larry smut

don't even need to touch me baby, just breathe on me

please do not fuck your professors it's not a good idea, anyways, enjoy!!

~✰~

Harry Styles is a cliché.

That's the prevailing thought running through his mind as he stares at the front of the classroom where Professor Tomlinson, possible love of his reasonably short life, stands as he gives a lecture about classism in Dickens' Great Expectations.

Harry wasn't supposed to get his degree in English. He somehow managed to sneak a lit course into his workload first year, and that class just so happened to be taught by Professor Tomlinson. The first time he ever saw him -- when the older man walked through the doors of the lecture hall -- Harry scrambled to move his backpack away from the empty seat beside him in the hopes he'd sit next to him. He even shot him a cheeky grin; the other man returned it politely and then stood at the head of the room. Harry's heart dropped. Professor Tomlinson.

Fast forward a few years and Harry's sitting in the second row of a packed lecture hall, staring hopelessly at the other man. He's in his final year of getting his English degree, much to the disappointment of his parents. He blames Professor Tomlinson. He's only had four classes with him over the years, but his ill-fated decision to switch programs has led him to where he is now: drooling over his Professor like a creep. It's just Harry's luck that the most handsome man he's ever met happens to be one of the only men he can't have.

About three things Harry Styles is absolutely positive. First, he definitely did not read all four Twilight books. Second, there is a part of him – and he knows exactly how potent that part of him is – that wants to test the science behind sucking Professor Tomlinson's brain out through his dick. And third, Harry is unconditionally and irrevocably in lust with his Professor.

So yes, Harry Styles is a cliché. He's seen this plotline unfold in porn all the time. He's not sure if leaning over his desk and offering up his arse for a spanking will yield the same results, however.

While Professor Tomlinson lectures excitedly about the working class in Victorian England, Harry takes the time to catalog every one of his features for possibly the thousandth time.

Louis – he's one of those cool professors who insists his students use his actual name (Harry likes the sound of Professor though – rolls off the tongue quite well) – dresses quite formally with a strange mix of Professional and Skateboarder Chic here and there. Harry doesn't know how he pulls it off. He wears skintight tan slacks that cling to his thighs perfectly -- paired with black Vans of all things. On top he wears a blue button up, cinched at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks kind of like a professor, but also kind of like someone dressed as a professor. Like a stripper at a hen do. Harry doesn't let his thoughts dawdle on that image.

He trails his eyes up to his face and tries very hard not to let out the dreamy sigh that's ready to spill from his lips. Louis' skin is this gorgeous natural tan color, like he was born cradled in the sun's arms or something poetic like that. His jaw is sharp and defined, but covered, as today is what Harry refers to as a Sexy Stubble Day. Some days Louis comes to class clean-shaven and beautiful, making Harry dream of rubbing his face on his like some sort of odd animal mating ritual. But then there are days like today where Louis clearly hasn't shaved in a couple days and his chin is covered in brown stubble that Harry aches to feel on his thighs. Sexy Stubble Days are hard for Harry in many, many ways.

Harry shakes himself from his lusty thoughts, but looking at Louis' other features doesn't fare him any better. He pictures those pretty thin pink lips stretched around his cock, his little nose flaring as he tries to breathe, crystal blue eyes sparking with tears and curved eyebrows wrinkled in concentration while Harry fists his long brown hair in his hand and thrusts. Fuck.