Harry letting you ride his face and he's pressing you down onto his mouth to get you closer and he's properly moaning and smacking your ass.
This..,.,.,.this is an attack..,.,.
Just imagine you guys are laying back on your king bed, facing the flat screen TV across the room and locked in a heated match of Mario Kart. Harry’s clad in an old, scuffed up pair of black denim jeans and the yellow smiley face t-shirt he nearly wore to shreds back in Jamaica. His socks are mismatched (one has a fuchsia background with tiny flamingos all over it– this sock is actually yours– and the other is a plain black Nike ankle-high) and his pants are unbuttoned, hair fluffy and somewhat tamed since you’d just gotten home from a movie date.
He’s been gunning for you since the match started, storing away shells for just the right moment to knock you right off the track. Every time a turtle smacks the back bumper of your tiny vehicle, you let out a screech, which he returns with a smug grin and maniacal, triumphant little giggles.
When it’s come down to the two of you at the front, you randomly start to kick at his feet and legs, trying to topple him off the bed and distract him just enough to end him once and for all. But Harry can play dirty, too, resulting in him rolling onto you and crushing you under his weight as he looks over his shoulder, aiming the controller over his head and using this advantage to the max.
“Harry, stop it! That’s not fair!” You buck under him, shoulders thrashing as you try to free your arms to at least keep moving in the game.
“You started it!” He aims a bomb at you, dangling the remote above your head and tapping his finger threateningly over the release button. “Sorry, pet. Gonna have to try harder than that.”
You kick at his knees violently, wailing out in defeat when you feel your controller shudder and let out the sound that signifies you lost.