prof!harry part 8 (Patreon)

Your fave couple is back! And your favorite campers are coming back tomorrow :) 

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viii.

“Sweetheart --” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Sweetheart --” 

“No.”

“Baby, you need to go to class,” Harry’s hands cradle her hips, carefully trying to displace her from where her thighs bracket his own, an impossibly big smile on his face as he attempts to dodge the kisses that she’s pecking all over his face to persuade him, “You know you do.” 

She is persistent; a shake of her head and a peck to the apple of his cheek is her initial response before she adds, “Not even though, we’re just watching a documentary,” she tucks her fingers into his curls, scratching gently at his scalp, “And why go sit in a stiff chair with a silent classroom when I could just as easily stay here with you and not do that?” 

“I reckon I’d be livid if you tried to skip my class ‘cos you didn’t want to sit through a movie.” Not really -- if you asked Harry’s honest opinion he thought that showing documentaries in class could sometimes be lazy teaching, especially if they watch them as often as Y/N claims this professor does. He says it to play into it though, because despite him not wanting to risk her education because she wants to cuddle for a few more hours, he does love the kisses. He loves the desperation in her voice and in her snuggles like he really has any input on whether or not she goes to this lecture. Y/N nudges at his chin, with her nose, tipping his chin upward before she pushes her lips against the thrum of his pulse chastly. 

“At least if you put on a documentary s’interesting -- and if it wasn’t, I could just stare at you the whole time.” 

“Creep,” he teases her and she giggles against his throat, where she had successfully dipped and kept her face, “If you stay,” he begins to slowly trace the pads of his  fingers up and down her sides, feeling as goosebumps pimple and blossom in his wake, “You’ll just be watching me grade papers for hours, and that’s no fun.” 

Y/N presses herself from his neck, “That’s okay, I’ll help you grade them -- I’ve got a hundred and the rest can wait until tomorrow.” 

Harry chuckles warmly, “Is that so?” She nods, her expression dazzled with a teasing spark in her gaze, “So you want me to ignore all your other classmates in favor of what? Cuddling with you all day?” 

“Precisely that! How did you know?” His response is to worm his arms around her sides, dragging her flush against his belly and squeezing her all too tight, until she whines, “Heyyyy --”  

“You’re a greedy, bug,” he loosens his grip, using one hand to swat at her bum over the pajama bottoms she wore, “You’re lucky I like your kisses so much, or you’d already been halfway to your lecture right now.” 

In response, Y/N only kisses him more. Pecks kisses on his cheeks, on his brow, at the corner of his eye (which prompts him to close it, encouraging, even more, kisses on his eyelids), his jaw, his chin, his forehead, his ears -- anywhere she could kiss, she peppered them along his skin. Harry is nothing but giggles and warmth. . .he can’t remember the last time he had been this happy. The last time he had felt so at ease with a person that their kisses didn’t even necessarily need to be a prompt for anything sexual. Was he getting a stiffy? Sure he was, she was sort of grinding against him unintentionally but he knew that wasn’t the motive for her onslaught of kisses. She was just loving on him, which Harry loved -- he loved being loved on, and he loved being loved on by someone he loves. 

Loves. 

Someone he loves, but he won’t speak it out loud in fear for what it may do. They weren’t together -- as far as either were concerned discussion wise was that they were merely some weird, friends with benefits sort of situation. Y/N had a crush on her professor, they had sex, they still hung around with one another and enjoyed each other's conversations. But Harry had had arrangements like this before, and typically he didn’t cook for them. He had never come back to his flat after leaving them there to go grab coffee, just to find that they had (somehow, in twenty minutes) cleaned his loft top to bottom. Polished and shined it beautifully. They didn’t go out for ice cream, they didn’t cuddle for hours, feed each other forkfuls of waffles while the other was working on something on their computer, or even just sit in the bathroom with the other person while they were in the tub to keep them company. 

(Harry liked sitting with her while she was in the bath -- sometimes it was for aftercare purposes, other times she just wanted a bath but didn’t necessarily want to be alone in there. So Harry, whatever he was doing, would gather it and go to the bathroom with her. Sometimes he was grading, other times he was lesson planning. If he was doing neither, then he would put a show on his laptop, prop it on the toilet and sit beside the tub -- if he were close enough she would dry her hand and card it through his hair. It was very nice, Harry would recommend doing it to any two people.) 

And when they had sex. . .when they fell into their carnal desires and were succumbed in the pleasure of one another, Harry has never been more emotionally in tune. Hell, his favorite positions were the ones where he could reach her mouth to kiss her, or to see her face blissed out because she’s feeling so good. Harry thinks she’s the most beautiful creature holistically, and it always made it difficult not to cum too quickly because of it. Sex is much different when it’s with someone you love -- it’s much better. If Harry could stay tucked inside of her all day he very well would. 

“Oi,” Y/N drags him from his reverie, pulling at the lobe of his ear gently, “Where’d you go?” 

Harry smiled, shaking his head, “Just in my head a bit, Sweetheart.” 

“Is everything okay?” She tilts her head to the side, tracing her fingers behind his ear, straightening out some of the hair that spiked around from while he was asleep. 

He nods, exaggerating his lips in their pucker requesting a kiss and Y/N fulfills the request more than willingly, before readjusting herself so that she’s sat up straight, “Good! Then let’s play hookie and go for brekkie! Daniel said if we go to the diner during his shift, he’ll give us bottomless hashbrowns.” 

Harry’s grin stretches his cheeks wide. 

                                                     .                               .                             .

They were only supposed to go out for breakfast, but when Y/N and Harry were together, they had a knack for meaning to only be out for an hour and rolling back to his flat five hours later. Beside the diner is an old bookstore that cat’s roam around freely, Harry had always loved it there and when he’s shown it to Y/N she had also found her love for it. And it’s when they see an old, weathered copy of The Secret Garden that Harry tells her about this place he knows. It was a twenty minute drive away but well worth it, a shop run by Miss. Maple who wore nothing but mint green and had a beautiful meadow that you paid a small fee to walk through. 

Harry brought her there, and Miss. Maple is the first to bring it up that he had never brought anybody with him, “Reckon you’re pretty special, then.”  She told her, and Harry felt his cheeks turn rosy beneath Y/N’s gaze when she turned to smile at him. Miss. Maple sends them off with her homemade strawberry jam and a loaf of freshly baked bread, a few napkins and some plasticware. Harry took her out to his preferred spot, where there lay a large boulder in the center of a violet and amaranth larkspur. They lean against it, using the boulder as a table for the bread, and Harry slices it with the knife she lent to them. 

It’s good -- the jam and Y/N’s kisses as she thanks him for bringing her. 

They would have stayed out in the meadow longer, but clouds brought a cold breeze and threats of rain, so they hurried back to the car (they bid farewell to Miss. Maple, Y/N gushed about how good the jam was, Harry promised to come back soon, she told him Y/N better be with him because she has about ten different homemade jams she would love to get her opinion on). Then they stop for coffee, or at least Harry gets a coffee and Y/N gets a fruity tea and a croissant that she coaxes half of into his mouth. 

When they get into the car, Y/N doesn’t buckle in as she usually does immediately. No, she turned to face him, and it took Harry a few seconds before he realized the tears that were gathering at her waterline. His eyes widen, mouth falling open, “Oh! Oh, what’s wrong?” He shifted so he was facing her more directly, “Why are you crying? Did something happen?” 

She shakes her head, a tear trickles down the apple of her cheek, and she reached up to swipe away at it, “No, I’m fine, I just had a really good day,” she sniffled, his heart swells, “A really, really good day, and you’re the best, and I wanted to say thank you and ride you when we got back, but I started my period while we were in there,” her breathing shudders, “That being said, I do need to stop by the store so I can get stuff for it.” 

“Okay,” he reached out, swiping the pad of his thumb against her face, “That’s fine, there’s a store on the way back. Do you want to stop off at your flat or anything?” She shook her head, “Okay, yeah, let’s go ahead and get you sorted.” 

“I hate to perpetuate the stereotype that women are emotional during their period, I think everyone exhibits and presents in a different way, but I am incredibly emotional during so -- I’m sorry for crying.” 

“Don’t ever apologize for crying,” he pulled the gear shift to reverse, “It’s okay, I don’t mind it. Cry your heart out if you need to.” 

She nodded, readjusting in her seat, “M’only crying ‘cos m’realizing that I can’t fuck you and I really, really want to. To like. . .punctuate a good day.” 

Harry clears his throat, pulling from the parking lot, “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” she hummed, knuckled at her eye and rested her hand on her lower belly, “I can only give you a blowie, and I feel like I don’t do them well enough.” 

He all but scoffs, brows furrowed as he turned to look at him, “Oi, don’t you dare,” he reached out with his arm closest to her, thumbing at her bottom lip, “This filthy little mouth works miracles. I don’t want to hear you critique anything about yourself, I won’t have it.” 

She nipped at the tip of his thumb before he withdrew it, “I’ll have to brush up my skills when we get back.” 

Harry thinks Y/N thrived off teasing him. Maybe it was the pleased look in her eye when he swallows thickly, or how giddily she bites her bottom lip when she notices the bulge in his trousers. She loves not only teasing with her words, but when she’s sat before him, whether it be taking off her clothes too slowly, rubbing all around his body, laying kisses from his hip bones to the apex of his thighs, nosing at his prick through his boxers. The way she reveled in it, how she smiled as she did so, and how she exuded nothing but joy when she’d call him Daddy all low and sweet and his prick would twitch -- it was like her oxygen. It was necessary for her survival to tease him.  

He believes that’s why after they stop by the store for her tampons (and after Harry purchases her a blanket that’s plush on one end and sherpa on the other, because it was softer than angora rabbit fur), she all but ushers him to the couch. She strips him of his trousers, sits herself between his thighs, and noses at his stiff cock until a little whine blurts from his throat, “Daddy,” she began, dragging her tongue against the fabric, dampening it with her spit and coaxing a groan from him, “I’m bad at gagging, I wanna get better, Will you help get inside my throat?” 

That alone could have made him cum, he couldn’t even imagine that he’d last five seconds in the actual act of her tight little throat spasming around the head of his prick. But she noses and mouths at him until there’s a nice wet spot forming at the head of his prick, where precum oozes from the tip the harder she makes him. Y/N buzzes with excitement, he can see it, as she tucked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and wiggled them down. 

His cock wastes no time at all, springing out from beneath the cotton fabric, slapping up against his abdomen. He can’t remember being this hard with anyone else, but with Y/N’ it’s consistent how aroused he became. Harry wonders sometimes if she’s human. . .sometimes she seems all too perfect to be. Like now, when she’s fitting her palm against his prick and slapping the swollen head to her tongue in small little taps before pursing her lips around the tip and suckling. He breathes out a sigh, settling his hand into her hair and carding his fingers through the strands before he nestles them close to her root, “Filthy thing,” he murmured, with a tut of his tongue, “To pretend like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. You know your blowies are a gift.” 

She takes the hand that is unoccupied with her hair and pulls him to his prick, fixing his fingers around it, “Feed it to me, please.” 

Harry’s eye flutter and threaten to roll backward when he does as she requests, tipping himself down by the shaft and slowly easing her hung open mouth onto his cock. She’s wet and warm, a soft cavern of hot spit that begins to soak him. She gets halfway before she gags, and the little spasm makes him groan even louder, but she withdraws with a tiny little cough and a frown, “See?” 

“You need to relax, baby,” he explains carefully to her, “Slow and steady, don’t try to rush things. Give yourself time and even if you can’t that doesn’t mean it’s the worst blowie ever. You just being on your knees in front of me is enough to make me cum.” 

Y/N smiles softly before parting her lips again, and Harry takes the silent suggestion to stuff her mouth once more. So he does, and she goes slower this time, lavishing the head with her tongue, slurping at the slit, brushing the tip of her tongue against the frenulum and laughing as much as she could around him when his balls tighten and he widens his legs for her. Y/N had always told him that instinctive reactions to sex were her favorite -- holding on tighter, hips shuddering, legs widening, shaking, squeezing, surprised moans. . .all of it made her want to do even more. To try harder, go deeper, make him cum. 

And she does; she goes lower and lower until the head of his prick enters her throat and she gags a little but is able to keep him there momentarily, swallowing around him, and Harry’s a goner. He cums in hot, thick ribbons down her throat and she slips up so that she can catch some on her tongue. Harry struggles to keep his thighs from trembling, but the embarrassment of cumming so quickly barely brushes past him. If she wanted him to get hard again, Harry was very well adept to it -- his stamina was envied, he would be the first to admit -- but she kisses the softening tip gently and dips him back into his pants before lying her cheek on his knee. 

“Thank you,” she smiles, and Harry shakes his head as he giggles, petting at the top of her head, “I’ll have my bath now.”