he’s still fully hard beneath you.
You shift a little. Feel it.
He huffs a quiet breath against your neck, and it sounds very much like a groan.
“Still wearing too many clothes,” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Harry laughs low, his nose nudging your jaw, lips pressing a kiss just under your ear. “I know.”
You sit back on his lap as he leans away, and it’s blatantly obvious just how hard he still is. His trousers do nothing to hide it, and you feel his cock twitch against you through the fabric.
He sees the way your gaze lingers. Sees the flush deepen on your cheeks. He smirks, a little crooked. A little cocky.
Then—slowly—he lifts his hips just enough to push his trousers down.
And Harry—bare now, flushed and leaking against his lower stomach—catches your reaction like it’s the best thing he’s seen all day.
“You staring?” he asks softly, hands sliding back up your thighs. He tugs you forward again, dragging you over his lap until your chest presses to his. “Not that I mind…”
Your fingers trail down his chest instinctively. He’s warm. Solid. His muscles jump under your touch.
“You’re very handsy,” you murmur.
He hums, not the least bit apologetic. “You’re soft. And warm. And very naked on top of me.”
His hands curve around your waist again, fingers splaying possessively. He pulls you in—hips rocking just enough for his cock to nudge where his fingers had just been.
You gasp, hips jerking slightly, and he grins against your skin.
“See?” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re not complaining.”
You don’t. You just sigh, melted against him, your hands threading through his hair as he holds you there, rocking against you—teasing, not quite in yet, but close.
“Still feel good?” he asks, breath hot on your cheek.
You nod slowly, lips brushing his jaw. “You feel perfect.”
Harry’s eyes flutter shut for half a second—like your words alone undid him.
“C’mon, love,” he says, voice low and needy now. “Let me have you.”
Harry shifts beneath you, hands curling around your hips, guiding you into place. His touch is still gentle—but his grip has that quiet, firm urgency.
Because there’s nothing rushed in how he does it. No frenzy, no frantic kiss—just the way his gaze drops between you, then slowly lifts to meet your eyes again. Like he’s memorizing the moment. Like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.
It’s slow. Deliberate. He draws a breath through his nose as he pushes deeper, every inch feeding that pressure between your hips.
You gasp—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body gives way to him, stretching, tightening, your thighs trembling.
“Fuck,” he whispers. The word is quiet. Shaky. Almost reverent. “You feel—”
You cling to him, mouth falling open on a choked little sound, one hand fisting in the sheets as he bottoms out and stills.
“Harry,” you breathe. “You feel so—so good.”
His hands stroke your sides, up your waist, then down again like he’s mapping you. Worshipping. Holding you there, full of him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.
“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, voice low and steady, his lips ghosting along your cheek. “All those little sounds I heard… all those nights?”
Your face burns—but you can’t even look away. He’s watching you too closely.
“I’ve thought about this,” he goes on. His voice is quieter now. Rougher. “Thought about having you like this. Watching your face while I fill you up.”
You cry out—soft, broken.
Slow. Deep. Dragging every inch, watching the way your eyes flutter, the way your lips part, the way your body grips him like you never want to let go.
“Wanted to take my time,” he breathes, pace just beginning to build, steady and deliberate. “Wanted to be sweet.”
You moan when he hits that spot again, and he groans—really groans this time, low and wrecked.
“But I’ve dreamed of throwing your legs over my shoulders,” he confesses, voice hot in your ear, “and fucking you senseless.”
Your fingers dig into his back.
He growls—quietly, but it’s there—and then you’re flat on your back, legs hiked up, and Harry’s over you, braced on one arm while the other grabs behind your knee, pushing it up just the way he imagined.
You’re gasping with every thrust, back arching, mind spinning—and he’s watching you, absolutely drinking in the sight of you falling apart under him.
“Look at you,” he pants. “So good for me. So fucking perfect.”
You moan his name again, and Harry—he shudders, thrusts sharper, like he’s chasing the sound of it.
Subtle at first. Just a little more urgency in the drag of his hips, a little less space between thrusts. But it builds, and fast—until the rhythm turns heady and hard, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.
Harry groans—deep, broken—like he’s feeling every inch of you, every pulse, every clench. And you? You’re a mess beneath him.
Fingers clutching the sheets.
Mouth slack with gasps and soft, ruined sounds.
He watches you—drinks you in.
“Fuck—” he breathes, nearly choking on it, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “You look—”
He just thrusts deeper, harder, makes your body jolt with every push, like he needs to see you break again and again.
He’s hitting so deep it burns in the best way—your breath catching, toes curling, hands scrabbling at his arms, his back, whatever you can reach. You’re whimpering his name now, over and over, and it only spurs him on.
He doesn’t say it, but it’s there—in the way he moves, the way he grips your thighs, the way his gaze devours you:
I’ve seen this before. Dreamed of it. Watched you.
Because now he gets to hear the sounds up close. Feel you tremble under him. Watch your face crumple when he thrusts just right.
You’re gasping something—words lost in the haze—and Harry leans in, one hand braced by your head, the other gripping your hip, steadying you for the next push.
He’s breathing hard now, pink flush blooming across his cheeks, hair damp and wild. You look up at him and it’s all there—the hunger, the awe, the want that’s been eating him alive for weeks.
“You feel—” he bites it off, jaw clenched. “So fucking good.”
He means it. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, in the way his voice slips near a groan.
Your legs shake around him. Your hands fist the sheets, and then—when it’s all too much—you clutch at his shoulders, like if you let go, you’ll unravel completely.
He leans down—folds you deeper—and with your legs pushed nearly to your chest, he drives in harder.
You sob his name this time.
“Yeah,” he rasps, lips brushing your jaw. “That’s it.”
He chases the sound of your pleasure like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. His rhythm messy now, wild, hips snapping into you as if you’re the best thing he’s ever touched—and you are.
You’re close—so close—and he knows.
He can feel it in the way your thighs shake, the way your moans catch and stutter and dissolve into broken gasps.
Because this? This is his.
Your body’s already strung tight, pushed to the edge again and again by the rhythm of his hips and the low, filthy praises ghosting past his lips. You’re soaked, flushed, wrecked—so close you’re practically trembling.
And Harry? He’s obsessed.
He wants to see you break.
So he drops one hand from your waist and slips it between your bodies, fingers deft, practiced—like he’s done this a hundred times in his head.
The moment he circles your clit—just right—you jolt.
“Shh,” he murmurs, eyes dark, glued to your face as you fall apart for him. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
His fingers never stop, matching the quick, relentless snap of his hips. The dual stimulation is too much, overwhelming and perfect, your body arching, legs shaking, mouth falling open in a gasp that’s more soundless cry than word.
Harry watches it all unfold—utterly rapt.
The way your back bows, your fingers dig into his shoulders, your thighs quake around his waist. You cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“That’s it,” he breathes, half-strangled, as your orgasm crashes through you.
Pleasure rips through your spine, hot and endless, and Harry keeps fucking you through it—his rhythm staggering now, ragged and urgent, because you’re pulsing around him and he’s so close it’s painful.
You whimper something—maybe his name, maybe a plea—and that’s all it takes.
Harry groans, deep and guttural, and buries himself to the hilt as he comes, stars blinking behind his eyes.
Forehead pressed to yours.
You’re both breathless, skin slick, hearts racing in sync.
Harry barely moves—just shifts enough to cup your jaw, gaze flicking over your face like he’s trying to memorize everything.
His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks.
He huffs a shaky laugh, brushing your hair back.
You smile, still dazed, and curl closer. His arms go around you automatically, tugging you flush against him.
You can feel the steady beat of his heart.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Another to your neck.
His voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it.
“Been thinking about you for so long.”
But the weight of it settles between your ribs, warm and heady.
You nuzzle in, fingers tangling in the short curls at the base of his neck, and Harry sighs.
You’re still wrapped around each other, bare skin against bare skin, when you both drift into that quiet, hazy calm.
Your limbs are heavy and boneless, tangled with his as the haze of it all begins to settle. Harry’s still inside you, still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. He noses at your cheek, breath catching a little when you nuzzle into him like you belong there.
The silence is warm. Safe. Until you break it with a soft, breathless laugh.
“I’ve thought about this,” you murmur, fingertips ghosting along his spine. “About you.”
Harry stills. Not in fear—he’s listening. Hanging on every word.
“I mean,” you amend, a little shy now, “I’ve… thought about you like this. A lot.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face, and that boyish grin you know all too well starts to bloom.
His eyes go a little wide, like he’s only just registered what he said. “I meant—me too. I meant me too,” he rushes out, cheeks going pink, voice cracking with the sheer panic of it.
You stare at him for a beat, brows slightly furrowed… then snort.
“Your brain’s scrambled.”
Harry exhales hard through a laugh, presses his forehead to yours. “You have no idea.”
You hum, brushing your nose against his. “You’re not gonna disappear on me now, are you?”
His answer is immediate. “Not a chance.”
You curl tighter into him, tucking your head into the space beneath his chin. He wraps his arms around you, greedy even in the softness of the moment. You drift off like that, just lie there, letting everything settle.
He closes his eyes, smile faint and smug and hidden in your hair, like he hasn’t just gotten everything he’s ever wanted.
You'll never find out about his dirty little secret.
