He wakes up with a fever, his breathing is labored, and the sheets beneath him are wrinkled. Sleepy and unable to comprehend properly, his eyes are unfocused. His heart beats noisily behind his ribs, and a low moan escapes his open mouth. Above him is a pleasant heaviness pressing against the bed, and inside him is a yang root pushing the walls apart with slow, drawn-out movements. It is a steady, relaxed rhythm. His eyelashes flutter, and his cheek is pressed against the pillow beneath him. His waist sags at its best angle, slowly but steadily accepting whatever is given to him, and his legs spread out helplessly harder. His hands reverently touch and hold his hips still, and Harry moans softly.
"You're awake," whisper in his ear with warm breaths.
"Mn."
He feels too tired, too lazy. His breaths and exhalations mingle with quiet moans, and his pleasure only increases with each sure friction buried deep inside him. Yang's root moves gently but powerfully, wringing out more and more silent moans. Skin to skin. Closer. Even closer, even deeper. Sweeter. Torture of pleasure. He feels a tingling all over his body and can't contain the shivers rolling through his body with each new thrust. It feels so good right now, while he's being used. Pleasurable. His fingers clench his thighs to maple leaves, the tension building in his muscles. He clenches his lower lip with his teeth and feels the blood on his tongue from his sharp fangs, clasping his senses, Harry quietly calls his lover by name.
"You're so good to me."
"Mn," he sounds quietly in response.
He shrinks, the heat building up inside him, demanding an outlet. He finds it hard to stay still, his fingers clutching at the sheets next to his head, almost suffocating with bliss. It's a perfect pressure, the girth, the speed — all of which only pushes him closer to the edge. It doesn't take long — in an instant, both shuddered and froze at the same time. Out of his throbbing chrysanthemum came to a squelching, love juices pouring down his skin. His body went limp and his chest heaving as if he'd just run a thousand leagues. His tongue licks the injured lip, his throat working, swallowing blood. His eyes grow heavy, pleasant negativity wraps around his weary body, and his red-ribboned fingers intertwine with his own, and Harry falls asleep.