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Because the scheduling gods hate him, Harry has two exams tomorrow—one in his intro to sociological concepts course, and one in research methods. He tries to be a good student, so the plan is to not see Marcel tonight. But he also tries to be a good boyfriend, so at 3:50, when Marcel’s presentation is supposed to finish, he sends him a text: how’d it go?

He gets no answer, so he waits until 4:03 and sends, did it run over?

That gets him, a minute or two later, no with a sad smiley. Harry doesn’t like sad smilies unless they’re ironic—he’s the master of the ironic sad smiley. Marcel is less with the ironic than Harry, and if he’s sending a sad face after his presentation, that means he’s sad. Much, much worse than an unironic sad smiley is a sad Marcel. Harry shuts his sociology book and grabs his flannel off the back of his chair.

I’ll be right there he sends one-handed while he gropes on his desk for his keys with the other.

That’s okay. You’re studying, comes back. 

Where are you?

Marcel knows Harry well enough not to argue further. Webb 204

Harry doesn’t run, because people get narked when you run through campus while they’re trying to get to class, but his pace certainly counts as a jog. 

He finds Marcel sitting on the floor, knees up to his chin, the posters he’d made for his presentation bent and torn at his feet. His glasses are askew and his eyes are red like he’s been wiping away tears. Harry drops to his knees and wraps Marcel in a hug. 

Marcel doesn’t unfold to hug Harry back, but he does lean into him, burrowing his forehead into Harry’s neck so his glasses dig into Harry’s collar bone a bit. Harry doesn’t mind. “What happened?” he asks softly into the crisp shell of Marcel’s slicked-back hair.
 
“Bruce,” Marcel says, voice still wet like he’s not all cried out yet.
 
Harry would quite cheerfully shove Bruce under a bus; he’s been making Marcel miserable for almost two years now. But he’s generally stuck to taunts and jeering, not physical attacks. He seems to have a problem with an American student getting better marks than him, but he’s adept at hiding his bullying from the instructors, and Marcel refuses to rat him out, sure that will only make things worse.
 
“What did he do?” Harry asks. He’s probably hugging Marcel too tight, but he can’t seem to make his arms let go. He’s never felt this protective over anyone.
 
Marcel shrugs, and shakes his head minutely against Harry’s neck, but Harry’s not letting this fester just because Marcel has this misguided thing where he doesn’t like to bother other people with his problems in case they think he’s too much trouble. Harry’s tried to tell him he could never be too much trouble, but he likes to show him too. “C’mon,” Harry says, pulling and tugging until Marcel has his legs draped over Harry’s lap and Harry can stroke his face and look him in the eye.
 
“I hate him,” Marcel says, lips pushed out like he’s mocking his own petulance. Harry can’t resist pushing Marcel’s cheeks together to pooch them out further. Then he has to kiss them. Marcel pulls away, but only so he can kiss Harry properly, not with duck lips.
 
Several minutes of kissing pass before Marcel is sighing against Harry’s shoulder, voice much steadier now, saying, “The tutor had to leave right at the end of class, and I had to clean up my stuff. Bruce thought I should be using powerpoint, and he wanted to make sure I knew it.”

Marcel’s really good with powerpoint—he’d helped Harry get a first on his presentation earlier in the term—but since he was doing a talk on the history of ad agencies, he’d thought old-fashioned posters would be more authentic. Harry’s roommate Zayn had helped him with the art, and the three of them stayed up half the night laughing and drinking beers and making them look just how Marcel had wanted them. Now they’re all ruined.

“He’s a douchebag,” Harry says fiercely. “What the fuck is wrong with him anyway?”

Marcel just shrugs.

“You’ve got to tell the course leader,” Harry says. “Or at least your personal tutor. Someone has to—“

“Just kiss me some more,” Marcel asks. Harry has a hard time saying no to such a request at the best of times, but the imploring look on his boyfriend’s face and the little hitch in his voice make it impossible.

The plan, inasmuch as Harry has one, is to kiss Marcel sweet and slow until he’s smiling, then help him gather up his things and go with him to sign up for a tutor meeting. Marcel clearly has other plans.

Marcel’s plans involve dragging Harry in by the hair as soon as Harry leans towards him, kissing hard and needy, biting at Harry’s lips, sucking on Harry’s tongue. Involves twisting in Harry’s lap until they’re rolling on the floor, Marcel under Harry for a moment and then on top, grinding their hips together, pinning one of Harry’s arms above his head, the other hand still tangled in his hair.

“Oh,” Harry breathes as Marcel’s belt buckle catches the skin on his belly, and it kind of means ow and kind of means what? but mostly means yes, this, okay, because Marcel generally lets Harry take the lead in bed, and it’s not that Harry minds, but this is good, too. Really good. Even with poster board slipping under his back and something that’s probably a dry-erase pen poking him in the thigh.

Bigger than the marker, but also poking him in the thigh, is Marcel’s dick, and Harry tries to reach for it with the hand not pinned to the floor. But before he gets there, it’s gone, along with Marcel’s kisses, and Marcel’s hovering over Harry’s knees, shoving Harry’s shirts up to get to his flies.

They’re in a classroom. The door isn’t even shut properly and has a glass panel in anyway. “Mar—“ Harry starts, but it’s too late. Marcel has yanked Harry’s jeans and pants down to the tops of his thighs and is rubbing his face on Harry’s belly, nuzzling his dick, which is getting harder despite Harry’s suspicion this is probably not a great idea. Harry has never in his life turned down a blowjob. He’s pretty sure he can’t start now.

“Shut up,” Marcel murmurs into Harry’s tummy button, like he knows Harry considered continuing his protest. “I want—“

“Yeah,” Harry says, stroking Marcel’s hair, the back of his neck. “Whatever you need, baby.”

The sound Marcel makes is strangled and rough and sounds almost like a sob, and Harry wants to pull him up for more kisses, to make sure he’s okay. To that end, he gives a little tug to Marcel’s hair. Marcel is a man with a mission, though, and takes that as his cue to shove way more of Harry’s dick into his mouth than will fit.

“Agh—“ Harry squawks, because that had teeth, but to his surprise, that doesn’t put Marcel—who is usually very worried about doing anything wrong—off; he just tucks his teeth in and goes down again. Which makes Harry moan and then shove his own forearm in his mouth as a gag. Because the door is still open, and there are several classrooms on this corridor.

Forgoing his usual, much more tentative, style, Marcel is slurping, sucking, jacking the base of Harry’s dick sloppy and wet with spit, and Harry can’t help glancing around for a camera it feels so much like he’s tripped and fallen into a porn movie. It’s a very half-hearted look, though, because most of his heart is busy pounding out of his chest with how unbelievably hot Marcel is all pushy and demanding.

“Fuuuuuck,” Harry moans into the crook of his arm, before he risks ungagging his mouth so he can prop himself on his elbows and actually watch. This has mixed results. Plus side, he’s going to come a lot sooner, cutting down the risk of them getting caught. Minus side, he starts babbling—curses, encouragement, possibly things in other languages—at the sight of Marcel’s glasses slipped right down to the end of his nose with the way his head is bobbing, the stray curl at his temple which has escaped the iron-clad grip of his hair products, the wide, pink stretch of his mouth. They’ve been together long enough now that Harry mostly forgets how much they look alike, but it’s generally Harry that’s desperate for Marcel’s cock like this, and it’s definitely doing something for him thinking that this is a view usually Marcel is the one privy to. His orgasm is tight and hot in his belly, curling behind his knees and whispering up his thighs.

Weirdly, or perfectly, Harry’s not sure, it’s Marcel using one finger of the hand he’s wanking Harry off with to push his glasses up his nose that tips him over. Harry swears again, much more loudly than he should, and comes without even time to give Marcel some warning. It’s about seventy/thirty against whether Marcel feels like swallowing, but today is apparently one of those times where he’s into it, sucking Harry through, not even stopping when Harry’s done, done, done, making little squeaking noises and pawing weakly at Marcel’s left ear.

It’s way too much, and kind of hurts, and Marcel should definitely stop because it’s maybe starting to hurt in a way Harry would like to explore further, just definitely not on the floor of an open classroom in the school of business.

“Ow?” Harry tries, and that makes Marcel pull off.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look as sorry as he usually does when he thinks he’s hurt Harry. Possibly because Harry’s ow wasn’t terribly convincing.

“That’s—“ Harry tries to catch his breath. “That’s okay. Only, it’s kind of a lot.”

“I just—“ Marcel runs one knuckle under his bottom lip, letting it catch and drag in a frankly obscene fashion. “I just really wanted to suck you.”

A huffing laugh bursts from Harry’s chest. “I noticed,” he says, huge sappy grin aimed at his boyfriend. “And I liked it; believe me.” He can’t help reaching to touch his own knuckle to the corner of Marcel’s mouth. “Should we maybe close the door before I return the favour?”

Marcel’s cheeks flush as pink as his lips and he does an awkward little shrug. “I maybe—“ He pushes himself up to his knees, letting Harry see the wet patch at the front of his trousers. Harry’s whole body jerks with how hot that is.

“Oh,” he says. “I think I should take you home and investigate this further.”

Marcel frowns. “But you have to study.” Which… is not wrong. But Harry doesn’t want to study. He wants to see if Marcel can come just from blowing him again. And see if he can come just from blowing Marcel. He suspects he might be able to.

But, “Ugh,” he says. “I know.” Because he does have to get good grades, and what he has planned could take some time. “You could study with me, though?” The thought of leaving Marcel alone for the evening feels impossible.

“I’m okay now.” Marcel gives Harry a tiny pleased smile. “You cheered me up about—“ with a wave he indicates the torn posters and tipped easel.

“You cheered me up about research methods,” Harry says, covering the lurch in his chest at how happy he is that he can make Marcel smile, even in the face of arseholes like Bruce. “But we could both use more cheering, I think. And we can take turns making the tea if you’re at mine.”

Marcel’s smile grows until it’s as wide as Harry’s. “Coffee,” he argues, starting to gather his things. Harry takes that as a yes.