Prof!Harry part 5 (Patreon)

Alright guys, this is one last tease before the big KAPLOW! 

hope you like reading it as much as i like writing it! 

part 1 

part 2 

part 3 

part 4 

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v.

Harry thinks Y/N’s flat is rather cute.

He isn’t sure what he had expected out of it when she initially invited him over earlier that day, swinging by his office hours (which now always gives him a zip of excitement up his spine, memories of her sat on her knees woven in his brain) in a sweatshirt too big for her. She plopped down on the seat across from him, presenting a bento box to him decorated in cartoon strawberries, “This is a bribe,” she begins, plucking the red clip to open the box, showing off mini strawberry tarts, “Come over to my flat, yeah? I need someone to watch Love Island with me -- all my friends think it’s superficial trash and refuse, but I wanna binge season 3 and I reckon you’d be fun to do it with.”

The look on her face was adorable to him; the way her features are drawn, her face looks soft yet nervous. She bit the bullet and invited him over but the apprehension was still so clear throughout her body -- like he might deny her anything that she wanted. He could never -- all Harry wanted to do was give her the world and more at this point, because she was gentle, sweet, and looked all nice and pretty between his knees with his cock in her mouth. She liked to snuggle up beneath his legs and his desk in his office, fitting her lips over the head of his prick and sucking, licking, slurping at him as he busied himself with what he needed to do. Though he could hardly focus on grading when she was gagging around him -- he had to limit how often the poor thing could be there while he worked. 

It’d been two weeks of that and she’s becoming insatiable. Like, if she couldn’t touch herself or focus on her own pleasure, she wanted to milk him, drink him down, suck him dry. He would be edging with her if that’s what she wanted, but it had been clear every time she asked if she could make him feel good, that she didn’t want that. And she loved it. . .he would ask, very carefully, very lowly if she had had enough of waiting, but she only shook her head and puckered her lips to kiss him. 

And it wasn’t just that, that he looked forward to when she came around. Sure, she’d bring him an orgasm and sometimes a coffee, but after she wiped her lips if she had the time she plopped across from him. They would talk how they used to but better. Going in-depth with subjects that had felt taboo to explore, planning documentaries to watch together when they finally got the chance to (midterms always made life busier for the both of them), and there are more vulnerable portions of each other’s lives that they share. One day, when the clock had just ticked over 10AM and the March sun poured through his office windows, Harry learned that Y/N had never been in love and thought the concept of it was charming, but she couldn’t imagine someone sharing those feelings for her had they ever arose on her end. He, in turn, let her know that he had felt the same until he had his first, true girlfriend outside of high school. They had spent three years together -- Harry had shown parts of himself that he had never let anyone in on really, and instead of loving him unconditionally as she had promised, she broke it off. Made him feel small. . .years integrated into one another’s lives thrown away, and while it hurt, he had learned so much about himself and what he deserved in the process.

He remembers how defensive she got over him, questioning how “--anyone in the world could turn you away when you’re just so. . .you’re so good! Even the shitty parts of you are good, probably. That’s fucked! You can be as open with me as you like, I’ll judge you as far as I can throw you, and I can’t throw for shit.”

“Bit of a garbage show, isn’t it?” He pulls the bento box closer to him, smiling at the pastry she made and dipping his finger into the whipped cream, stripping it down his tongue, “Isn’t it based on looks and all that?” 

Her face falls into a frown “At the start, yeah, but that’s the point! It’s a messy, drama-filled, fun thing, y’know? And we can watch, n’I can even have your cock in my mouth too -- I’ll suck you off during the whole marathon! Would you come then?”

His mouth tips in a small smile as he picks the tart up with his index finger and thumb, “Sweetheart, I’ll come over, blowie not included. Yeah, I’ll watch the show -- reckon I’ve always sort of wanted to see it but I’d never had a reason to.” He bites down hard on his bottom lip when she grins widely at him, “You really think I could say no to a bribe so good as strawberry tarts? How’d you know these were my favorite?” 

A sheepish look glides over her face, as she tips her head down and reaches to stroke her hair from her face, “You -- uh -- you said it once in class. But I’m not a creep or anythin’ like writing down things you like, s’just I thought it was funny because that was the only thing I’m really, really good at baking. Wanted to bring you some for a while now but I didn’t want you to think I was weird or something.” 

Harry’s heart lurches. 

It leads him here, sat on her grey couch that was a little too big for her to be the only one living here (she tells him that it was her granddad’s old couch -- he was going to throw it out until she’d convinced him that it would be better suited in her flat than a garbage bin), a beige rattan coffee table in front of him that has the book for his class, a stack of notecards, and a precisely folded granola wrapper forgotten atop of it.  Across from him and to the right, tilted in a corner of the wall her TV sat an entertainment center, paused on the ITV logo as she fuddled about in the kitchen. She had refused to tell him what she was doing, so he busied himself with twisting his toes into the abnormally large and soft, a bluish-grey hue that Harry thinks suited the look of her flat nicely. She had artwork hung up that followed the darkened tone and cool hues, yet managed to feel warm with a strip of lights framing the ceiling. 

Harry thinks his favorite thing though, is how it smells. Y/N always smells sweet -- good enough to have a proper nibble on -- but he gets why now. It smells like cookies, vanilla, cinnamon, and chocolate yet crisp and fresh. He can’t place it but it makes sense. . .it smells of her and he’s more than happy to be completely enveloped, swallowed in her and he’d never felt more content. What would make it better was if she was in here with him like she was meant to be. 

Finally, after about twenty or so minutes of listening to her go around the kitchen, she appears with a smile on her face and a small platter in her hand, holding what appeared to be jumbo-sized cinnamon rolls, “I accidentally took a bit of a nap before you came by so I was late in starting, but as a thank you for coming over and stomaching this show, I made you more sweets.” 

His mouth falls open around a small gasp, “Sweetheart,” he waves her over and she bites on a bashful grin, “M’g’na get me love handles back if you keep stuffing me.” 

“I love, love handles -- gives me more to squeeze on,” she sets the platter down, along with napkins before she plops down beside him, “Have as many as you want!” 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, reaching over for one, getting his fingers gooey with the icing melted over them, “You really didn’t have to make these for me though, Babe, I would love to spend time with you regardless.” 

“I know, I just like to, is all,” she replies, and he wonders how she does it -- how she so effortlessly appears to be this shy little character no matter the pure filth that would slide from her mouth -- he’s endlessly enamored by it, even more so as she plucks her own cinnamon bun up, uttering, “Your cum tastes a bit like icing.” 

He coughs around a laugh, shaking his head and looking at her with what could only be an amalgamation of alarm and an unthinkable fond that he could never quite explain, “You reckon?”

Her grin holds an impish pride, nodding happily with herself, “Mhm,” she hums, swallowing what she’d taken into her mouth, “I’ve only gotten the green light to suck you off within the past two weeks, and I think your cock’s been in my mouth more than anyone else. Don’t mind it though,” the pad of her thumb swipes away at a stray bit of icing that stuck to her bottom lip, “If it were up t’a me, you’d have to walk around with me tied to your legs.”

“How is a sweet little thing like you so filthy, hm?” He inquired, giving her a playful nudge with his elbow, “Feel like not even yesterday you were wandering into me office, barely able to look me in the eye.”

Her mouth pouts, “You were intimidating! And cute -- it was too much, to be fair. Plus I hadn’t been edging for weeks at that point.”

Weeks, the poor girl. He lets his mind wander as he bites into the dough, warm and sweet and positively tasty; he wonders how many pairs of panties she’s had to change out of once she got home. After she sucked him off he always checked on her, lifting her on the desk, tugging her shorts down so that she could split her thighs for him. Harry would fiddle with the elastic around her waist, admiring the wet patch that had blossomed on the fabric from his ministrations on her. The way he could feel her swollen through the fabric made his mouth water, and when he actually peeled it over to the side and had a look at her, he struggled not to drool.  

He would stroke over her swollen clit, tell her how pretty she was, and peck a kiss to her mouth. 

Harry would feel greedy if not for how she reacted to him, smiling, snuggled into him as he bracketed her with a hand on either side of her hips. She would thank him for letting her taste him, he would pull her pants back over her bottom no matter the type (they would wiggle her jeans back on together, a mess of giggles) and send her off with a pat to her bum off toward her next class. And she adored it -- swam in this pleasant headspace all day after, she told him one, that she would be so stressed up until the point they meet and when she steps into his office, all that worry seeps away from her effortlessly. It makes him feel good that their reactions to one another are requited. 

In the time that it took them to get through two episodes, Harry had eaten his body weight in cinnamon rolls and felt more satiated than he had from the little sandwich he shoved in his gob before he came.  He was full, warm, and happy to be with her, hearing her giggle and comment on the show. Relationships unfolding, superficial messes, beautiful men and women sure, but he found that he was far more preoccupied with Y/N beside him. He wants a cuddle, but he’s nervous. Was he allowed to ask? He’s more than aware that his cock’s been down her throat more often than not when they were around one another, but would that be. . .would it be too much for her? They hadn’t quite explored the rest of their dynamic together; hell, they’ve barely gotten to fully delve into the sexual aspect of it either. 

He hadn’t cuddled with anyone for a long time, now that he’s thinking about it. The last time he had a proper cuddle had to have been -- was it two years ago? Three? Maybe that’s why he’s so enraptured with Y/N as she is, as warm and soft as her cinnamon rolls. Harry had been starved of touch in general prior to their seeing each other; his ex had done such a number on him, at least a year after they had broken up Harry had not even wanted to approach the mere idea of a relationship again. The idea of making himself vulnerable to someone again wore him down, left him feeling just as defeated as he had when they broke things off. 

But Y/N -- well, the thought was just invigorating with her. To have her cuddled against him, exchanging heat, watching this horrid show with all its obscene drama, with his belly full and warm -- to nod out, wake up an episode later to find that they’re laying down on the couch, still snuggled close before pulling her tighter and falling back to sleep. The idea of it is just as appealing as the idea of finally making her cum, which is why he struggles to decide which he wants to do more at this moment. 

Y/N though, who always manages to read his mind and take steps forward that he is far too sheepish to take himself, does it easily. Gives his bicep a little nudge, coaxing him to look at her, “Move your arm so I can have a cuddle,” her brows pinch inward, “I’m cold.” 

Harry feels his heart grow too large for his body as he raises his arm and she almost immediately snuggles against him, her cheek pressed to his chest and her hand flat on his stomach. He accommodates for her easily, wrapping his arm over her shoulder but slowly stroking up and along her arm with the tips of his fingers. She all but purrs, sinking into his side as they watch the theatrics of a recoupling, where Y/N is so enveloped in what is occurring that she barely makes a sound as it transpired. He takes this time to completely absorb this moment, soaking in every inch of how he feels right now to hold with him when he’s cold and alone.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. . .on why this felt so good, just existing with her. Harry would watch every season of Love Island in succession if it meant that he could stay like this with her. 

And he could have fallen asleep, he thinks, if they had stayed there for any longer than they had. Four episodes in, he feels her shuffle at his side, peeling away from him momentarily but before he could mutter a whine about the loss of warmth, Y/N crawls into his lap. Her knees dig into the cushion on either side of his thighs, until she relaxes, her bum to his legs. Harry’s hands instinctively fall to her hips, framing them, the tips of his fingers disrupt the hem of her shirt that now bunches upward revealing the smooth, soft skin there. He squeezes and she sighs, the opening track of the show starts up, “Wha’s this about, bunny?” 

Her mouth pulls in a bashful little smile, “Can I give you a blowie?” 

No matter how many times he’s experienced it, every time she says it feels like the first; his stomach swirls in elaborate waves of heat all concentrating toward his cock. He sizzles all over when her hands rest against his chest, and he drags her a little closer so their crotches meet, and she rocks hers just a little, “Dunno,” he slips his hands further beneath her shirt, the skin warm and inviting, terrain that he could bite and kiss and suckle until pretty little bruises blossomed. Would she like that? Would she like the thought of having reminders that he’d fucked her sore? 

Fucked her sore. Would he? Could he? She’s such a soft, gentle little thing -- as much (and as often) as he imagines slamming into her so hard she squeaks and squeals, making her cum so many times that she feels like she’s been run through a marathon -- he doesn’t know if he could. At the moment, he may want to take his time with her. If she would allow as much, that is, she hadn’t cum so long he wouldn’t be surprised if when he said the words she would rip off his trousers and have her way. 

“Think I’ve been getting too many blowies, hm? Reckon I need to cut you off.” 

Her face crumbles, “No!” She rushes, scooting even closer and Harry bites the tender inside of his lip to ward away a tiny moan threatening to escape him, “Please, no, Daddy, I want -- I need --” Harry hadn’t thought that it would distress her in such a way -- he’d only been teasing, and he would have let her grovel and grumble and beg for a little while had not tears beaded in her eyes. 

“Oh, sweet girl, I’m only messing,” he pushes her hair behind her ear before cradling her cheek, stroking his thumb against the soft skin, “C’mon, none of that.” 

“I’m sorry,” her lips wobble slightly, gaze casting off to the side meekly, “S’just -- I’m really pent up, you know? ‘Cos even before you said I couldn’t cum I hadn’t cum for. . for about a month, I think?” Harry’s brows raise and she picks at a loose thread on the worn shirt he had chosen (Oxford written across the chest with bits and pieces of the print flecked off), “And you’re just -- you’re so pretty and big, and you taste so good and you’re so sweet -- I want you to make me cum but if you want me to wait, I’ll wait,” she chances another little roll of her hips, though Harry does allow himself to moan a little this time around, “I’ll wait and wait and wait, but Daddy, m’really getting impatient.” 

Harry slides his hand down to her neck, running over her collarbone. He would make her cum tonight -- he needed to make her cum, for both his and her own psyche. To finally quell all the questions in his head about how pretty she would look and how she might sound coming undone. Would she squeeze his cock so tight he wouldn’t be able to rock his hips anymore? Would she be so wet that he slipped right out? 

“Do you have a safeword?” He asks her letting his hands continue, cupping the swell of her breast and noting that she had no bra on, “If things are too much?” 

“Mhm, it’s ‘Apple’,” she catches hold of his other hand, slotting their fingers together and stretching his arm upward with hers, then toward the side, “Sometimes I whine and cry but I don’t want you to stop. Want you to make me cry sometimes -- not ‘cos it hurts or anything, but ‘cos I feel so good that I don’t know what else to do, y’know?” 

“Fuck sake,” he sighs, shaking his head before taking her by the hips and coaxing her to spin around in his lap, and despite her grumbled little whine she moves easily, “So s’easy as this, hm? You’ll let Daddy do and take what he wants?” 

“Anything,” she nods, wiggling in his lap, “Promise, you can have anything,  just please -- please touch me? I’m so wet you would just slip right in.”

A shiver slithers through his spine, goosebumps dotting his skin as his cock thrums, growing fatter in his trousers. He slides his hands up her shirt, dragging the tee up and over her head, bundling the fabric up in his palms and tossing it off to the side. He strokes up the center of her tummy, smiling as he tucks his chin over her shoulder when she jumps and giggles lightly, “God, you poor baby,” he murmurs, dancing his fingers along the skin sliding closer and closer to the waistband of her shorts, “You just need a little attention, hm? Why don’t wet take off these shorts, yeah?” He tucks his fingers into the elastic of both the bottoms and her panties, in a split decision. As much as she likes waiting, she’d waited long enough for more than a small stroke of his tongue or his finger. She deserved a reward for being so good for him, and he was well excited to deliver it.

The positioning was a bit awkward but they managed to rid her of the additional fabric. Harry resettles himself, scooting his bum further on the back into the couch and dragging her back more center on his lap. Only this time, he takes her by the thighs and spreads her wide for him, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as he strokes the tender skin of her thighs, “I would split you open in front my face babe, but I reckon I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from licking into you.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” she murmurs, breath hitching when he inches closer to her heat, “I like when you taste me.’

“I like tasting you too,” he cooed, before gliding his index and middle fingers between her glistening lips and marveling at the way her juices clung to his skin as he pulls them away, “But I wanna make you squirm.” He does it again, only this time he swirls around just at the entrance of her drippy little hole, stroking the wetness up toward her clit. Harry always wondered, when he taught deeply on it, how someone in the dominant position could actually tell if their submissive hadn’t touched themselves as they’d order. Anyone could lie about it, couldn’t they? 

Y/N though? She was swollen, dripping and needy just from the smallest bit of affection. Every touch to her, she bucks her hips and moans, her thighs nearly crush his hand attempting to close when he focuses tight little circles on her clit. Her fingers are dug into the couch beside her and every so often her left-hand loops around his idle wrist, squeezing. 

It’s when he sinks two of his fingers into her, feeling her walls pulsate and accommodate for the sudden intrusion, but he does slip right inside. The moan she lets out is loud, rasped and beautiful; the sound of someone who hadn’t given herself anything and hadn’t received more than a few gentle strokes, pats, and licks. She sounded as if she had come completely undone just from the little he’d given her, toes curling, body shuddering, chest heaving with another moan as she tilts her head back, “Please,” she begs, “Oh, please, it feels so good.” 

“Please what, baby? You want me to stop?” He holds in a chuckle when she whines, shaking her head and all but scrambling to cling on his wrist again, holding it against her when he pretended to slide his fingers out but he barely wanted to. Her walls were smooth, wet, and tight -- he could only imagine how it would feel around his prick. The thought of it could make him bust in his trousers. 

He buries his fingers in deep again, curving them upward and stroking against the spongy bundle of nerves inside of her, reveling in the way she mewls for him, “I’m only kidding sweet girl,” he hums, “But you’ve got a choice tonight, yeah?” He presses the heel of his palm flush to her clit, “You can cum tonight with my fingers, or you can wait for my cock. Which do you want?” 

Harry reckons he’ll just end up giving her both. 

He doesn’t have to let her know that.