Like Harry so much

You stir when the bed dips, murmuring his name in that sleepy-soft voice that makes his cock twitch painfully against his zipper.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your knee as he settles between your thighs. “Go back to sleep. Just need my dessert.”

He starts slow—god, so fucking slow—like he has all the time in the world. Mouth warm and lazy, kissing over the damp cotton first, breathing you in through the fabric until the panties are soaked twice over. Only then does he hook a finger under the gusset and tug it aside, humming at the sight of you make—swollen, glistening, already fluttering for him.

The first lick is a long, flat stripe from entrance to clit, deliberate, savoring. He groans like he’s tasting something forbidden and perfect, the sound rumbling straight into your core.

“Fuck… missed this all day,” he mumbles against you, voice thick with exhaustion and hunger. “Missed this pretty pussy waiting for me.”

His thumb settles over your clit, pressing in slow circles—just enough pressure to make your hips jerk—while his tongue pushes inside you, slow and filthy, curling like he’s trying to drink you dry. Every tiny reaction you give him—the gasp, the whimper, the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head—he catalogues it, stores it, uses it. He learns you like he learns constellations: reverent, obsessive, permanent.

Hours. He stays down there for hours.

Sometimes he pulls back just to watch his thumb work you, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, lips shiny with you. “Look at you leaking for me already… such a messy girl.” Then he dives back in, lips sealing around your clit in a tight, perfect “O,” sucking soft and steady while two fingers slide in to stroke that spot that makes your back arch clean off the bed.

You’re close—so close—when he suddenly changes.

It’s like a switch flips.

The lazy worship turns feral in a heartbeat. Tongue flicking fast and hard, thumb grinding rough circles, fingers curling and pumping with ruthless precision. The wet sounds are obscene—loud, sloppy, echoing in the quiet room. He growls against you, hips grinding into the mattress because he’s so hard it hurts, chasing his own edge just from the taste of you.

“Give it to me,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Cum on my tongue—wanna feel you fall apart, baby, please—”

You shatter—sobbing his name, thighs clamping around his head, whole body shaking as he drinks down every pulse, every gush, licking you through it like he’ll die if he misses a single drop.

When the aftershocks fade, he doesn’t stop. Just slows again, gentle now, soothing, pressing sleepy kisses to your swollen folds, your inner thighs, the soft crease where leg meets hip. His lower face is drenched—chin, lips, even his nose glistening—and he doesn’t care. Wipes it off on your thigh and smiles, drowsy and satisfied.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

He gathers you close, pulling you into his chest, your back to his front, legs tangled. His cock is still hard against your ass, but he ignores it, nuzzling into your hair.

“Love you,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Love how you taste… love how you sound you make when you come for me… love you in my sweater, in my bed…”

You feel him smile against your neck, hear the soft, contented hum as he finally lets sleep take him.

“Just needed my dessert,” he mumbles, already half-gone. “Best part of the whole damn day.”

And with your taste still on his tongue and your body limp in his arms, Xavier drifts off—happy, full, and utterly yours.

祁煜 ⛦ RAFAYEL !

Rafayel comes to you pouting.

You hear it before you see him— the dramatic sigh, the keys tossed onto the counter with theatrical flair, the soft thud of his shoes kicked off one by one.

“Cutie ignored me all day,” he announces to the empty living room, voice lilting like he’s wounded. “Left me to rot in that boring studio while you were out doing… whatever mysterious human things you do.”

You’re on the couch in nothing but his silk button-up—three buttons done, the rest hanging open) and a pair of lace panties he bought you “as a joke.” The joke’s on him; they’re already ruined.

He stops in the doorway, eyes narrowing, lips curling into that dangerous little smirk.

“Oh. Look who decided to dress up like a present.”

You don’t even get to answer before he’s on you, knees hitting the rug, hands sliding up your thighs and spreading them wide like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.

“Missed this pretty cunt,” he murmurs, voice velvet and venom. “Bet it missed me too, hm?”

He starts slow, cruelly slow. Kisses everywhere except where you need him: soft presses along the crease of your thigh, the delicate skin just above your clit, the lace edge of your panties. Every time you twitch toward his mouth he pulls back, laughing under his breath.

“Rafayel—”

“Shh. Good art takes time, baby.”

He drags the flat of his tongue over the soaked fabric once, just once, then blows a cool stream of air right through it. Your hips jerk; he pins them down with one hand like it’s nothing.

“Sensitive tonight? Cute.”

Finally, finally, he tugs the lace aside with his teeth. The first real touch is just his lips: plush, warm, closing over your folds in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. He makes out with your pussy the way he kisses you when he’s trying to ruin your lipstick: deep, lazy, filthy, lips sliding and catching and sucking like he’s trying to drink you through them. A soft, wet sound every time he pulls away and dives back in.

You feel it in your spine.

He hums some annoying pop song that’s been stuck in his head for three days, the vibration rolling straight into your clit. Your hand flies to his hair on instinct.

“Yes—fuck—pull it,” he breathes against you, tongue flicking out to trace your entrance. “Use me, cutie, c’mon.”

You do. You fist those soft violet strands and shove his face exactly where you want it. He moans like you just gave him a gift, nose bumping your clit, rubbing it in messy circles until it’s shiny with you. Then he pulls back just far enough to spit, once, twice, watching it drip down your folds with half-lidded eyes.

“Pretty,” he whispers, and seals his mouth over you again.

He edges you twice. Brings you right to the cliff with that wicked mouth and those long artist’s fingers curling inside you, then stops, blowing cool air over your throbbing clit until you’re shaking and cursing his name. The third time you sob, actually sob, he laughs softly and gives in.

“Alright, alright. Greedy baby.”

And then he doesn’t stop.

He sucks your clit between those sinful lips and flutters his tongue so fast your vision whites out. Fingers scissoring, stroking, spitting again just to hear the wet sound when he pumps them back in. You come with his name cracked in half on your tongue, thighs clamping around his ears, and he just groans like he’s the one unraveling, drinking every pulse like it’s paint and he’s starving.

You’re still trembling through the aftershocks when he starts again.

Second orgasm. Third. Fourth. By the fifth you’re crying, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his forehead while he licks you open like he’ll never get enough.

“R-Raf—please—too much—”

He pulls off just long enough to flash you a lazy, smug grin, lips swollen pink, chin dripping, eyes glassy with lust.

“One more,” he coos, voice hoarse. “You can give me one more, can’t you? For your poor neglected boyfriend who missed you all day?”

He waits until your hand falls limp against the cushion, until your body going soft and trusting again.

Then he dives back in.

By the time he finally lets you breathe, you’re boneless, tears drying on your cheeks, his silk shirt twisted around your waist. He crawls up your body, kisses you slow and deep so you taste yourself all over his tongue, and smiles against your lips.

“Best welcome-home ever,” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Next time leave the panties off. Save me thirty whole seconds.”

You’re too wrecked to even roll your eyes.

He just laughs, tucks you into his chest, and hums that stupid song again, content, smug, and absolutely drenched in you.

黎深 ⛦ ZAYNE !

You come home dragging your feet, shoulders knotted, temples throbbing from twelve straight hours of deadlines and idiots. Zayne is already there—white coat traded for a charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed to the elbows, glasses low on his nose while he reviews charts on the couch. He glances up once and immediately closes the tablet.

“Bed. Now,” he says, voice calm, clinical, final. “You’re presenting with acute sympathetic overdrive. Heart rate elevated, trapezius spasming, cortisol through the roof.”

You groan. “I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” He stands, towering, gentle but immovable. “Doctor’s orders: you need to relieve yourself properly. Thoroughly.”

You flop face-first onto the mattress still in your work clothes. He follows, fingers already working the buttons of your blouse with surgical precision.

“And you?” you mumble into the pillow. “You pulled a double shift yesterday. You must be just as tense.”

A low hum behind you. “I am. Which is why we’re going to treat both of us at once. Efficiency, darling.”

Before you can ask what that means, he’s sliding your skirt and panties off in one smooth motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing, settling on his back in the center of the bed. His cock is already hard against his slacks—thick, flushed, curving slightly toward his stomach when he frees it. He pats his chest.

“Straddle me. Face down.”

You know the position. You love the position—sixty-nine. Still, your thighs shake as you climb over him, knees bracketing his ribs, hands bracing on either side of his hips. He guides you back until your soaked cunt hovers an inch above his mouth.

“Good girl. Now lower yourself. Let me take care of you.”

The first touch of his tongue is precise—one long, deliberate lick from entrance to clit that makes your arms buckle. He groans, deep and satisfied, hands clamping on your hips to pull you flush against his face.

“Labia minora engorged,” he murmurs, voice muffled, vibrating straight into your clit. “Clitoral hood retracted. Perfect autonomic response.”

You whimper around the head of his cock as you sink down, lips stretching wide. He’s thick, hot, pulsing against your tongue, and the taste of him—clean skin, faint salt, pure Zayne—makes you dizzy.

He starts slow, academic, like he’s mapping you. Tongue tracing every fold, cataloguing every twitch.

“The levator ani is fluttering beautifully,” he says, breath ghosting over your clit. “Pelvic floor tension releasing already. Excellent.”

Then his fingers slide in—two at once, no resistance because you’re dripping for him—and crook upward in that cruel, perfect angle that hits your front wall dead-on. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking in steady pulses while his fingers pump slow, deep, relentless.

You choke on his cock, eyes watering, throat working to take him deeper. He rewards you with a throaty moan that you feel in your spine.

“Sexual release triggers oxytocin and prolactin cascade,” he lectures between licks, voice wrecked now. “Reduces serum cortisol by up to thirty percent. You’re going to come for me at least three times. Minimum therapeutic dose.”

You try to pull off to breathe and he growls, hips flexing up, fucking shallowly into your mouth.

“No. Stay. Breathe through your nose. Relax your soft palate—yes—like that.”

His fingers speed up, scissoring, curling, while his tongue flicks your clit in tight, merciless circles. You come the first time with a muffled scream around his cock, thighs clamping on his head, entire body seizing. He doesn’t stop —just switches to soft, soothing licks while you ride it out, murmuring praise against your folds.

“First orgasm achieved. Heart rate one-thirty and climbing. Preparing second.”

The second hits harder, faster, because he adds a third finger and sucks your clit like he’s trying to leave a bruise. You sob around him, tears streaking into his trimmed hair, hips grinding helplessly.

He’s leaking steadily now, precome painting your tongue, cock jerking every time you swallow around him. You can feel him getting close—his thighs tensing under your hands, breath ragged against your cunt.

“Cum with me,” he orders, voice cracking for the first time. “Third one. Now.”

He curls his fingers hard, tongue lashing your clit without mercy, and you shatter again—vision whiting out, whole body locking up. The clench of your throat around his cock drags him over with you; he spills hot and thick down your throat with a broken groan, hips stuttering, fingers buried to the knuckle inside you while he licks you through both climaxes like he’ll never get enough.

When it’s over you collapse forward, cheek against his thigh, panting. He gently maneuvers you off him, turns you around, gathers you close. His face is flushed, lips swollen and shining with you, glasses fogged and crooked. He kisses your temple, voice soft again.

“Cortisol levels should be negligible now,” he whispers. “Sleep. I’ll run a warm bath in twenty minutes. Hydration and electrolytes next.”

You laugh, hoarse and wrecked. “You’re such a nerd.”

He hums, already half-asleep, arms locked around you like steel bands.

“And you’re cured,” he murmurs against your hair. “For tonight, at least.”

秦彻 ⛦ SYLUS !

Sylus is sprawled on the couch in nothing but low-slung grey sweatpants and that infuriating little smirk, scarlet eyes flicking across the tablet in his hand like the numbers on the screen are more interesting than you.

You’re curled against his side, wearing his black dress shirt and literally nothing else, pretending to scroll on your phone. Except you’re not pretending very well. Your gaze keeps sliding to the sharp, arrogant line of his nose, the way it cuts through the dim light like it was sculpted for sin.

The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Your nose looks so rideable.”

Silence.

Then the tablet lowers, slow and deliberate. Those crimson eyes lock onto you, amusement and pure danger swirling together.

“Come again, sweetie?”

Heat floods your face. You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified, but it’s too late. The smirk spreads, wicked and slow.

“Didn’t know my kitten was so obsessed with my nose,” he drawls, voice velvet and smoke. “How long have you been thinking about grinding that pretty little cunt all over it, hm?”

You squeak. Actually squeak.

He tosses the tablet aside, stands in one fluid motion, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Two strides and you’re in his bedroom, the city glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows behind the massive bed.

Sylus drops onto his back, arms folded behind his head, looking like a king waiting for tribute.

“Well?” He arches one brow. “Ride it, then. Ride until you’re satisfied, kitten. I’ve got all night.”

Your thighs are trembling before you even straddle his chest. He watches, hungry, as you crawl forward, knees settling on either side of his head. The moment your slick folds brush the bridge of his nose he inhales, deep and filthy, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re already dripping for me. Greedy girl.”

You sink down slowly, gasping at the first contact (his nose is perfect, straight and firm, slotting right between your lips, the tip nudging your clit). The groan he lets out vibrates through your entire body.

“Move,” he orders, voice rough. “Use me.”

You do.

It starts tentative—little rolls of your hips, testing, savoring, but his big hands slide up to grip your ass, spreading you wider, guiding you harder, faster. Every forward drag smears your wetness along the sharp ridge of his nose; every backward glide has the tip bumping your clit so perfectly your vision sparks.

“That’s it,” he growls against you, tongue flicking out to lap at your entrance between breaths. “Fuck my face exactly how you want. Make a mess.”

You lose it.

Hands flying to the headboard, you start riding him in earnest—hips snapping, thighs burning, tits bouncing under the open shirt. His tongue spears inside you every time you glide back, nose grinding your clit mercilessly when you rock forward. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds and your broken moans echoing moans of his name.

“Sylus—oh god—right there—”

He laughs, dark and filthy, the sound muffled against your cunt. “Not God, sweetie. Just your very devoted boyfriend letting you ruin his face.”

You’re dripping everywhere—down his nose, his cheeks, his chin, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He drinks it like wine, tongue thrusting deep, nose rubbing hard circles until your legs start shaking uncontrollably.

“Close,” you sob, nails scraping the headboard. “Sylus, I’m—”

“Do it,” he snarls, fingers digging bruises into your ass, forcing you to ride faster. “Come all over my fucking face. Mark me up, kitten. Want to smell you for days.”

The orgasm slams into you so hard you nearly collapse. Your whole body locks, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you gush against his mouth, hips jerking helplessly while he keeps licking, keeps rubbing keeps you riding the peak until you’re crying from overstimulation.

When the tremors finally fade, you try to lift off, legs jelly. His arms lock around your thighs like steel.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasps, voice hoarse, face absolutely drenched and gleaming. “I said until you’re satisfied. We’re nowhere near done.”

You whimper, because you’re still pulsing, still empty and aching in the best way.

He grins up at you, wicked and adoring, nose shiny with you, lips swollen and red.

“Round two, sweetie. And this time I’m setting the pace.”

He flips you effortlessly, pinning your thighs open with his broad shoulders, and dives back in like a man possessed.

You’re not leaving that bed until the sun comes up—and neither is the smug, perfect, rideable nose that started it all.

夏以昼 ⛦ CALEB !

You can’t even remember how you got here.

One minute you were storming into Caleb’s room, cheeks burning with second-hand shame embarassment—finding your favorite pair of panties balled up under his pillow like some dirty little secret. The next, he was on his knees in front of you, sunshine smile gone, pupils blown wide, begging in that cracked, desperate voice you’d never heard from him before.

“I’m sorry, pipsqueak—fuck, I’m so sorry, I just—your smell—”

And now it’s been hours.

Hours of him on his knees between your spread thighs, face shoved into the soaked cotton of the panties you didn’t even bother taking off. Hours of his tongue dragging slow, worshipful stripes over the fabric, nose buried so deep he’s practically suffocating himself in you. Hours of him whining like a kicked puppy every time you let him up for air.

You’ve got one leg hooked over his shoulder, knee locked around the back of his neck, heel digging into his spine to keep him exactly where you want him. His hands are fisted in the sheets because you threatened to stop everything if he touched himself.

“Please,” he mumbles again, voice muffled and wet against your crotch. “Please, I’m sorry—”

“Please what, huh?” You tug his hair hard enough to make him gasp, forcing his red-rimmed eyes up to yours. “You thought you’d just get away with stealing my panties like some gross little pervert? Look at you now.”

A broken whimper spills out of him. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding against nothing, and you feel the wet spot on his sweatpants brush your ankle.

You laugh, mean and sweet. “Licking my cunt through my own panties like a dog. Pathetic.”

He sobs—actually sobs, hot breath fanning over the soaked fabric. His cock is outlined obscenely in his pants, flushed angry red at the tip, a steady drip of precome darkening the grey cotton. When his hand twitches toward it you kick it away with your free foot.

“Oh no no no. This is a punishment, remember? You don’t get to touch that filthy cock of your’s.”

Caleb’s whole body shakes. He leans forward again without being told, tongue flattening against the gusset, licking broad, desperate stripes like he’s trying to drink you through the barrier. You reward him with a slow roll of your hips, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose, and he moans like he’s the one coming undone.

“You humiliated me, Caleb,” you sigh, threading fingers through his hair just to yank harder. “Ruined everything we had. Our friendship, everything. Least you can do is feel a fraction of it.”

You glance down and, oh. There’s a fresh, darker patch spreading at the front of his sweats. He came just from this. Just from tasting you through cotton and being called a pervert.

You laugh again, delighted and cruel. “Aww, did you just come in your pants? Already?”

He whimpers, nodding frantically, hips still twitching through the aftershocks.

“Poor baby,” you coo, and finally, finally hook your thumbs into the waistband of your ruined panties. “Guess I’ll be nice—ah!—wait, wait—ahhh, fuck!”

The second the fabric is pushed aside Caleb snaps.

Hands shoot up to grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open like he’s starving. There’s a sharp rip as he tears the panties clean in half, and then his mouth is on you, no hesitation, no teasing, just pure, sloppy desperation.

He buries his face so deep his nose is flush against your clit, shaking his head side to side to coat himself in you. Tongue plunging inside, curling, licking up every drop like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted anything good in his life. The noises are obscene, wet, animal, his moans vibrating straight into your core.

You cry out, back arching, fingers tightening in his hair until he whines. He doesn’t care. He’s humping your leg now, cock still hard and leaking through his soaked sweats, dragging himself against your leg like he can’t help it. You twitch at the sheer size of it, the feeling of it dragging against your skin through his pants.

“F-fuck—Caleb—”

He pulls back just long enough to gasp, “Taste so fucking good, pipsqueak, please don’t stop, please—”

Then he’s back, sucking your clit between his lips, tongue flicking fast and messy while his hips rut helplessly against your calf. You can feel how big he is even through the fabric, thick and ridiculous, and the thought alone makes you clench around nothing.

Your thighs start shaking. You’re close, so close, and he can tell because he doubles down, licking into you like he’s trying to crawl inside and never leave.

When you come it’s sudden and brutal, a full-body spasm that has you yanking his hair hard enough to hurt. He moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, drinking you down in greedy gulps, hips stuttering as he spills again in his pants just from the taste of you cuming on his tongue.

When the haze clears you’re both panting. He’s still on his knees, face shiny and wrecked, eyes glassy with devotion and shame.

You loosen your grip in his hair, petting gently now.

“Friendship’s not the only thing ruined,” you whisper, breathless.

Caleb just smiles, small and sheepish and utterly fucked-out. “Good,” he rasps, voice raw. “Was getting tired of pretending anyway.”