Harry whines at the thought, his fingers slippery and sliding inside of him, a third finger easily added to the rest. He’s fingered himself. But he’s never been wet like this. Never felt himself grow wetter, messier, with every whimpery pulse of arousal, with every thought and touch. "I’m making a mess," he whispers, then clears his throat because he’s not a -- It’s a punishment. He’ll handle it with grace, damnit. "Please bed me."