Mature Harry Imagines

"I wanna make love to you."

Y/N bobs her head docilely, one of her shaking hands lifting onto his head, her fingers drowning themselves in his burnished auburn locks.

His hair had become quite long during the last few months and she had grown fond of the change. On groggy, rainy days when either was too lazy to rise out of bed Harry would lay in between her legs, his back resting against her thighs with his head pillowed by her stomach as she delighted herself with braiding his curls. He loved the gentle tugs that came with the preparation of the hair-do and she adored the emulsifying calm that would wash across her entire being at having him so promisingly close– at such a reachable and unwavering proximity– that both were indulged in a sweet peace.

He had been a bit doubtful at first due to multiple comments about it looking odd and unflattering but Y/N had brushed those cruel demands off his shoulders, convincing him that he looked incredible. He had moved on and taken the appearance as a symbol of how he had evolved morally– of how he used to want to adapt to everyones’ standards and, thus, sacrificing his own while doing so. It signifies how he is confident in himself now and in who he is and Y/N honestly could not be more proud.

She now threads her nails through the lustrous strands, scratching at the back of Harry’s scalp lightly and reminiscing in the low, penetrating thrum of his approval. His humungous palms cup her jaw, his forearms propped on either side of her head so he could easily control his movements. His head droops close next to her own, lips nibbling at the tiny flab of her earlobe as sinful whimpers drip from his plump, cerise lips. “I’m so tight in these clothes, darling. Please take care of me.”

Harry is still fully clothed, although his ripped jeans are hanging low on his structured hips and his shirt is halfway unbuttoned (a new habit he had picked up) to expose the entirety of his aphid tattoo. Y/N rarely ever got the luxury of undressing him because whenever they took the stepping stones towards having a passionate night, Harry would almost always be naked by the time they had reached their bedroom door.

But tonight was different. His impatience had not changed in the while he’d been away (that had been obvious by the way he had straddled her in the backseat of the rental car and nearly bitten her lips raw) but he had collected enough self-control to make it to the bed this time before he began.

Y/N feathers her fingers down the exposed portion of Harry’s chest, tracing each swallow tattoo with the very tip of each nail before dragging them down the hard muscles that lead to the butterfly on his stomach. She presses the pads into the warm flesh of his pectorals and coasts them up over his shoulders and down his back, scraping at his damp pores. Y/N pulls Harry’s upper body closer to her’s until their chests meld together, her mouth encompassing his left shoulder. Teeth dive into his skin and she can feel the supple tissue straining against her hold.

A strangled gasp of tension grounds from within Harry’s vocal chords, his fingers balling up the sheets under Y/N’s body in an attempt to maintain composure. He can feel his pupils enlarging with craving, his eyelids flittering.

“Fucking Christ, Y/N. I’m going to j-jizz in my pants if you don’t hurry this up.” His voice is hoarse and trembling, putting an effort in tone to sound dominant but coming off more submissive by the second. The stuttering wasn’t helping at all.

“Wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” She mocks him, lacking regret and watching a mild rage flare up inside his haunting jade irises.

“Why are you fucking with me? I just…I just want to show you…” Harry’s voice has a rough edge but Y/N can sense a twinge of hurt sewn into the words, especially near the faltering end.

He’s upset because he is fretfully horny and sentimentally open and she has decided to lie there making jokes. He knows she is aware of how he struggles to be forward with his emotions so the notion of her using his fragile want for her– his need– as a weapon to taunt him at such a crucial moment had pricked at his heart. Even if she just means it in a playful manner, at the moment, it hurts.