clementine

It was certainly hard to focus when in the class of Professor Reid. Almost every seat in the front row was taken up by a girl twirling her hair or chewing on her pen. Or both. And you really couldn’t say you were any better.

Spencer stood at the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a stack of papers in the other.

He didn’t mean to be distracting, but he so very was. Tall, lanky, always dressed neatly in button-ups and vests, and his intelligence just radiated from him. And when he was teaching, his voice gained such weight and precision it was impossible for the attention of the room not to be drawn.

He was certainly handsome. And it was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know it.

You couldn’t blame the ogling women. You'd be lying if you said you weren't taking this class at least partially for Reid. You sat near the middle, your notebook open but mostly blank. You’d spent the last ten minutes sketching tiny hearts in the margins instead of taking notes. you were listening. You just… liked looking at him, too. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward onto his desk, how he bit his lip when concentrating, how soft-spoken yet assured he sounded. It was all kind of unfairly attractive for a professor who probably didn’t even realize half these girls were here for him and not criminology.

But you were a woman of drive. A woman of initiative. And a woman of... well, perverse sexual desires, honestly. And Professor Spencer Reid would see that soon enough.

You pretended it was a coincidence that you’d arrived earlier than could possibly be accidental.

And it was a coincidence, technically. A class of yours prior had been canceled last minute, and now roaming the halls of the building, the open door to Spencer’s hall was just too inviting to possibly ignore.

You hadn’t planned to show up an hour early just to secure a good seat. But now here you were, walking in at 8:05 AM for a class that started at 9, eyes roaming over the empty front row with a giddy greed.

Part of you had hoped to spare just an extra minute with the handsome professor before his lecture began. But much to your pleasant surprise, he wasn’t one to arrive two minutes before class was to begin like your other professors. As you stand in the door, Reid stares back at you with brown eyes like saucers, mid-scribble on the board, slightly alarmed to see someone so early.

His hair was unruly. The eyebags under his eyes, not dark enough to be troubling, but just enough to make you wonder if he had spent more than a few hours resting.

Spencer straightened up quickly and nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup on his desk. He clears his throat, and gives her a stiff wave. “Oh! Uh… good morning.”

You clear your throat and shift your bag on your shoulder, moving to secure a front row seat. “…First one, huh?” you say, like it’d been accidental.

Spencer nodded, still slightly flustered by your presence. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re… pretty early! 53 minutes early, actually.”

He turned back to the board and picked up his marker again, but didn’t resume writing just yet. Just stood there shifting it in his grip awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that someone was watching him work.

He slowly turns back around. “Did you… uh… have a question? Or something I can help you with?”

It makes you a little giddy inside that he was talking to you directly now. Like being alone with a celebrity. It was quite invigorating to have a crush.

“Oh,” you wave your hand, settling into your chair. “Nope. No questions here.”

He stares at your for a moment, eyes just subtly roaming over your figure. “…Cool,” he said lamely, then turned back to the board and started writing again, a subheading to yesterday’s lecture notes.

Crossing your leg over the other, you tap your fingers on your knees. You sit front and center, watching Spencer like he’s on display. The silence is a little uncomfortable, the only sound in the room the squeaking of the marker as his hand flies across the board, but you didn’t care. You were too busy getting an eyeful of his derriere each time his blazer rode up with his arm.

Eyes still fixed on the prize, you muse, “You like to be early too, huh?”

Spencer nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I like to get everything set up before class starts. Y’know… organize the slides, make sure the projector’s working,” He gestures vaguely to the ceiling. “Helps to not feel, uh, overwhelmed, actually.”

“Ah. A lot to do, I imagine.”

“Mhm!” he hummed in agreement, scribbling more notes on the board, something about a list of common stress triggers in violent offenders.

“Anything I can help with, sir?”

He turns slowly, marker in hand. “Uh… no? I mean, I’m good.” He smiled awkwardly, then immediately went back to writing before the conversation could continue further.

Your face falls. The slight sting of embarrassment makes you grimace behind his back. “Not even get you another coffee? …You look like you need it, sir.”

At that, Spencer considers. “…Actually,” he said slowly, “that would be really nice.”

You pop up from your chair like a spring. Spencer is slightly startled. “I, uh, take it with a lot of sugar!” He calls as he watches you move to the door, then retracts it as soon as he feels too demanding. “Actually, just— just bring the sugar here, I’ve got it.”

“Aye, aye, professor.”

Five minutes later, you returned, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a generous amount of sugar packets between your teeth.

You climb up the steps to the stage, for the first time being on the same level as your professor. And just a few feet away at that. You bite your cheek.

He carefully takes the cup with a tiny, grateful smile, but hardly makes eye contact with you, much to your dismay. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

He immediately ripped open three sugar packets, dumping them in at once. He stirred it with a spoon from his desk, watching the swirl of cream and sugar mix. When he finally sipped it… perfect. Strong. Sweet. Just how he liked it.

Still not looking at you directly, too aware that you were just standing there watching him oddly, he gave another quiet thanks.

You were lingering a little longer than necessary if you were being honest, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows another gulp of the coffee.

Spencer stares at you awkwardly. You give a sheepish grin as you catch yourself. “Sorry! I’m not, uh,” you bite your lip, humming, “bothering you or anything by being here so early?”

“Oh, no! No, it’s— it’s fine,” he said quickly, setting the coffee down. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and finally looked at you properly for the first time since you arrived. Maybe you were obsessed and ready to froth at the mouth over scraps, but something about the eye contact felt intimate. “It was really thoughtful of you,” he says again, gesturing to the coffee. “Besides, your performance in this class is excellent, might I say,” he compliments.

You suppress a grin. Score. You knew furiously scribbling down those notes as your head spun from all the criminology jargon, studying all night until you could recite the pages back to him was all worth it just for that tiny compliment.

“—So I don’t think you’re in any need of extra help outside of class,” he continues, smiling with a nod, “Therefore you’re… more than welcome to come in right at the time of the lecture. Don’t feel like you need to arrive early or anything.”

You deflate a little at that.

Goodness, you hadn’t even considered that. A little private tutor session? Just you and Professor Reid? Goddamn it, none of it was worth it at all. You should’ve been failing.

Spencer seemed to notice the shift in your expression, how your smile faded. Whoops. You forgot to be subtle.

He backtracks quickly, “I mean… unless you wanted extra help?” He offers, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Always more to learn!” You smile brightly, voice a little too chipper.

Spencer’s eyes brightened at your enthusiasm. “Okay! Cool,” he nods. “If you want, you can come by my office after class? I can go over some advanced profiling techniques for crime assessment and inputs.”

You struggle to keep the fireworks booming in your body from exploding out of your mouth. God, he had no idea. “Yes! Y-yes. yeah,” you nod rapidly. “Sounds great.”

He smiled, a genuine one that made her insides clench. “Awesome! My office is 208B,” he said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “I’m usually there until around five?”

With a final nod, Spencer turns to organize some papers. You see the opportunity and seize it.

Leaning on his desk, you ask casually, “Ah, five, huh? Gotta… get home to the wife?”

His eyes snap back to yours, confused and startled.

“Oh! N-No, no, I’m not married.”

“Whaaat? Get outta here. Not even a girlfriend?”

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at his papers, suddenly very interested in alphabetizing them. “…Nope.” Why was this conversation happening?

Meanwhile, you could practically fall over and die. “Wow. That’s… yeah, that’s crazy.”

He opens his mouth with the strange need to defend himself. “I… I mean… I just haven’t—” He cleared his throat and gestured stiffly to the board. “Anyway! Should probably finish this, uh, lecture prep.”

“Right, right! No, of course.” You shuffle away, moving to the steps to make your way off the stage. But you halt, pivoting on your heel. “…Aaanything else I can help you with?”

Spencer thinks. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of coffee and faint scent of whiteboard markers. He turns to spare you a glance, and realizes you seemed… eager to help.

“…You could hand me those slides?” He asked, pointing to a stack of pages on the side table that needed sorting into order.

“Hah, fuck…”

Laying back on your bed in your vacant dormitory, you let the back of your head hit the mattress again. Hair tussled, cheeks warm, a layer of sweat on your body.

As your fingers work between your legs, the only thought in your mind was your handsome professor. The thought of his lips greedily sucking your heat, dark locks falling over your thighs, as those long, wiry fingers work in and out of your cunt. The fantasy played out vividly in your mind, every detail sharp. His wide brown eyes shining with tears, his erection straining against those stiff pants he insisted on wearing to each class. His lips would be swollen and glistening from lapping and suckling. How sweet he’d sound, you think, with his moans muffled into your pussy as you grind against his face.

You fantasized about your Professor more often than you were ready to admit. When you were sure you were alone, the words “professor”, “teacher”, or “college” found itself in your laptop’s search bar frequently, often accompanied by your fist down your panties.

It certainly wasn’t the one fantasy you had. Gripping his wrists like a vice, fucking yourself on his dick while he could only watch helplessly— that was another contender. God, the sound he’d make if you yanked his hair just right. Or clamping a hand over his mouth as he sat between your legs, your fist working his cock faster than he could possibly keep up with. How flustered he’d be, stammering something sweet and nervous between kisses.

You thought of stuffing that tie in his mouth, of tugging that unruly hair, of bending him over your knee, of—

You lay back on your mattress, panting and flushed with a sheen of sweat, basking in the afterglow with your nerves still buzzing.

You hadn’t meant to get that carried away, but once you started thinking about him like that… it was impossible to stop.

You kicked your legs in the air, letting a breathless giggle escape you, the excitement of seeing him again so soon enough to send another rush of arousal through you.

You’ll admit, you were a little disappointed with the result of the small tutor session, none of the fantasies exactly coming to life.

“Well, I gotta say, I think you’re keeping up incredibly well,” Spencer flips a page in a file as he sits in his office chair across from you. “You’re remarkably competent. I mean, I don’t think you’re in need of any help outside of my class at all.”

You sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, knees pressed together.

Remarkably competent. Keeping up well. That was… great. But also so boring. You wanted him to say something like “you’re stunning,” “I think about you constantly,” “let me kiss you.” But instead, it looked like you were losing the opportunity for these sessions.

“It’s… nice,” he says, looking up at you properly now, “to have someone actually enrolled who cares about the subject. It’s funny, did you know you’re just about one of the only students of mine actually registered?” He laughs lightly. God, you would eat him alive. “Turns out, most of the people I get in my lectures are only auditing, it’s… it’s a little disappointing, actually.”

“Yeah, I know,” you nod casually, far less oblivious as to the reason for that.

Spencer pauses, sensing something. “You… do?”

“Yeah,” you shrug.

“Oh!” He glances off to the side for a moment. “Well, it’s, uh… kinda weird, right?”

“I mean… have you noticed it’s only the girl students doing the auditing?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “…Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess I have.”

With a slow, strange shock, you realize. “Oh, you actually don’t know.”

Spencer’s face scrunches slightly. “Don’t know… what?”

“Uh, well. They audit the class for you, sir.”

His lips part slightly. He blinks at her for a moment in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah. Like… they think you’re cute.”

The color drains from Spencer’s face, then floods back in a rush of red.

“Oh,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh.”

“Mhm. Kind of flattering, no?”

Spencer is already not handling this well. His fingers tap nervously against the file on his desk. He can’t look at you. His eyes keep darting to the ceiling, then back down.

“It’s… um,” he stammers, “I mean… I don’t— I never considered that.”

He was so oblivious. Painfully so. “Yeah.” You fiddle with your pencil and decide to test the waters. “You could, like… fix your whole ‘single’ problem with just about any one of them.”

Spencer looks mildly horrified by the idea. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops, “I mean… I could, but I wouldn’t want to.” His nose scrunches slightly.

“You wouldn’t?” you ask quickly.

“No,” he says automatically. Then he suddenly gets a little shier. “I mean… it’s not appropriate. I’m their professor.”

“Oh,” you say softly. “So it’s a moral thing.”

He nods, happy to be understood. “Yeah, professional boundaries, and all that. It just… wouldn’t be right.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never liked something that’s wrong?”

Spencer frowns. That was a very specific question. He shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling very warm under his button-up. “…No? Not like that?”

“No?”

“I mean…” he swallows hard, “not in a way that would ever matter.” This conversation had suddenly veered very personal before Spencer had even realized.

You’re leaning closer across the desk than he remembers you were five minutes ago. “So, if you did, hypothetically, happen to like one of those students, you wouldn’t date them?”

Spencer’s hands clench slightly in his lap.

“…No,” he says quietly, but there's a strange waver in his voice.

The sly tease flies out of your mouth before you can help it, “…Are you considering it now, Professor?”

“I’m not—!” he starts, defensive. His eyes flicker to yours for half a second before darting away again.

Got him.

After letting the silence linger for just another tense second longer, you stand abruptly. Your chair screeches against the floor, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden movement. Slapping laptop down and sliding it under your arm, you flash him a smile. “Much to think about!”

“Uh— wait,” he blurts, standing too. “M-Miss—!”

But you were already halfway to the door, bag tucked under your arm. “See you in class, sir!” you call over your shoulder.

The door clicks shut. Spencer stands there, frozen in the middle of his office, staring at where you’d just been.

His palms are sweaty.

He slowly sinks back into his chair and stares blankly at his desk.

What just happened?

A few days later, he’s a little startled the by the sound of a cup enthusiastically landing on his desk.

His eyes trail up the arm attached until he meets your sparkling eyes, and he immediately relaxes. “Morning!” You chirp.

This had become routine between the two of you now. Every morning you’d show up, steaming cup in hand, sugars and all.

“Ah, my prized student,” he says back warmly, and accepts the cup with both hands.

“Oh! Will that graduate to favorite student if I keep bringing you these coffees?”

Spencer’s lips twitch into a smile, his lips around the rim of the cup. “You’re already my favorite,” he admits without thinking. After a moment, he seems to catch on to his own words, and suddenly backpedales. “I mean— not in a weird way! Just… you bring me coffee.”

The smile on your face is downright perverted. “And sugar,” you remind him.

“And sugar,” he echoes, smiling shyly. He rips open four packets of sugar and dumps them in one heap.

You tap your nails against his desk idly and muse, “Y’know, I was studying for your class last night when I realized, I think I’ve finally found something I’m stumped on.”

Spencer perks up. “Oh! Okay, what is it?”

“Geographical profiling. Don’t understand it a lick.”

He brightens. “Ah, that’s actually really fascinating!” He says, setting his coffee aside. “What is it specifically you’re struggling with? Are you struggling with the mathematical algorithms or more the theoretical framework?”

You wave a hand. “All of it,” you lie, miming something flying over your head. “Whoosh.”

Spencer quiets for just a fraction longer than normal. All of it? That… seemed extreme for someone who had been acing tests so far. But he plays along. “Okay, well… let’s start at the beginning—”

“—After class, right? In your office?” You interrupt him eagerly.

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” he nods. “Sure. After class.”

“Wonderful. Wouldn’t wanna distract my mind before your lecture today, y’know?” You tap your index finger against your temple and smile at him warmly. Shifting your bag on your shoulder, you begin to walk to secure your front row seat.

But the moment you step out of the way of the desk, Spencer’s gaze drops before he can stop it. His eyes can’t help but roam over your lower half. Specifically your legs. Practically the entire expanse of your legs, in fact. You were wearing just about the shortest skirt he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on. A skirt that if it was even an inch shorter, there’d be a problem.

His brain short-circuits for a solid two seconds, long enough that the coffee cup tilts dangerously in hand. Then he chases himself away, his throat tight, awkwardly adjusting his tie. He busies himself with pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.

As you shuffle down the steps, you call over to him, “Don’t you just hate when your mind’s distracted?” You don't dare peek at him over your shoulder, fearing he’d see the coy smile plastered on your face.

Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Hate it.”

That lecture is practically public humiliation for Professor Reid.

He stands at the front of the class as usual, his voice echoing across the hall as he speaks, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. But his fingers keep twitching. In minute and a half intervals— because yeah, you were counting— his eyes accidentally flick down to you, front row center, legs crossed primly.

He’s usually quite a smooth lecturer. Articulate. Confident. Lost in the thrill of sharing his knowledge. But today, he keeps stumbling over words, noticeably missing transitions between points, and a few of the students are beginning to exchange glances. Since when did Professor Reid lose track of his lectures?

Meanwhile, you’re watching it all unfold smugly from your seat. Your eyes haven’t left your dear professor since this class began. Which wasn’t out of the ordinary. After all, everyone in the class had their gaze on him. But Spencer’s only painfully aware of one.

You notice the way he begins to subtly avoid looking in your general direction. Each time he glances up to check for engagement, his eyes skip a whole section of students like there was a bubble around you.

He discreetly wipes his perspiring palms on his pants.

Unhappy with the lack of attention, you shift in your chair. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, you sink in your spot, legs uncrossing, your mini-est skirt in the world at risk of riding up with any strong movement. You casually lean back, stretching one leg out just a little further, the fabric of your skirt rising up just an inch.

Your shoe taps against the floor like a quiet Yoo-hoo, over here. And when you’re certain he’s looking your way again, albeit in his peripheral, and with the slowest, softest, subtlest movement you can manage, you idly flex your legs open and shut, open and shut. His throat bobs, and your lips curl.

You keep the motion slow, almost lazy, like you weren't even aware of it. Just tiny, imperceivable movements. Rhythmic, absentminded. The way one taps their fingers or twirls a strand of hair. But it might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying Look at me, with your thighs tensing under the thin material of your skirt over and over before relaxing again.

Each time your legs spread, if Spencer looked close enough, he’d catch the color of your thong.

He grips the edge of his podium, knuckles whitening. The lecture drags on, every second an eternity. He finishes his last point five minutes early, voice trailing off awkwardly. “…And that’s— that’s all for today.”

A beat of silence. The students blink at each other. Each person shuffles out quickly, confused by the abrupt ending, but not exactly complaining. Spencer just wanted it to end.

You take your sweet time packing up. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, then pausing to yawn, arms high above your head in a long stretch that makes your shirt rise up at the waist.

Spencer watches, against his will, as your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, then as you reach higher, pulling your muscles in a different angle, and this time your back arches slightly.

He’s speechless atop the stage.

Frustratingly, you don’t spare him a glance as you file out alongside the other students that trickle through the door. “Bye, Professor,” he hears your voice above the rest.

“Bye,” Spencer mumbles back, robotic.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire lecture. Miserably, he drops to his chair and presses both palms into his eyes.

What was wrong with him?

A light knock comes to his office door, and Spencer’s head jerks up. That's you.

He clears his throat. “Come in!” he calls.

In comes you, with the brightest smile, one he can hardly tear his eyes from. “Hi, Professor!” You chirp.

“Hi,” he says back, softer than intended. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, whenever you’re ready.” His hands are folded neatly in front of him. A professional, composed posture. But his heart isn’t listening.

Spencer notices the absence of the skirt immediately, the expanse of your legs hidden from view again. But why was he looking? Was he hoping you hadn’t changed?

You plop down in your seat across from him with a bounce. After light conversation and a moment to get settled, he grabs a folder labeled Geographical Profiling and cracks open a textbook. “So,” Spencer begins, flipping open the folder. “Geographical profiling is basically a way to predict where a serial offender might strike next based on their previous crime scenes.” He pulls out a map, already marked with locations. “It uses statistical analysis and spatial patterns—”

“—Can I come over to your side?”

Spencer stops, staring at you a little oddly.

You shrug a shoulder. “I just think I’d get it better looking at it from your angle.”

“Oh! Yeah, for sure,” he says, scooting his chair over to make space.

You stand and circle around the desk, dragging the chair behind you. As you sit down with your shoulders just barely brushing his, the smell of your perfume engulfs him. Pleasant, not too overwhelming. Girly in a way that made him nervous. He clears his throat, “Where— where were we?”

Refocusing on the map, his steady, academic tone returns easily. “So we’re looking at these crime scenes here and here—” His finger taps two dots on the paper.

As he talks, you lean closer to the paper. Which naturally results in you leaning closer to Spencer. Your arms brush at some point with featherlight contact.

He doesn’t react. Instead, he keeps pointing at the map, voice even despite his body temperature suddenly rising. “…And based on this pattern,” he continues, “the offender likely lives somewhere along this radius.”

Abruptly, you turn to open a drawer on his desk. You scan the contents inside, then move to the next.

“Uh…” he starts, watching you with bewilderment.

“Looking for a pencil.”

“Ah!” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a clicky ballpoint. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. “You can use mine.”

“Ohh, your’s huh? I’m flattered. Promise not to chew on it.” You wink.

Spencer’s lips twitch. He watches as you take the pen, your fingers brushing. On purpose? Or was that just wishful thinking?

“Y-yeah, for sure. Just, um… just ask me next time, okay? I’d prefer it if you didn’t dig through my drawers.”

“Ah, I see,” you chuckle behind your lips.

“…See what?”

“I dunno. You hiding something dirty in there, Professor?”

Spencer’s face is mortified. “W-what? No!” He sputters, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just… paperwork! Notes. Th— that I’d prefer to keep organized.”

You bite back your grin. “You don’t have to be shy about it!”

“I-I’m not shy! There’s nothing to be shy about!” Spencer insists, a little too loudly.

He clears his throat awkwardly and tries to turn back to work like nothing happened. The paper and textbook stare back at him, completely uninteresting now. All he could focus on was how close you still were. How your perfume kept wafting over every time you moved. “So… statistically speaking, the offender likely lives within a three-mile radius of these clustered crime scenes.”

You nod along, but you're not really listening. You’re still watching him. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates, how his fingers tap the paper absentmindedly.

Spencer feels a poke on his shoulder.

“Hey.”

He turns his head sharply, eyes wide. “…Yeah?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence where you just stare into each other's eyes, your faces far too close. And for a moment, Spencer thinks this was going in a very different direction.

Then you smile. Soft, playful. “You talk with your hands a lot,” you observe casually. “I like it.”

“Oh,” is all he says at first. “Thanks?”

“Yeah, you’ve got good hands, you know?”

“Uh… yeah, thanks,” he mumbles again, voice weirdly small. “You too? I think?”

“Yeah? Mine?”

“Yeah, your—” Spencer gestures vaguely to your hands. They were nice. Soft-looking, well-manicured. Holdable. “I mean… they look… clean?”

“Hm. Clean.” You examine your own hands, spreading out your fingers and flipping them back and forth. You seemingly nod in agreement. “Don’t like to be messy, Professor?”

Spencer shakes his head quickly. “No, I hate messes,” he admits. “Germaphobe, honestly. The sheer amount of pathogens passed in a handshake alone is staggering, actually.”

“Really? What about… in a kiss? Now that’s gotta be dirtier.”

“Actually,” he says immediately, leaning forward slightly, “saliva contains millions of bacteria. Some studies estimate that a single kiss transfers 80 million microorganisms between people.” His voice gains the same weight you recognize from his lectures. “And it’s not just bacterial exchange either! There’s enzymatic activity too…”

Spencer’s scientific rambling slowly trails off mid-sentence as he takes notice, finally, of where your gaze is locked. His lips. His brain also finally acknowledges the warmth of your thigh deliberately pressed against his through the fabric of his pants, and he feels something stirring in his lower half he’d really rather ignore.

As Spencer’s mouth goes dry, a slow, wicked grin spreads on your face. “Sorry, I’m getting you all distracted again, aren’t I?”

He squirms slightly in his seat. “Y-yeah, a little.”

You nod to the paper. “You wanna… go back to telling me about geographical profiling?”

What was this, the third time now he’s had to begin again?

“Yeah. So… like I was saying, the offender’s most likely residence is here—”

For a while, you seem, to him, to be listening well. You occasionally nod, ask a question here and there to keep him talking. But your attention once again is curved by the handsome man sitting not even an inch away. And as he talked, the gears in your mind were turning.

You knew what came next. The big part. The one you’d actually practiced a humiliating amount of times. You squeeze your thighs together, your skin prickling with the thrill running through you.

Spencer doesn’t notice your distraction, too focused on explaining the logistics of distance decay. “And based on these crime scene locations,” he says, “we can calculate the mean center, which is essentially how all these points would balance if we put them on a scale.”

“Hm. Yeah, I just feel like I would see it better from your angle.”

Spencer stops as you interrupt him for the nth time. There’s no space left to scoot closer, but he still shifts a little— an instinctive, subconscious lean toward you. His shoulder is pressed flush against yours now. “Yeah… okay,” he murmurs, tilting the map slightly so you could see better, the proximity making his pulse erratic again.

You shiver a little at the closeness, subtly biting your lip. It practically takes all of your self-control to shake your head. “No, no, now you can’t see it.”

Spencer huffs a tiny, almost-laugh. “I assure you, I can see it. Not to worry. Besides, you should really be the one looking—”

“May I?”

“…May you what?”

“Move to a better angle for both of us, obviously.”

“Oh, right! Right,” Spencer scoots his chair back a generous amount to give you room, a little sheepish about having moved closer to you in the first place.

But you don't even acknowledge this. You rise from your chair smoothly, casually adjusting your clothes. Then, much to Spencer’s surprise, you lay a hand on his shoulder and move to stand between his legs, lording over him. He was suddenly at a disadvantage, looking up at you with eyes wide as saucers and watching your every move like a frightened animal.

You lock eyes with Spencer as you slide your arm around his neck. You feel the tenseness in his body, each muscle taut with anticipation. With a jut of your knee, you spread his legs and calmly perch yourself atop his thigh, effectively sitting in his lap. He nearly jumps back in shock, but pinned under your weight, he doesn’t have far to go. His body is stiff as a robot’s, so you take it upon yourself to grab his arm and effortlessly maneuver it until it’s wrapped comfortably around your waist, pressing his palm flat against your hip.

Spencer looks as though he’s been electrocuted. He’s completely paralyzed. You were in his lap. Your weight settled against him, your warmth seeping through his clothes. For a moment, he wonders if he’s just died.

“…What? You said I could.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but no sound came out. When his brain finally rebooted, all it could manage was a weak “I—I didn’t—”

You could somehow feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic, from where you sat on his knee. The rapid thump-thump of his pulse circulating through every vein like a trapped bird. Spencer could feel it too, betraying every ounce of panic and… something else he didn’t want to name. His fingers finally twitched slightly where they rested against your hip, like testing you were really there under his palm.

“Well, go on,” you feigned innocence, patting his shoulder twice. “Keep talking.”

Spencer’s mouth opened. Nothing. All he could focus on was the girl in his lap, your scent, your warmth, the soft fabric of your shirt under his palm. “…I,” he started, then stopped.

Poor guy. You suppose you should give him some help after being so cruel. “What’s that one mean?” you ask, pointing to a diagram in the open textbook.

Spencer’s gaze followed your finger to the diagram. He swallows hard. “That one,” he starts slowly, voice slightly higher than usual, “shows how crime scenes cluster around the mean center based on statistical dispersion.”

“Oh, I see. So what else do you have to teach me?”

Not this. He wasn’t qualified for whatever this was.

But his mouth moved anyway, defaulting to academia, his safety. “Uh… there’s also the concept of hotspot analysis, which uses kernel density estimation to identify high-crime areas—”

You weren't listening. Obviously. You watch his lips move as he rambles, gently trailing a manicured nail down his scruffy cheek, which briefly makes Spencer stutter.

“…And— and the—” He takes a shuddering breath. “…the algorithm accounts for temporal decay too, which means crimes are more likely to occur closer in time to previous events than further away. Th— there’s an equation for it, but I can’t… really remember right now.”

“Oh, dear, am I distracting you again Professor?”

“…A little!” he squeaks, a tight, bashful smile on his face.

“I was starting to think you never forgot anything.”

“I don’t, I— I just… I’ve never been distracted like this before.” It was true he had an eidetic memory. Something he was keen to remind everybody of. But right now, he was sure he couldn’t recall his own phone number if someone asked him.

“Never had a student on your knee?”

The way you phrased it, like this was normal, almost made him laugh at the absurdity. “N-no, no, never.”

“Well. Don’t let me distract you. Just trying to learn.”

You lean into his side almost affectionately as he talks, your nose brushing against his cheek. Spencer swallows hard. He falters, just barely, but it was enough to make his next sentence waver. “…and the weight is inversely proportional to distance from the epicenter, meaning closer crimes have higher influence on predicting future locations…”

You blow once on his ear.

Spencer jumps, his arm tightening around you involuntarily and his head tilted away from the sudden puff of air. He whispered-shouts your name, scandalized.

You snort. “Oops.”

“You’re— you’re messing with me,” he accuses, voice low but tinged with something begrudgingly playful.

“Who, me?” You bat your lashes.

A tiny, disbelieving laugh leaves his lips, nearly a scoff. “Yes,” he says, “You!”

You giggle, and Spencer feels some part of his brain turn mushy at the sound. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Professor. I’ll behave.”

He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “…So if we apply this methodology to an actual case,” he said, pointing at a crime scene map on the textbook page.

Before he can say much, he feels the lightest press of lips to his stubbly cheek, and his words quickly fade into an unintelligible, flustered mumble.

“W-we can predict with… um… reasonable accuracy where... mm…”

“Can’t hear you when you mumble, sir. How am I supposed to learn?” You nose his cheek.

He tried again, louder this time, “I said we can predict future crime locations with statistical modeling!”

God, this was torture.

“You’re getting kinda sweaty.”

“It’s— it’s hot in here,” he lied weakly, tugging at his cardigan.

“You can take that off,” you gesture to the sweater. “You don’t have to be professional with me.”

He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I… think I stopped being professional with you the moment I let you sit on my knee.”

You pull at his cardigan. “Take it off,” you whine.

“No! No,” Spencer grasps your wrists, his grip firm. He says your name in a scolding tone. “We’re still… on campus. I can’t just—”

“What, taking off a sweater isn’t allowed on campus?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I just… don’t feel comfortable, that’s all.”

“What, are you thinking of something gross?”

“No!” He blurts. “I just—I mean—I’m not—” He flounders for words, horrified by the accusation.

You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. You double over slightly, still perched on his knee, shoulders shaking, and Spencer’s chest does a weird little squeeze. He didn’t know whether to be offended or charmed, but his frown softened into something almost shy.

Your laughter ends with one sweet sigh, and with your hand on his cheek, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Grinning against his skin, you murmur, “Wanna know something?”

“…Yeah?” He whispers back, voice small and uncertain.

“I know this is turning you on.”

Spencer’s red down to his chest now. He sputters, “Wh— I— that’s not—”

“Mhm. Wanna hear what else I know?” You tilt his head up to peck his cheek twice. “I know you were staring at me in that skirt.”

Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent response to that.

“What were you thinking about? My legs? My ass? ‘Cause I’d say that’s pretty dirty, Professor.”

“No!” he whispers harshly, eyes wide. He squirms in his seat like he wants to escape. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—” His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your waist.

“So you were!” You giggle, pulling back from him and cupping his face in your hands. “C’mon, look at you. What happened to those… professional boundaries you were so worried about?”

Spencer’s expression twisted with shame and flustered panic. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a tiny voice, “You just… ruined them.”

“Oh, I did, huh? So it’s my fault? It’s my fault you were staring at me?”

Alarmed, he shook his head violently. “No! No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that, I-I meant it like—”

“Guess it’s just my fault you’re having all these perverted thoughts about your favorite student.”

“They’re not—” His chest rises and falls as he pants with desperate frustration. “I don’t have perverted thoughts!” he protests, voice pitching higher.

You laugh cruelly, “You do! Who knew? Professor Reid’s a big pervert who stares at the girls in his class.”

You shift in his lap, moving until your front is squished up against his, thighs clamped on either side of his legs, your hips putting unfortunate pressure on his pelvis.

Spencer presses himself as far back as he could in his chair, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “I-I’m not! No! No, it’s not like that!” His hands hovered in the air like he was trying to surrender. Every nerve in his body was screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, but his traitorous cock pulsed anyway.

“Gross. I can feel your dick getting hard.”

Mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave. “It’s not— I can’t help that!”

“What, are you turned on by this or something?”

Spencer just squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, grip tight on the armrests of his chair. His silence was answer enough.

“Pervert,” You hiss.

His face burns a deep, humiliated crimson. “I’m not… I’m not a pervert, okay?” He whispered, voice trembling with shame and genuine distress.

You dip down slowly, lowering your forehead to his, your breath on his lips. “Then why do you wanna fuck me?”

Finally, reality laid bare. And with the arousal very clearly straining against his pants, Spencer sees the uselessness in denying it, though his lips still part reflexively. For a heartbeat or two, you stayed like that, faces touching, breaths mingling. Then at last, he moves, and slowly he presses his lips to yours in the softest, most unsure kiss of his life.

At first, you don’t seem to reciprocate. Your lips stay upsettingly still, he’s not even sure your eyes are closed. Spencer whines slightly in his mouth in embarrassment. The moment his lips shy away from yours more than an inch, however, your grip suddenly winds into his hair. With an abrupt and furious force, you tug him back, teeth nearly colliding as you devour his mouth. Instantly, he melts back into your taste, completely unprepared for the intensity but his body responding instinctively. His hands fly back to your waist and his lips clumsily attempt to keep up with your hungry movements as he drowns in you.

One hand slides up your back while the other grips your waist tighter. He makes a small, needy noise against your mouth. You kiss him like you’ve been starving for it. like this was inevitable, like Spencer had been yours all along. You bite his lower lip gently before diving back in, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that leaves him breathless. He clutches you closer, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt.

Time seems to blur as the world narrows. The chair creaks under your combined weight as you shift atop him, pressing yourself even closer. Your thighs tightening around his hips, your body molding against him, beginning to grind over his erection.

Spencer groans into the kiss, his palms sliding down to grip your thighs. Your hips move against his with deliberate pressure, rolling down in slow, smooth circles just to feel him twitch. He breathes raggedly through his nose, trying to force himself up to meet your body every time it rises off of him just to grind back down.

“You’re stupidly hard,” you growl the moment you part for air.

Spencer looks up at you through his lashes with a dazed expression. His lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “S-sorry,” he breathes out automatically.

“I haven’t even fucking done anything to you,” you smile wickedly. “I kissed you and you’re throbbing.”

Spencer nods frantically, his cheeks burning with humiliation and arousal. “You’re… really pretty,” he blurts out suddenly.

The compliment elicits some kind of reaction from you, something he can’t quite place. You smirk again, eyes briefly rolling back like he’d touched you. You hum in satisfaction. “I’ve waited so fucking long to hear you say that.”

Spencer’s chest swells with something warm. His heart pounds harder. He wants to say more now, clumsy and sweet things that aren’t usually his style.

“You want me to touch you?” you coos condescendingly in a way that makes him dizzy, cupping his face. “Yeah? You want my pussy? Want me to suck your filthy cock?” you say crudely.

He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what the right answer is. Instead, his eyes dart down to your lips again, then lower, just for a split second, before snapping back up in panic.

“Answer me, Professor.”

“…Yes, y-yeah,” he finally squeaks out, the words so quiet it’s barely audible. Then he adds in a slightly louder whisper: “Please.”

“Yeah? Just like this?” One of your hands slides down to press against the front of his pants, right where he’s straining. He strains to not buck into your palm like a virgin.

His breath comes out in short, shaky puffs. He nods rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh-huh. Like that.”

You rip your hand away suddenly like you’d been burned. In an instant, his collar is wrapped in your fist as you slide off his lap and yank him to his feet. He stumbles after you, wide eyed and bewildered. Spencer barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s being whirled around, practically manhandled, and he finds you both have swapped places. You seat yourself lazily in his chair and tugs him down with you, down until his knees hit the floor of his office, until his head is hovering between your thighs.

“Wha—?”

“Earn it.”

Spencer’s brain is scrambling. He stares at your spread legs and closes his jaw. He swallows hard. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He’s never done this before. But the thought of touching you, tasting you, it sends a thrill through him that overrides his nervousness.

You casually undo the button of your pants, stripping them from your legs and kicking them off carelessly with effortless confidence. Spencer watches, mesmerized. Without a word, you sling one leg until your ankle rests over his shoulder, the other sitting on his thigh.

Now here you are, half-naked in his chair while he kneels like a supplicant, and the view is unreal.

He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth radiating from between your thighs, the faint scent that makes his stomach flip. His hands finally move, trembling as they reach for the hem of your fine, lacy panties— specifically chosen, to be sure. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly peels them down.

The lace slides down your legs easily, unveiling your cunt. Spencer’s not sure he’s seen a woman like this up close before, not in person. Not like this. His face burns as he stares for half a second too long. With tentative, almost reverent hands, Spencer leans forward and presses a single, feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s not where you want him, but he needs a moment to steel himself.

His lips are soft. Nervous. The kiss is chaste, too innocent for what you want, but the warmth of his lips against your skin still sends a little shiver through you. You tilt your hips slightly, nudging his back with your heel. “Don’t be shy. Lick it.”

His face is inches from you, so close he can feel the heat.

He swallows hard, then slowly, painfully slowly, he leans in and drags his tongue over you in one experimental stroke. The taste is new. Sweet, musky. Spencer does it again, a little bolder this time, his tongue moving with cautious curiosity as he explores the soft folds of you, his hands gripping your thighs to steady himself.

You inhale sharply through your nose, threading your fingers into his hair to guide him. “Fuck, yes,” you grin.

The praise shoots straight to his loins.

He redoubles his efforts, following the gentle tug of your fingers in his hair. He presses a few open-mouthed kisses before finally sealing his lips around your folds and sucking gently. His tongue flicks experimentally over your clit before he laps at it properly.

Your back arches slightly, letting airy moans slip. Spencer might be a virgin at this, but he’s a smart boy. He adapts fast. His tongue works in small circles now, swirling the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pressing him closer, not that he even needs encouragement.

Spencer loses himself in the rhythm. Licking, sucking, following whatever makes you gasp. He drags his teeth very lightly over your clit before soothing it with a long swipe of his tongue. Fuck, he likes this. So much. He moans mindlessly into your cunt, the vibration of which travels through your body, making your hips jerk up into his mouth.

Spencer’s arousal is obvious, the bulge in his pants twitches with practically every movement. He’s so turned on by this, by the way you react to him, that it almost hurts.

You spread your legs further, pushing his head and shamelessly grinding up into his mouth. You laugh breathlessly, then let your head fall back in a moan.

He loves this. He lets you use him, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, helping guide your movements as he devours you with messy enthusiasm.

The office is quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth on you and your hitched breathing. Spencer’s lips are glistening, his cheeks flushed. He can feel himself getting dizzy from the scent of you, from how good you taste. Each moan he pulls from you goes straight to his cock, aching in its confinement.

Spencer has no idea how hot he looks right now. Wild hair, flushed face, lips slick with you. But you know. You’ve been fantasizing about this for months now, him between your legs, his clever mouth working on you like this. And reality is so much better than any daydream you ever had. Months of imagining this, and Spencer is even better than any late night, desperation-fueled fantasy. His lips are so soft, his tongue so eager, like he genuinely wants to please you. It’s intoxicating.

A particularly good flick makes you gasp “Fuck!” You gasp.

Spencer has lost track of time, only aware of the warmth between your thighs, the way you squirm and moan above him.

Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, and you start rocking against his mouth faster. The realization that you’re close makes Spencer’s stomach flip with excitement. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down with a greedy sort of focus, his tongue moving with more purpose.

Your thighs flex, hips jutting erratically as you near the edge. Spencer’s own body is strung tight, his cock leaking, his pants sticky, but he ignores it. All that matters is you and the way your breathing turns ragged, the cries escaping your lips. He wants to taste it when you cum.

Your back arches off the chair, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head as you cum with a sharp cry. He keeps going gently through your orgasm.

The aftershocks ripple through you in small twitches and soft gasps, and Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels. His lips are wet. His face is a mess.

When the last waves of pleasure subside, you slump bonelessly in the chair. Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels.

You exhale shakily, blinking down at Spencer, still between your legs, his lips wet and swollen. The rest of him disheveled. You laugh breathlessly at his ruined and endlessly attractive state.

Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little dazed, but your laugh makes him smile faintly. He’s never felt so satisfied, and he didn’t even get off.

“Did I…” he pants, “did I do okay?”

Through the bliss, you shrug, teasing him. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”

Spencer’s face falls slightly. “It was my first time,” he mumbles defensively, a little hurt.

“Still,” You groan as you fix your posture, sitting up in the chair, “coulda figured out geographical profiling while you were trying to figure out what to do with your tongue.”

His lips purse, embarrassed. He stares up at you from the floor with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “I-I was trying…” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

From your elevated position, your eyes catch his cock is still straining in his pants. “Get on the floor, professor,” You push him back with a heel against his shoulder.

“Okay!” Spencer goes down without resistance, lying flat on his back now. He watches you from the floor, wide-eyed and waiting.

You slide out of the chair and drop to the floor, crawling atop him. You pop open the top button of his shirt. “Lie there and let me use your cock, or I’ll tell everyone Professor Reid licked his student’s cunt.”

Blackmail? His brain jumps back and forth between panic and pathetic arousal. “…Okay,” He nods quickly, hands hovering uselessly in surrender. “Okay, do whatever you want. Just… just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She smiles in satisfaction. “So you know this is wrong.”

He swallows. Yes, it was wrong. It was all wrong. But it also felt so, so right, and he wanted this too badly to stop now. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”

“Then you admit it, huh?” Your fingers suddenly grip his collar, undoing the knot of his tie. “You admit you’re a pervert?”

“…I’m not a pervert,” He says resolutely.

“Right.” His tie freed, You bunch it into a ball in your fist. “Then you’re not gonna, like… cum or something, right? ‘Cause that’d be pretty bad for your case.”

Yes. “…Nope.”

“Oh, good!” You grin, “Now we don’t have to worry about a condom!”

He opens his mouth to protest, and you swoops in to take the opportunity to stuff his tie between his jaw, effectively gagging him.

His muffled sound of surprise barely escapes. Panic spikes in his chest, but it’s too late. You're already moving, and Spencer can only lie there helplessly as you unzip his pants with a hungry gleam in your eye.

His cock springs free, hard and aching, and completely at your mercy. Spencer’s eyes are huge behind the gag. “Careful,” You whisper dangerously as you hover over his dripping cock, “don’t wanna get your student pregnant.”

Spencer whimpers nervously.

You don't tease. No, you waste no time. In one smooth motion, you sink yourself down onto him. Spencer’s body goes taut, a choked noise escaping around his tie. It’s too much. You're tight and warm and he wasn’t ready for this at all.

You bite back a groan as you sheath the entirety of his length, every inch swallowed. “Fuck, this all for me?” You laugh mockingly, “Look at you, oh, you’re so fucking hard. It’s pathetic.”

Spencer lets out a muffled, shameful whine. His hands finally move, clutching at your hips like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You allow it, if only because the touch of his hands still sends a thrill through your body. “Poor thing… if only your body were half obedient as your mouth. Must be so frustrated.”

Spencer is frustrated. Frustrated that he can’t kiss you, frustrated that you’re talking like this, frustrated you’re not moving. He squeezes your hips gently, begging without words as he squirms under you. Move. Please.

You admire the way his cock bulges slightly in your tummy. “What? Huh? I can’t hear you under there."

Spencer makes a muffled noise, a furious cry, and rolls his hips upward, trying to show you what he wants.

You gasp slightly at the movement, laughing under your breath. “Aww, are we getting impatient?”

Spencer nods rapidly. His hands slide up your sides, then back down to grip your ass this time. He’s already breathless.

“You want me to fuck you so bad it makes you look like a virgin.”

Spencer just nods again, his saliva soaking the tie.

“Last I checked, dildo’s don’t whine.” Finally, mercifully, you slide yourself back up to his tip, cock almost slipping out. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you purr, “and you’re gonna thank me for it. Won’t you?”

Spencer moans as he nods frantically, like a bobblehead.

The slow drag of you taking him back in makes his toes curl, the sensation electric. It’s so good he almost forgets to breathe. The stretch is perfect, the heat maddening. But the slow, careful movements as you adjust don’t last long. You grip the collar of his shirt for stability as you begin to move yourself faster, then faster, immediately setting an unforgiving pace.

Spencer’s entire body convulses with pleasure. Each sharp bounce of your hips punches the air from his lungs. His hands scramble to hold onto your waist, fingers digging in as you ride him hard. Muffled moans spill out continuously from behind the fabric in his jaw as his vision blurs at the edges. His stomach tightens, his thighs tremble.

The pace is relentless and purposeful. It sends a message. That you’re taking what you want from him, and Spencer is just along for the ride.

Through your own bliss, you laugh at his state. “Oh, you are gone.”

The laugh vibrates through him and sends another wave of pleasure down his spine. His hips twitch up weakly to meet yours with every bounce.

You lean forward, pressing your chest against his, the pace never faltering. You bring your lips to his ear, your breath against his skin. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll show me what a whore you are.”

The words send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut. So vulgar, so degrading, and yet Spencer’s cock throbs at the sound of them.

The pace doesn’t slow for a second. If anything, it gets harder, more punishing. Spencer’s muscles tense, his orgasm already building fast, and he knows he’s not gonna last. He moans and whines girlishly as he starts to writhe beneath you.

“Oh, poor baby,” you mock, “I thought you… mmm, said you weren’t gonna cum in me. Fuck. Don’t tell me I’ve got a little liar.”

His entire body is tensing, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts out his nose, but he shakes his head violently.

“Oh, so close. So close, aren’t you? I know. I know, and you don’t wanna cum. Don’t wanna get me pregnant, do you? Fuck, I bet you’d lose your job.”

He tries to hold back, biting down onto his tie. It’s agony trying to hold back. His balls are tight, his cock pulsing with every bounce of your hips. The threat of consequences makes it worse. He can’t cum, he really can’t, but you're making it impossible. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from desperation.

“Too bad,” You hiss, leaning down again to whisper in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. “C’mon, just cum for me. C’mon, who cares? Who cares I’m your student? Make me drip with you.”

He tries to shake his head, but Spencer’s body betrays him. With a silent, shuddering convulsion, his orgasm rips through him. Even through the gag, his choked moans escape as he cums inside you, pulse after pulse filling you as pleasure tears through his entire being.

You let out an airy, girly moan and laugh at him, giddy and triumphant.

Spencer goes limp underneath you. He breathes heavily through his nose, still whining and squirming. After a while, his eyes flutter open as he weakly lifts his head. He stares at where you’re connected with horror, the haze fading and the clarity hitting him.

You notice. “You wanna see?”

Spencer nods rapidly.

You lift yourself from his softening cock, the globs of his release sliding down his length. You're dripping with him. His cum, so much of it, leaking down his own cock and dripping from your thighs.

The sight makes him nauseous. His chest rises and falls rapidly in panic. His eyes are blown open wide and searching yours for an answer.

Finally satisfied, you end the game. “I’m on the pill.”

Spencer's entire body sags with instant relief.

You chuckle, then grasp his cock from between your thighs, realigning it with your dripping entrance.

Again? His cock is sensitive, overspent, he’s still coming down from the high of his last orgasm. But you don't seem to care, just guiding his half-hard cock back inside without hesitation.

The moment you push yourself back down, it’s too much. Too sensitive. The oversensitivity makes his writhe involuntarily, a whimper escaping around his gag. He doesn’t know if he can go again, but you clearly expect him to try.

You don't give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, rolling your hips in slow circles. His body responds despite itself, his cock stirring back to life, slowly hardening again inside you.

Spencer’s hands clutch at the carpet beneath him helplessly. It shouldn’t feel good. It hurts. But the sensation is undeniable, and his hips give tiny little involuntary thrusts upward.

You lean down, finally pulling the gag out of his mouth. “There we go,” You murmur, then kiss him, deeply this time.

Your lips are warm, your tongue sliding against his as you start to ride him again. To Spencer, it feels intimate. He hums into your mouth, kissing you softly. But it doesn’t take long before your pace stops being gentle.

You’re using him. Using his cock like a dildo, and something about it is dizzying. His hands find your waist again, gripping tight as you pick up speed, chasing your own pleasure now. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from his body.

The kiss breaks as you focus on riding him harder, faster. Spencer’s head lolls back against the floor. He’s just a thing to you right now— a toy, a tool. He’s much comparable to a ragdoll. He watches you from the floor as you use him, gritting your teeth and moaning.

You’re riding him erratically, moving yourself and his dick whichever way hits that spot inside you best. He watches your face, the way your brows furrow, how you bite your lip, and decides it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even as a ragdoll, he can appreciate that.

Your moans get louder, coming out in shorter, clipped bursts. You're close. Spencer feels it, the way your thighs tense around him, how you grind down with purpose now. He stays perfectly still, letting your chase that high on top of him.

A sharp cry escapes you as your body locks up, and he feels the sudden tight clench around him. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

When it’s over, you huff once, then slump forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and just breathe for a moment.

Spencer stays still, one hand hesitantly rubbing your back.

After a beat, You grab his face with a ferocity and force your lips back to his. With a dazed expression, Spencer eagerly accepts.

The kiss is messy and sloppy. Your post-orgasm haze mixes with any lingering adrenaline. And Spencer kisses back like he’s starving for it, his hands sliding up to cradle your face.

But you slip out of his grasp all too soon, and Spencer whines. Sliding yourself off his cock with a groan, you suddenly reach up to grip his hair, tilting his head back. “Open your mouth,” you command.

Albeit a bit confused, he obeys, lips parting. His heart is still racing, his body humming from everything that just happened.

You crawl up his body like a predator, and Spencer realizes with dizzying clarity, you want to straddle his face. And some part of him gets a thrill that he did it well enough the first time you would demand it again.

You don't have to guide him. He’s ready, eager even, holding out his hands to steady you. His palms slide up your thighs, and he tilts his head just right, lips parted expectantly. Please. That’s what the look in his eyes says.

You lower yourself onto his mouth with zero hesitation. Spencer inhales sharply through his nose, your scent is everywhere, before his lips press even against you.

This time, he doesn’t bother with the coquettish hesitation. He dives in. Immediately, he tastes himself on your tongue, the flavor of which strange, salty and musky. But he doesn’t mind. Spencer laps at you contentedly, his tongue exploring with more confidence than before, licking and sucking and kissing.

You inhale sharply through your teeth, your fist gripping his hair. You shudder atop him, your thighs squeezing around his head. “Oh my god,” You breathe out, genuinely surprised. His tongue is moving just right, his pressure is perfect. Your hips start rolling against his mouth, chasing the pleasure.

Spencer, for his part, is fully immersed, licking and kissing like he’s worshipping you. His cheeks and nose are damp with your arousal.

Your back arches into him as you practically ride his face, greedily taking everything his mouth has to offer. He holds your thighs steady, letting you grind against his lips, his tongue working tirelessly to give you exactly what you want.

You're close again, sooner than last time. Breathing raggedly, your grip on his hair tightens as you chase that second high.

Spencer can feel it, the way your body tenses, the tiny trembles in your thighs. A high, broken moan tears from your throat and you shake, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head. He keeps his tongue right where he is, letting it happen, letting you ride out the waves on his mouth.

You finally lift yourself from his mouth, taking the heat of your cunt with you. Spencer helps you crawl back to his lap as he catches his breath. He pulls your limp body gently into his arms. He can’t help but cradle you against his chest. It felt like the right thing to do. You slump against him without a complaint.

You’re both a mess. Sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, the smell of sex thick in the air.

You both lie there, boneless. The floor doesn’t make for the most comfortable spot to lie, but neither could especially move if they tried. The cool air conditioning, at least, is pleasant against their overheated skin.

Spencer exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “So, uh… what… what now?”

Your breath is still coming out in puffs. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

Spencer purses his lips, suddenly nervous. He swallows. “…Are we… um… gonna talk about what just happened?”

You lie there wordlessly for a moment. “…I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”

Spencer nods slowly. Silence stretches between them, heavy and awkward. Then he suddenly frowns in thought. “You… you planned this?”

“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to fuck your brains out since I found out you weren’t another old, boring professor.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush again. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I mean… shit, everybody does. I just did it first. I tried to tell you.”

“Yeah, I, uh… thought you meant— well…” He thinks back to your conversation in his office, about the female students in his class, auditing only because they intended to spend the class ogling him instead of listening. “I assumed the fact that you were enrolled meant you… didn’t share the sentiment.”

“What, sitting in your lap wasn’t enough of a hint?”

“W-well, I think it hit me by that point, actually!”

You drop your head in exasperation with the knowledge that all of your flirting, this entire time, flew under his radar. Jesus, it was a miracle you’d gotten to this point at all.

You exhale theatrically, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re very dense. It’s very charming.”

He smiles, small and shy. “Thank you?”

You just hum. The both of you are silent again, slumped against each other. The clock ticks in his room, the AC rattles.

Spencer idly taps his fingers against your back, still staring at the ceiling. “Did you, uh… wanna… get coffee sometime? Or something?”

Warnings: insecurity, self-comparison, kissing. Only she/her pronouns are used, so trans girls and anyone who uses these pronouns, this is for you.

A/N: I read @tenpintsof-sundrop 's post about how SO many Spencer writers love the "girlfriend wearing their boyfriend's clothes" trope, and honestly as they should, but as a mid-size girl, it's not that realistic. So I took it upon myself to write a short blurb where Spencer wears one of your sweaters. Enjoy 😙

Autumn was undoubtedly your favourite season: the crisp air biting at your skin, the crunch of browned leaves on the pavement, the feeling of a freshly-made mug of tea warming your hands, and of course, wearing sweaters. Sweater weather, is what you called it.

What made it better was the fact you enjoyed experiencing all of this with your lovely boyfriend, Spencer. You could only describe it as luck that you both shared a deep love for autumn, and Halloween naturally. You and Spencer enjoyed taking walks in the afternoon dusk of October, watching obscure foreign films that only he could translate while you were wrapped up in a blanket, and baking cinnamon goods when sleep was long forgotten on the nights he was off work.

Nothing could disrupt your joy during this time - well, except maybe one thing. Both avid sweater collectors, they were all you wore during the colder months. And as usual boyfriend-girlfriend relationships go, you often thought about borrowing a sweater or two from his wardrobe. He had a red striped one which you adored, a memory of his younger self when you had met each other at a flea market and both grabbed the same vintage book. His brown argyle one was definitely your favourite though. And you would ask him to wear it if it wasn’t for one thing.

You wore a larger size than Spencer. It was always blaringly obvious to you how different your bodily proportions were. Although the taller one, your boyfriend wore trousers that you could hardly fit a thigh through and his shirts would only reach past your neck, or at least you assumed - you had never attempted to try.

It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. There were plenty of girls who were taller or chubbier than their romantic counterpart, but it still stung. There was nothing you wanted more during colder evenings than to steal one of his sweaters and bury yourself beneath the warm wool, enveloping yourself in his smell. So you opted for cuddling up as close to him as possible, letting him wrap his arms around you - it was as good as it could get.

However, one day during November, when you were alone at your shared apartment, a very wonderful thing occurred.

The kitchen had just been cleaned after another one of your baking fiascos. Amongst many things, you knocked the bag of flour while putting the tray of odd-looking cookies in the oven, and thus made a mess of the entire floor and counter. It took a while to clean up and it was not rewarding to open the oven door to deformed, sad-looking cookies. Whatever, you thought. It clearly wasn’t your day.

You found a place in your favourite armchair, your current read in your hands. It was the ideal way to pass the time since Spencer had texted you about his mountainous pile of reports he had to finish getting through. He could surely read faster than everyone else, but it didn’t mean they would be finished in a short period of time.

As you delved deeper and deeper into the story, you were startled when you heard the front door click open. You glanced at the clock up on the wall. Almost midnight, poor boy.

“Angel?”

“I’m in the living room!” you called out.

The shuffle of shoes and a gentle thump echoed through the corridor as Spencer took off his converse and dropped his messenger bag. The sound of soft footsteps neared you until the tall man rounded the corner and appeared in all his nerdy glory.

“Hey, finally home,” he sighed.

But you didn’t listen to what he was saying because you were too focused on something else: resting on his lanky frame was your sweater. One of your warmer ones. It was obviously a little too big on him, the material slipping off his right shoulder to reveal his white button-up underneath. The dark green sleeves were always a tad too long for your arms, and you’d assume they wouldn’t even reach Spencer’s wrists, but there they were covering his knuckles, only his fingertips poking out.

“Is everything alright? You seem distracted.” Spencer’s voice pierced your bubble of awe.

“Is that my sweater?”

He looked down and pulled on the hem of the sweater, a faint blush tainting his cheeks. “Uh yeah, it seems to be so. Does it bother you?”

Bother you was the last thing the image of your boyfriend in your clothing would do.

You cleared your throat as you tried to gather your thoughts into an intelligible sentence.

“N-Not at all! You just never asked me to wear anything of mine before … did you not have any sweaters left?”

“Oh no, I did! I um- well yesterday you wore it and left it on my desk chair, and it looked so warm and it … smelt of you.” His voice went up an octave at this last part. “And I thought I could wear it. Is that okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Wrong wasn’t the word you would use. Cute, adorable, heart-warming were adjectives that fit to describe the situation.

“Far from that, Spence. You look … you look adorable,” you said warmly.

He smiled in embarrassment and lifted his hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He truly was the spitting image of domesticity in this moment.

“C’mere.” You urged him to walk towards you, tucking your legs underneath your body. He shuffled closer while he picked at the stray ends of wool fraying at the sleeves.

Once he was close enough, you held his face in your hands and left a tender kiss on his plump, pink lips. He whined quietly at the sudden action, but let you do as you pleased - he couldn’t really say no, he was putty in your grasp.

After stopping the sweet kiss, your eyes traced over his outfit again - God, he was such a darling.

“Please wear my clothes more often, you look cute in them,” you said while looking into his hazel eyes.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he grinned.

The letter :

Hi to everyone reading this. I told y'all I will do a handwritten letter and here it is! Please don't judge my handwriting much or my typos, thanks in advance! I just simply wish to express my gratitude to everyone who has helped me to get this far. First of all to shawol-lisa-lee9 on Tumblr, you were my first beta reader and you helped me progress so much. Thank you ♡. Next is sreidisms on Tumblr for editing my chapters without knowing anything about AFTG. You must have been so confused, lol. Thank you ♡.

My greatest thank you to Duke. The current and if lord wills the final and only beta for this series. I love your mind. I love that you remember the tiny details of the series I sometimes overlook. I love your advice. Honestly? I love you in general. What's not to love about you after all.

I can't never be any less grateful that it is you I am swiping my ideas with and that you get ti hear my rants. I am so glad it's you. I am so glad we're friends, Duke.

I hope you know and feel how much I appreciate you being in my life despite us being on the opposite side of the world with different journeys to walk.

Shout-out to my IRL for encouraging to go forward and write that damn fix. I was so insufferable guys :/ Thank you to all my apu’s online too for telling me to just do it.

I did it !! :)

Thank you to every hut, to every kudos, to every comment and subscribe. I wait to see what people would like to say about each chapter and it's such a joy to see the ao3 email pop up telling me a new email I arrived.

And lastly, thank you to Tereza who replies back to my story in Insta, reads the chapter as fast as she can and tells me what she thinks about it. I love to text with you! You're such a fun person who share the same love for AGTG I have.

“Don’t want to.”

“You have to.”

“Not ready. I think I need my beautiful perfect angel boyfriend to cuddle me longer.”

Spencer flushes and presses his forehead to yours. 

“I hate when you do that.”

“What? When I’m nice to you?”

You reach up to cup his face. Spencer carefully grabs your wrist and kisses your palm. 

“When you’re nice to me because you want something and you know it’ll work. Because I’m weak.”

“I just want you,” you say, innocently, devilishly. 

“Just,” he scoffs. “I know you. You’re not a girl who just wants anything.”

“Sorry.”

You don’t look sorry. You’re going for pout, but you can’t hide whatever mischief inside you is pleased by his teasing. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispers, softened. “You don’t ever need to be sorry. I love giving you what you want. Keep asking me for things.”

You sparkle as he maps the warmed high point of your cheek with a thumb. 

“Careful. I might end up a spoiled brat.”

Instead of pointing out that it’s not a matter of might—you’ve already arrived—Spencer exhales a laugh. 

“No, no. Never. You just… have… a developed understanding of your wants and needs, and you communicate them efficiently, and to the extent that I am able, I enjoy fulfilling you. Unconditionally.”

Another wide smile, real and gorgeous. He could die happy, as you hold his face like he’s holding yours, and you speak so quietly if he were any further away, if he couldn’t feel your breath on his cheek, he might not be able to hear. 

“You make me sound so good.”

“You are,” Spencer promises, speaking through a smile that mirrors your own but is, he can only imagine, not half as radiant. “You’re perfect. You’re actually perfect.”

“No such thing.”

“But there is, because you are. I’m looking at my proof.”

Another warm giggle. 

“Well… okay. Say I’m willing to accept this. Doesn’t that mean… if I’m perfect… I don’t need to get up?”

“No. You absolutely do need to get up. But you’re gonna look so pretty doing it.”

You make a face. Spencer kisses it away. 

“C’mon. We could get you snacks while we’re up.”

“Or you could get me snacks while I remain lying down.”

“You have to let me incentivize you.”

“Maybe you just have to do it better.”

Spencer huffs. 

“Okay. You get up and go to the bathroom. I’ll get you something to eat and I’ll bring it to you once you’re done.”

“Will you read to me?”

“I will read to you.”

“Will you make me breakfast tomorrow?”

“Was it so bad you didn't get any value out of the experience? You have to take me for all that I’m worth?”

“No, no—” you laugh loudly, realizing your mistake. “No! Okay, no. Sex is not transactional. You don’t have to make me breakfast. Thank you in advance for getting me a snack and reading to me. You’re the nicest person ever and I love you so much.”

Spencer blushes and laughs to hide it and buries himself in the crook of your neck. You slip an arm under his ribs to hold him closer, and over the course of a minute or so, the laughter dissipates. A hand finds its way into his hair.