margot

"Okay. I'll see you soon."

The line disconnects, and you stare blankly at the mess you've accumulated in the past nine hours in front of you. 

And you mean to clean it up. Really, you do. You heed his warning and make a plan to pack it all away and be ready for when he's home with dinner. You didn't need to study any more, you were smarter than you gave yourself credit for—words from Spencer himself running on repeat in your mind. 

Then... you don't. You remain firmly planted on the floor of the living room, continuing to write down notes on your whiteboard, drowning in your work. 

Foolishly, Spencer believed you. He genuinely thought he would come home to you waiting for him, watching something on TV or scrolling on your phone. He really doesn't know why he's surprised to find you still in the same position you were probably in when he called you. 

"You said you weren't going to be studying when I got home," he says, and you jump, clearly too engrossed in what you were reading to have even heard him come in. 

It's only once his words break you out of your haze do you look up, the smell of food he'd picked up wafting through the air, and you can hear the sound of his keys jangling as they drop into the trinket tray next to the front door. 

"I'm not studying," you mumble in response, dragging your eyes back over to the textbook in your lap.

"No?" he tilts his head, humour coating his voice as he drops his bag on the seat at his desk, and the food onto the kitchen counter. "Then what's this?"

"Light... reading..." you trail off, halfheartedly. 

"Uh-huh," he say, disbelieving. He finds a seat on the couch behind you, reaching over your shoulders and thieving the textbook from your lap. "Your idea of a good time is... Davidson's Principles and Practice of Medicine?"

"Yep. Love it. Davidson's the best," you huff, tilting your head back and reaching your arms up to get the book back from him. He holds it higher, out of your reach. "Spencer."

He replies with your name, mockingly, eyebrows rising. "C'mon, up. I've got dinner."

"I'm nearly finished. I just have, like, six more chapters to get through. Then I'm all yours. Promise."

"You've been studying since I left the house this morning," he shakes his head, "you can stop for the night."

"And when I fail these exams, your name will be in my cause of death when they do my autopsy." 

"That's dramatic," he scoffs, dropping the textbook to the small coffee table beside the couch, before his hands hook under your arms, and lift you up. You protest by going limp, but he's always been stronger than you, and so he effectively lifts you up onto his lap, facing him. "You're exhausted."

"Einstein slept for three hours a year."

"That's a myth," he deadpans, "Einstein slept for ten hours a night. Every night. I bet he also ate all three meals."

"Then Einstein's a loser and I'm gonna be better than him," you huff. 

"Not by burning yourself out, you're not." 

"I hate when you be a good boyfriend," you grumble.

"Sorry. I'll try and limit my good behaviour," he tilts his head to the side. "Honey, the world isn't going to collapse if you stop studying tonight."

"Oh my God, it might. And then you'll eat your words, and I'll have the last laugh, and you'll die in the apocalypse knowing this could've all been prevented if you'd just let me keep studying."

He stares blankly at you. You crack a small smile, trying to let him know you're kidding (about the apocalypse, you really do want to keep studying). 

He's quiet for a few moments more, and you anxiously stare at him, for it's all you could really do. He's got you locked in place, arms looped around your waist with a tight enough grip that you're sure he'd strengthen if you even attempted your escape. 

"Okay," he sighs, and for a second, you think he's about to let you get back to studying. Then, he stands, and you have to cling your arms to his shoulders to stop yourself from falling off. 

"Okay... what?" you ask him, nervously, staring at his unreadable expression the entire short walk to your bedroom. 

"You're not relaxing with verbal comfort," he answers, simply, and your stomach flips as he lays you down on the bed. 

"Now is really not the time to be trying to have sex with me, Spencer. I've got a thousand things to do, and—oh." 

He cuts you off with his lips on yours, and just like he knew you would, you melt. 

You suppose taking a small break wouldn't hurt. 

"The food's gonna get cold," you mumble to him as his lips descend down your neck. 

"Good thing we own a microwave," he answers.

"Dammit. I should've used that," you grumble. He laughs. 

Lifting your shirt up above your chest, he drops down to kiss along your navel, holding your hips in place as you begin to squirm.

You're impatient, itching to get back to your mountains of readings and powerpoints, so he takes his time. He doesn't ever stray from a patch of your skin until protesting whines start spilling past your lips, and your hands thread through his hair to tug him someplace new. 

Finally—finally, his fingers hook under the waistband of your pants, and he pulls them down, before letting his fingertips trail back up your legs, stopping just short of the edge of your underwear. Instead, he places them on your waist, massaging the muscles as he returns his lips to yours. You groan, irritated, in response. 

"You're taking too long," you huff. 

"That's not the point of this," he replies.

"The point of this is to help me relax. And orgasms help make you relax. Can't relax if you can't even get me to orgasm."

"I'm sure I can," he says with frustrating certainty. "You just need to slow down."

"Slowed down I am. Feeling very slowed down. Very relaxed. Very ready for this promised orgasm."

He nips your jaw. "Cut it out."

You go quiet after that, though your mind fixates on all the ways you'll be able to get him back as he slowly eases the tension from your body with calculated movements. 

All conspiring plans come to a halt when he pulls your underwear down. Instead, replaced with anticipation as he brushes a finger through your folds, making you sigh, contentedly. 

"There she is," he coos, slowly pushing a finger in, watching your tense body language dissolve in an instant. "See how good it feels when you wait?"

"Mmhm," you hum, distantly, head lolling to one side, watching him with lazy interest. 

"It's been too long, hasn't it, honey?" he murmurs, and you silently nod as he pulls his finger out, spreading your own arousal around your clit, then pushing it right back in, working his way up to a steady pace. "I know. You've been so busy, working so hard."

You squirm, attempting to close your legs around him when he adds a second finger, the stretch burning just right. 

He doesn't allow you to, using his other hand to hold your legs open, watching your face intently. You let out a broken moan, fluttering your eyes shut, and you can feel the smile on his face when he leans down to pepper kisses along your thighs. 

"We can't wait this long again, okay, baby?" he murmurs, the skin vibrating with his words. "You're barely taking my fingers. How am I supposed to actually fuck you?" When your breath catches, he reassures you with gentle words of, "Don't worry, we won't tonight. You've gotta get back to your studying, don't you?"

"Mm-mm," you shake your head, thoughts clouded by the fact that he was now using his other hand to stimulate your clit. 

"No?" he asks, "you don't need to study anymore?"

Distantly, you're sure this is exactly what he wanted. Presently, you don't really care. 

There's tension building in your stomach, and he's crooked his finger to the perfect angle, that whatever responsibilities weighing you down seem inconsequential compared to the dire need for him to make you come. 

The knot in your stomach melts away as you whine, hands that had once dropped from his head now finding their way back to the strands of his hair, using them to ground yourself as your orgasm rolls down your spine. 

"Spencer," you gasp when he doesn't stop, hips jerking up off the mattress, met by his firm hand pushing them right back down. "Mm-mm. I ca—an't."

"Yeah, you can," he replies, gently. "You're doing so well for me. Just one more, yeah? You can come one more time?"

"'s too much," you whimper, "please."

"I know, I know," he nods his head. "But you're already clenching around me, baby. Just a little longer."

You cry out as your second orgasm bleeds through you, stars spotting your vision. He slows his pace down, all up until you're still beneath him, at which he drags his fingers out and reaches back up to gently peck your lips. 

You reach for him when he steps off of the bed, mewling quietly as he gets out of reach. 

"Come back," you pout, staring at him as he disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the sink tap turning on following his silence. 

"Just washing my hands, sorry, honey," he says once he's returned, helping you pull your clothes back onto your body. "Okay to have dinner now?"