Neil whimpers happily with the new force and pace, the scrape of teeth and the very slight itch of stubble—Harry’s clean shaven but as of that morning, so there’s enough there to get the slightest rasp. He strokes himself urgently now, reaching for that final pleasure. Everything has a slightly desperate edge to it now, and he loves when it gets like that.

“Gonna make me come,” he murmurs, not nonsensically, but with fair warning. He’s not quite there but he will be soon if they keep up just like this.