𝜗ৎ゛CUPID’S NOTES ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ this was my second fav fic to write right under the remmick fic… the dynamic in this is so juicy to me. reader’s characterization was very fun to write
. ♡ ݁˖ CONTENTS modern au. professor x student relationship. power imbalance. light age gap. alcohol consumption. both parties lightly buzzed during intimacy. fingering. unprotected p in v sex. cum inside. desk sex. praise. mdni 18+
The last slide clicks off and the lecture hall exhales with him. Chairs scrape, zippers hiss, bags thump shut as everyone starts filing out into the corridor’s yellow light.
Professor Sumner stands at the front of the room, one hand braced on the lectern, fingers stained with white chalk dust that smears faintly over the dark tweed of his jacket when he drags his palm down the lapel. He thanks them for coming in that low, distracted way of his, eyes already sliding back to his notes, shoulders curving inward as if trying to retreat from the lingering attention.
You pretend to tuck your notebook away more slowly than usual, watching him over the rim of the desk. He looks tired, but he always does. Tired and sharpened, eyes dark and cutting when he’s on a roll and the whole room is pinned under his voice as he talks about decomposition, trauma patterns, toxicology. Today, those eyes flicker over the trickle of students leaving, checking, counting, waiting for the last one to go.
You stay in your seat until you’re one of the last three. Then two. Then finally, it’s you and the girl in the third row. She slings her bag over her shoulder and waves, calling a soft goodday to him. Patrick gives a short nod, mouth twitching faintly, and when the door swings shut behind her, the room feels bigger, quieter. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The projector fan winds down.
He looks up and sees you still there.
“Everything all right?” he asks. His voice is low, rougher after an hour of talking. “You look as though you’re missing something.”
You rise from your seat, slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder, notebook tucked under your arm. “No. Just waiting.”
“For what?” He reaches to shut his laptop, the silver lid closing with a soft click. “You’ve not missed any deadlines, if that’s what you’re worried about. I keep track.”
You walk down the steps one by one, shoes clicking softly. “I’m not worried I’ve missed anything.”
He studies you as you approach his desk, eyes narrowing slightly. Up close, that tiredness is even more apparent—light fine lines at the corners of his eyes, beard shading his jaw, shadows under his cheekbones. He smells of coffee, paper, and the faintest trace of his cologne, something woodsy that clings to his shirt collar.
“What can I do for you, then?” he asks. “I have another meeting in…” He glances at his watch and frowns. “Fifteen minutes, if the department remembers to turn up this time.”
“I won’t keep you long.” You come to a stop at the edge of his desk, close enough to rest your fingers on the worn wood. “I wanted to ask you about… extra lessons.”
His brows draw together, skeptical. “Extra lessons,” he repeats slowly. “You do realize you’re one of the few people in this module who actually reads the assigned articles?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” You let your mouth curve, amused, but there’s an intentness in your gaze you don’t bother hiding. “I just want to make sure I’m at my best. Your class is important to me.”
He folds his arms, the jacket pulling over his shoulders, emphasizing how broad they are beneath. “Your marks are consistently high. Top three in the cohort. If this is about reassurance before exam season, I can tell you plainly that you’re doing very well—”
“Top three isn’t top one.”
He blinks once, slowly, as if he didn’t expect you to say it like that. The corner of his mouth twitches, caught between a smile and something like exasperation. “Perfectionism is a curse, you know.”
“I don’t need to be perfect,” you say, letting your tone soften, dipping lower. “I just want to reach my potential.”
“And you think… what? Extra sessions with me will somehow accomplish this.”
“I think having you talk me through more cases, more scenarios, more… of how you think… would help. Yes.” You tilt your head, watching him. “Unless you have a rule about not giving extra time to students who already have an A.”
He shifts his weight, arms still crossed, gaze drifting briefly to the door and back, like he’s checking that no one has slipped in unnoticed to overhear. The room is quiet, the corridor outside humming with distant footsteps and voices. His jaw tightens.
“I don’t have a rule,” he says at last. “I have… preferences. Professional boundaries.”
“I’m an adult,” you remind him gently. “And it’s not uncommon, you said it yourself, for students to meet with professors outside of scheduled office hours. You still have night classes on Tuesdays, don’t you?”
His eyes sharpen. She’s done her homework, he thinks. Of course she has.
“Yes,” he answers eventually. “Six to eight. Postgrad seminar.”
“So after that,” you say, undeterred. “Say… eight fifteen? Your office?”
He stares at you, long enough that the air between you feels like a thin wire under strain. You hold his gaze, letting him see the confidence there, the certainty. You’re not stuttering or looking at your shoes, not chewing your lip or twisting your hands. You know what you’re asking for, and you know he knows there’s more to it than a perfectionist wanting an A+.
He exhales through his nose, a little frayed, a little resigned. “You don’t need this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’ll be fine without it.”
“But I want it,” you say simply.
His jaw works once. Finally, he nods, short and abrupt. “Tuesday. Eight fifteen. Don’t be late.”
You smile, victory threaded through the curve of your lips. “I won’t.”
You turn and walk back up the steps, feeling his gaze on you until you push open the lecture hall door and let it close behind you.
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Tuesday night comes chill and damp, rain feathering across the windows as you make your way through the nearly-empty corridors. Night classes have thinned out the crowds. Fluorescent lights buzz in pools overhead, leaving sections of the hallway in shadow. It smells faintly of cleaning products and old paper, the building too old to ever really feel new no matter how often they repaint.
You’re not in anything outrageous. A soft dress that skims the tops of your thighs, something you could reasonably call casual if anyone asked. Sensible shoes. Your makeup is done just a touch nicer than usual, lips a deeper shade, lashes dark and heavy. In your bag sits a small bottle of red wine, the glass cool against your fingertips when you check to make sure it’s there.
His office door is half-closed when you arrive, a sliver of light cutting across the hallway. You knock gently.
“Come in,” his voice calls.
You slip inside and close the door behind you. The office smells like him. Books line every wall, shelves bowing under the weight. His desk is cluttered, papers in controlled chaos, a mug ring staining the surface near his laptop. He’s in his shirtsleeves now, jacket hung over the back of his chair, top button undone, tie loosened and tugged a little off-center.
He looks up from whatever he’d been reading, expression sober as his eyes land on you. Then they flick to the clock on the wall, then back.
“You’re on time,” he says. “Good.”
“Of course,” you answer, closing the distance between you with easy steps. “I said I would be.”
He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit. Let’s get this over with, since you’re so determined to torture yourself academically.”
You smile and slide into the chair, bag resting by your feet. “You make it sound dire.”
“You’re the one clamoring for extra homework,” he reminds you, riffling through a stack of folders until he pulls out your file, flipping it open. “Let’s go over what we’ve covered so far. You’ll tell me where you think your weak points are.”
He starts with cases. He throws you scenarios with efficient precision—victim profiles, wound patterns, time-of-death estimates. You answer calmly, clearly, tracing through your reasoning until he nods, murmuring, “Good,” or “Yes,” with that little gleam in his eye that says you’ve impressed him, even if he doesn’t say it outright. The conversation flows easily at first, his questions brisk, yours focused.
After a while, when your file is thoroughly combed through and your so-called weaknesses have been dismantled into dust, he closes the folder and sits back. “You see?” he says. “No need for panic. You’re more than prepared.”
You lean back as well, letting your gaze linger on his tie, the undone button, the way his throat moves when he swallows. “Maybe I just like the subject.”
“That much is obvious.” He rubs at the line of his nose, finger working slowly beneath the bridge of his glasses. “You’re one of the few who look like they actually want to be here.”
“It helps when the professor is interesting,” you say, voice light.
His hand pauses, then drops back to the desk. He regards you steadily. “Flattery, now.”
“Observation,” you correct. “You’re good at what you do. I’d like to know more about how you got here.”
He stiffens slightly. “We’ve discussed my professional background in class.”
“No, you’ve listed credentials.” You tilt your head. “Not the story. How does one end up specializing in this? In… all this.” Your eyes drift to the textbooks stacked beside him, images of cadavers, crime scenes, still-shots of ruined faces.
He hesitates. You can almost see him draw the line in his mind, thick and black. For a moment you think he’ll shut it down entirely. Instead he sighs and glances toward the corner of the room where an old coffee machine sits on a side table, cold and idle.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks abruptly. “Water? Tea?”
You let your fingers dip into your bag, curling around the neck of the bottle before you pull it out and set it delicately on his desk. The glass thuds softly against wood. His eyes land on it and widen just a fraction.
“I came prepared,” you say, as if you’ve brought something as innocent as biscuits. “Thought you might be tired of coffee.”
“That…” He clears his throat. “Is entirely unnecessary.”
“So are extra lessons,” you say with a hint of a smile, “and yet here we are.”
His gaze flickers from you to the bottle and back again, weighing. “You realize university policy on alcohol on premises is fairly clear.”
“It’s not like I’m rolling in with a keg,” you murmur, fingers slowly twisting the cap, the soft crack of the seal breaking loud in the small room. “Just a little. To loosen you up. You look like you haven’t exhaled in about ten years.”
He gives a short, humorless huff of a laugh, as if he can’t quite help himself. “You have a flair for melodrama.”
“And you don’t deny it.”
He watches as you stand, cross the room to the coffee station, and fish two clean mugs from the shelf above. The ceramic is chipped at the lips, stained faintly on the inside. You pour a modest amount of deep red into each, the scent rising warm and faintly sweet, and bring the mugs back to the desk. You nudge one toward him.
“You don’t have to,” you say. “But it feels strange to drink alone.”
He looks down at the mug as though it’s a small, coiled snake. His fingers flex once before he picks it up. “Just this,” he says under his breath. “Nothing more.”
“Of course,” you lie easily.
You drink with him, small sips at first. The wine is nothing special, but it warms on the way down, blooming in your chest, softening the edges of the day. You watch the tension ease out of his shoulders, the way his mouth moves more freely when he talks. The clipped, professional answers he gave you at first start to stretch, revealing small details he probably doesn’t mean to give away—mentions of a former post, a case that stuck with him, a different life in a different place before he came back here and buried himself in the faculty.
“Why’d you come back?” you ask quietly, swirling the last of the wine in your mug. “To teach.”
His gaze drops to the desk. He works his thumb slowly over the ceramic, jaw tightening. “Sometimes there’s nothing left to do but… change the angle at which you’re useful,” he says finally. “I wasn’t interested in going back to certain… circumstances. And I’d already spent too long among corpses to pretend I wanted a normal practice. Teaching seemed tolerable.”
“Tolerable,” you echo, tasting the word.
He glances up at you. “Don’t romanticize it,” he warns lightly. “You lot are more than enough to manage.”
“And yet you stay.”
“And yet I stay,” he agrees, voice softer. He holds your gaze a moment longer than strictly necessary, and there, in that pause, something shifts.
You tip your mug back, finishing the last mouthful, then set it down with a quiet thud. Your head feels pleasantly light, the room just a hair fuzzier around the edges, but you’re steady. A strong, warm buzz wraps around your nerves, steadying your confidence rather than unmooring it.
“You know,” you say, voice dropping, “I meant what I said. I like the subject. I like your class. I like listening to you talk through your thought process. Watching you work.”
His throat bobs. “That’s… gratifying, I suppose.”
“Gratifying,” you repeat, a small smile touching your mouth. “Is that how you’d describe it?”
“How else would you suggest I describe it?” he asks, trying for dry humor, but his gaze keeps flicking to your mouth, betraying him.
You lean forward slightly, forearms resting on your knees, dress tugging higher up your thighs. His eyes drop there, to the bare skin, the hem rising. He drags his gaze back up with effort, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“I think,” you say softly, “you might have better words for it. If you weren’t so determined to pretend you don’t see me.”
“Don’t,” he says immediately, the word rough, strained. His fingers curl into fists on the desk. “Whatever you think you’re doing—”
“I’m being honest,” you cut in gently. “You said not to romanticize things earlier. So I won’t. I’ve thought about you. While I’m in your lectures. While I’m in my bed. I’m not asking for some lifelong thing or grand gesture. I am asking if you’ve thought of me too.”
Silence folds over the room. His eyes close for a moment, lashes dark against his skin. When he opens them again, they look rawer.
“I shouldn’t answer that,” he says. “You know I shouldn’t.”
“But have you?” you press, voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze meets yours, and you see it there—the yes, thrumming like a pulse. He breathes out slowly, shoulders sinking.
“Yes,” he admits quietly. “Yes, I have. It’s… not something I’m proud of.”
“Why not?”
He lets out a mirthless laugh. “Because I’m your professor, and you’re my student, and there’s more than one code of ethics that would have my head on a spike for entertaining what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m not being forced,” you say. “I want this. I want you.”
“You’re drunk,” he protests weakly.
“I’m buzzed,” you correct. “I know exactly what I’m saying. Can you say the same?”
His hand lifts, scrubs down over his mouth and beard, as though he could erase the desire written there. When it drops back to the desk, his fingers tremble slightly.
“You should go,” he says, though he doesn’t move to stand. “You should go before either of us become more foolish than we already have.”
You stand instead, slow and steady, walking around the desk until you’re at his side. He turns in his chair to face you, eyes tracking every step, throat working like he’s trying to force his objections back down. You slip onto his lap sideways without asking, legs draped along his, your hip settling against him. Your skirt shifts higher as you ease your weight onto him. The heat of his body seeps through your clothes, the firmness of his legs beneath you, the faint bulge pressing against the side of your thigh even as he puts his hands out, hovering at your hips like he doesn’t dare touch.
“This is not—” His breath stutters when your hands come up, fingers curling into his loosened tie. “This is not wise.”
“Maybe not,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips brush the corner of his mouth. “But it’s honest.”
Your first kiss lands soft, a question pressed into his lips. He inhales sharply, but his mouth gives under yours for a moment, the taste of wine and heat flooding your senses. When you pull back a fraction, his eyes look wild behind the frames, his hands still hovering, not quite touching, not quite pulling you away.
“I can stop,” you say, offering him the out even as his body already aches against you. “You say no, I leave, we never do this again. Or you can tell me the truth and stop pretending you haven’t imagined this too.”
His voice comes out broken-edged. “You don’t… understand.”
You stroke your thumb along his jaw, feeling the rasp of beard under your skin. “I understand enough. I also understand that you’re hard under me, and that you kissed me back.”
A shudder runs through him. His resolve cracks right there; you feel it. His hands finally land on your hips, fingers digging in, big and possessive. He pulls you closer, groaning low when your weight shifts and your ass presses firmly against the length growing in his trousers.
“You have no idea,” he whispers hoarsely, “how many nights I’ve sat at that desk and sworn to myself I would never… do this.”
“Then stop swearing and start doing.”
You kiss him properly then, pushing your mouth to his with urgency. He responds like a man flooded after drought, lips moving hard against yours, teeth scraping your lower lip before his tongue sweeps in to taste you. The kiss turns messy fast, wine-spiked breath mingling, his hands dragging you tighter into his lap, grinding you down along the line of his cock. You gasp into his mouth, heat flaring through you, and he swallows the sound greedily, groaning low like he’s in pain.
“Christ,” he mutters against your lips. “This is madness.”
“Feels good, though,” you breathe, rolling your hips, savoring the way his head tips back slightly, eyes fluttering shut. “Doesn’t it?”
“Feels…” He trails off on another groan as you rock over him, your panties already damp. His fingers flex at your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, as if he’s trying to hold you still and failing.
You drag your mouth down along his neck, teeth catching lightly at the curve of it, the tendon in his neck. “Touch me, Professor.”
He curses under his breath, the word rough and raw, then one hand leaves your hip to slide up your thigh, under the hem of your dress. His fingers are hot and broad, dragging along the inside of your leg, pushing higher, knuckles brushing the lace edge of your panties. You shiver, breath catching as he hesitates there, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his hand.
“Are you sure,” he asks, voice strained. “If you want to keep this as a fantasy—”
“I don’t,” you cut in. You take his wrist and guide him the last few centimeters, pressing his fingers firmly against the damp crotch of your panties. “Feel me. This is what you do to me when you talk about blood spatter and lividity for ninety minutes.”
His breath leaves him in a ragged exhale when he realizes how wet you are. His fingertips flex, stroking once along the soaked fabric, and his pupils blow wide, dark eclipses in his stormy irises. “Jesus,” he whispers. “You’re… drenched.”
“Not very professorial of you to state the obvious,” you murmur, but your voice shakes when he presses more firmly, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the lace. Pleasure sparks up your spine, your hips jerking in his lap. You bury your face against his neck for a moment, breathing him in, teeth scraping gently at the skin there.
“Careful,” he mutters, but his hand moves with more purpose now, thumb finding your clit and coaxing it in slow, maddening circles while two fingers hook under the damp edge of your panties and slip beneath. His touch is even better without the barrier, rough pads gliding through your slick folds, dipping lower to tease at your entrance. “Don’t mark me where my colleagues will see.”
“Then you shouldn’t be so good at this,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “You… you’ve thought about this, haven’t you? Thought about how you’d…”
He pushes one long finger inside you, and the rest of the sentence dissolves into a sharp little cry that you swallow against his mouth as he kisses you again. The stretch isn’t painful, just sudden, the intrusion sending your muscles fluttering around him. He groans when he feels you clench, adding another finger with careful insistence, filling you deeper.
“God,” he breathes, voice thick with awe and something darker. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t be inside you like this.”
“But you are,” you whisper against his mouth, rocking down onto his fingers as he curls them just so, grazing that sweet spot inside. Your head tips back, a moan spilling out of you, and he catches it with his lips at your throat, kissing and licking, teeth dragging lightly over your pulse. “You are, and it feels… Patrick, it feels insane.”
The use of his first name punches another groan out of him. He fucks his fingers into you harder, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. Wet sounds fill the small office now, obscene and slick, the rhythm of his fingers pumping into you synced with the roll of your hips. His free hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you close when you start to tremble.
“Look at you,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to where your dress has ridden up around your hips, his hand moving furiously between your legs. “You’re making such a mess on my hand.”
“All your fault,” you pant, grinding down, chasing that sharp, building pleasure. “Sitting there all term, acting like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
His lips twist in something like a tortured smile. “Believe me, I know. I’ve been very aware.” His fingers curl harder, faster, the pads dragging along that spot with every stroke now. “Hold on to me.”
You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging through the cotton of his shirt. The pressure tightens inside you, tension coiling, winding. His breath is hot against your cheek, his own body trembling under yours, his cock hard as iron pressed against you even as he focuses on working you apart with his hand. The rhythm is relentless, his thumb circling your clit in exact, brutal little motions that send sparks shooting through you.
“Fuck,” you gasp, vision blurring. “I’m… I’m close.”
“Good,” he growls, a rough satisfaction in his tone. “Let me feel you go. Come on. Let go for me. I want to feel you come on my fingers.”
The command in his voice shoves you over the edge. Your muscles clamp down hard around him, pleasure detonating in waves that roll up your spine and out through your limbs.
You cry out, thighs shaking, rocking helplessly as your orgasm crashes over you. He keeps his fingers buried deep, thumb still stroking your clit through the aftershocks, groaning softly as your slick gushes around his hand.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice gone hoarse. “That’s it, love. Jesus Christ.”
You eventually sag against him, chest heaving, forehead resting against his. He withdraws his fingers slowly, a wet sound accompanying the motion, and you shiver at the sensation.
When you glance down, his hand is glistening, your slick coating his fingers all the way to his knuckles. His pupils darken even further at the sight. Before he can overthink it, you take his wrist, bring his hand up, and wrap your lips around his fingers.
He chokes on a groan, head falling back as you suck your taste from his skin, tongue swirling lazily. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasps. “That’s the only possible outcome.”
You let his fingers slip free from your mouth with a soft, wet sound, then lean in to kiss him again, letting him taste what he’s done to you on your tongue.
He kisses back like he’s starving, hands suddenly everywhere—one gripping your hip, the other fisting in the fabric at the small of your back. He shifts under you, and you feel the full press of his erection against you, thick and straining against his fly.
“Get up,” he mutters against your mouth. “Please. Get up.”
You smile against his lips, but you obey, sliding off him with a slow drag that makes him hiss through his teeth. You stand between his knees, legs a little unsteady, dress bunched around your hips. He stands too, broader, shirt rumpled, tie skewed, hair mussed from your fingers. He looks wrecked already, chest rising and falling quickly.
“Turn around,” he says quietly.
The tone sends another bolt of heat through you. You turn without argument, facing his desk. Papers and books are spread across it, but he sweeps them aside with one arm, sending them sliding in a messy avalanche to the floor. “Patrick,” you protest faintly, laughter bubbling up despite the thrum between your legs. “Those are your notes.”
“I’ll survive,” he says, voice rough. “Bend over.”
You rest your hands on the edge of the desk, heart hammering, and bend at the waist until your chest is hovering above the cleared surface. The wood is cool under your palms, your dress sliding further up to pool around your waist. You feel him step closer, his presence heat at your back, his hands smoothing down the curve of your spine before settling at your hips.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, the words grave, even now. “Tell me to stop if this is too much, if you change your mind, if—”
“I’m not going to,” you say, turning your head just enough to catch his eye over your shoulder. “I want this. I want you to fuck me, Professor.”
A groan tears out of him. His hands yank your panties down in one rough movement, the lace dragging over your thighs, your calves, until they’re tangled around your ankles. You step out of them, pushing them aside, now bared to him completely from behind. Cool air skates over your wet folds, and you shiver.
He swears softly under his breath, palms smoothing over the swell of your ass, fingers squeezing like he can’t help himself. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Christ. What are you doing spread over my desk like this…”
“Waiting,” you say, arching back into his touch. “You’re the one taking your time.”
He huffs a breath that might be a laugh. You hear the clatter of his belt buckle, the rasp of the zipper, the rustle of fabric as he pushes his trousers and underwear down just enough.
When he steps back up behind you, the hot, heavy weight of his cock presses against the curve of your ass, slick at the tip where it bumps against your skin. He strokes himself once or twice, you can hear it, can feel the head sliding through your folds, gathering your slick along his length.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice unsteady. “I—” He breaks off, breath hitching as he lines himself up with your entrance, the blunt crown nudging there in a slow, testing push. “Last chance,” he says, but his hips are already pressing forward, inexorable.
You press back, impaling yourself on him with a sharp gasp as he breaches you. The stretch is deeper than his fingers, thicker, filling you in a way that burns for a heartbeat before melting into heavy pleasure. He groans, a low, guttural sound ripping out of his chest as tight heat closes around him.
“Shit,” he grits out, fingers digging hard into your hips. “You’re… you’re gripping me like a fucking vice.”
“Good,” you gasp, adjusting to him, the ache fading into something lush, molten. “I want you to feel it.”
He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, until his hips are flush with your ass, his pelvis pressed against the backs of your thighs. You feel him there, deep, stretching you to your limit, the pressure thick and overwhelming. He stays still for a moment, breathing hard, hands braced on your hips as if to anchor himself.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he manages, voice frayed.
“It doesn’t,” you breathe. “It’s… fuck, Patrick, it’s so much.”
He seems to take that as permission. He draws his hips back, cock dragging along your inner walls, the friction delicious and almost unbearable, then drives back into you with a sharp thrust that rocks you forward on the desk. The sound that rips out of you is half-moan, half-curse. He repeats the motion, again and again, establishing a punishing rhythm, the force of his thrusts sending the desk creaking under your hands.
Wet, obscene sounds fill the office now, your slick swallowing him down with every stroke, his balls slapping softly against your clit, your breath coming in ragged little cries that you bury in your forearm.
The cups rustle on the worn wood with each impact, a pencil rolls off the desk and clatters to the floor. He bends over you slightly, chest brushing your back, one hand sliding from your hip to your lower belly, pressing down to feel where he’s inside you.
“Can you feel that?” he growls in your ear, thrusts never faltering. “Feel how far I am?”
You whimper, nodding, the words spilling out of you without filter. “Yes, oh my God, yes, you’re… you’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere—”
“That’s it.” His voice breaks on a groan. “Take it. Take me. I shouldn’t be doing this to you, I shouldn’t be using you like this, but you asked for it, didn’t you? Came into my office and sat in my lap like some… siren. Look at you now.”
The filthy words send a fresh wave of heat through you. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the small room. His fingers tighten on your belly, thumb sliding down to find your clit, rubbing it in tight circles that make your vision spark white at the edges.
“Please,” you gasp, the word tumbling out unbidden. “Please don’t stop, don’t you dare stop now—”
“As if I could,” he mutters, almost laughing, almost sobbing. “You feel like heaven around me. You’re going to be the death of me, you realize that?”
“Worth it,” you pant, your nails scraping across the desk. “Please, Patrick, harder—”
He obliges, hips snapping forward with more force, each thrust slamming his cock deeper into you, his thumb ruthless on your clit. Your body strains between the drag of him and the pressure on that sensitive bundle of nerves, pleasure gathering again, hot and wild. You can hear him losing it behind you, breath coming in harsh, barked exhales, small, bitten-off noises escaping him every time he bottoms out.
“You’re… so fucking good,” he gasps. “You’re… you’re perfect, do you know that? Brilliant, beautiful, and here you are letting me split you open over my desk…”
His voice cracks, awe and filth tangled together. The words send you spiraling. Your second orgasm slams into you almost without warning, ripping a cry out of your throat as your muscles clamp down around him violently. Your legs tremble, threatening to give out, but his arm bands across your hips, holding you steady as you convulse around his cock.
He curses, loud and broken, as your tightness milks him. His thrusts turn erratic, messy, his control shattering under the way you squeeze him, the way you moan his name like a prayer.
“Come,” you gasp, still shuddering. “Come inside me, please, I want to feel it.”
He groans like you’ve gutted him. “You’re… you’re cruel,” he chokes, but his hips slam forward hard, burying himself to the hilt and holding there.
You feel him throb deep inside, then heat floods you in warm, pulsing waves as he comes, spilling into you with a guttural sound that borders on a sob. He rocks through it, small, helpless thrusts grinding him as deep as he can go, his body shaking against your back.
For a moment, the office is filled with nothing but the sound of your combined breathing—ragged, uneven, struggling to settle. His weight leans over you, not quite crushing, but heavy enough that you feel surrounded, bracketed by him. You can feel a soft, wet drip where your combined mess is already starting to leak down the inside of your thighs.
Eventually, he draws in a shaky breath and eases back, hands loosening on your hips. He pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the sensation, the slide sticky and overstimulating. You squeeze your thighs together instinctively as warmth trickles down, your body humming with exhaustion and satisfaction.
You push yourself up carefully, using the desk for support, and turn to face him. He’s standing there, trousers still undone, shirt untucked and wrinkled, hair a ruin. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes blown and glassy. One hand drags down his face, over his mouth and beard, as if he can wipe away the last ten minutes with his palm.
Then you hear it—a small, broken sound in the back of his throat. He isn’t quite crying, but he’s close, emotion sitting bright in his eyes, his jaw tight as he looks at you and then away. His glasses are crooked on his nose, lamplight skimming off one smudged lens.
“This was a mistake,” he says hoarsely. “My God.”
He drags the glasses off, folding them in one hand as the other scrubs down his face, fingers pressing hard at his eyes like he can steady himself.
You step closer and catch his wrist, pulling his hand away. “Don’t start spiraling,” you say, not unkind, but not letting him hide either.
His gaze flicks to yours, a flicker of guilt there, but mostly raw want and disbelief. “You’re my student,” he says, as if that explains everything and nothing.
“And I walked in here knowing exactly what I wanted,” you counter. “You didn’t drag me.”
His mouth twists. “Doesn’t make my judgment stellar.”
“Probably not,” you say dryly. “But I’m not watching you tear yourself apart over something we both enjoyed.”
That pulls a short, rough breath from him. “Enjoyed,” he echoes. “Christ.”
“Exactly.” You step in until you’re pressed against him, smoothing his shirt down his chest, fixing his skewed tie. Without his glasses, his face looks more open, uncertainty right there for you to see.
“This could ruin me,” he says quietly, eyes searching your face. “If anyone finds out.”
“They won’t,” you say simply. “I’m not interested in blowing this up. I’m interested in you. In this.” You let your hand slide down, resting lightly over his still-soft cock through his trousers, a gentle, teasing pressure. “And in being very firmly at the top of your list.”
He swallows hard, gaze dropping to your lips again. “You already are, academically.”
“You know I meant more than that.” You smile, then lean close to kiss him again, slow this time, soothing, your tongue tracing his lower lip, coaxing him to soften under you. He kisses back with a weary sort of hunger, as if he knows he shouldn’t but can’t deny himself this last indulgence.
When you pull away, his breathing has steadied a bit, although his eyes are still troubled. You smooth your dress down, ignoring the sticky dampness between your thighs for now, and retrieve your panties with a little smirk, stepping into them and pulling them up with a wince at the feeling of his spend still hot inside you.
“I should… clean up,” he says, glancing at the scattered papers, at the general state of chaos you’ve left in your wake.
“You should,” you agree. “Maybe drink some water. Breathe. Try not to spiral too hard.”
“You’re taking this disturbingly well,” he mutters.
“I like getting what I want,” you say lightly, reaching for your bag.
You walk to the door, then pause with your hand on the handle, glancing back at him. He’s watching you with that same conflicted stare, desire and dread and guilt all tangled together.
“Thank you for the lesson, Professor,” you say, letting the double meaning hang in the air.
He huffs out a helpless breath. “This… this doesn’t happen again,” he says, almost as if he’s saying it to convince himself.
You smile, slow and knowing. “We’ll see.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He looks like he wants to argue, to lay out all the reasons this should be a one-time lapse. Instead, he just shakes his head, rubbing his hand over his beard again.
You slip out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you. The corridor feels colder, emptier, but you’re warm all over, your body still humming with afterglow, your mind sharp and sated. There’s a wet, secret heat between your thighs with every step you take, a physical reminder of exactly what you’ve just done, and with whom.
You walk away from his office with your chin high and a small, pleased smile on your lips. Whatever happens next term, you know one thing for certain now.
⤷ husband!patrick, breeding, slight tit sucking, riding, overstimulation, cream pie, talk of babies, p in v, praise - you can’t help but want a baby after seeing all your friends tend to their sweet babies -
The crisp winter air carried the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves, a fitting backdrop for the warmth that had taken root in your heart. You’d spent the afternoon with the Hendersons, cooing over their newborn son, his tiny fists waving in the air. It was a familiar, wonderful ache, one that you knew well. You and Patrick already had your own sweet joy, your daughter, a little girl of three with your eyes and Patrick’s tinge of red hair. Watching her sleep in her bed just last night had filled you with a love so profound it hurt.
You thought of your daughter, an only child, and imagined her as a big sister, her small hands carefully holding a baby, her voice whispering secrets to a new sibling. The thought completed a picture in your heart you hadn't realized was unfinished.
Now, you sat by the fire in the parlor, the house quiet save for the crackle of the flames and the scratch of Patrick’s pen. He was hunched over his desk, a good, steady man, the best father you could have imagined for your little girl. You watched the firelight catch the dark strands of his hair, and the longing intensified. A brother or sister for your daughter. Another piece of him and you.
Rising from your chair, you went to him, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. He stopped writing, leaning into your touch with a soft sigh.
"What is it, my love?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head, your fingers tracing the line of his tense shoulders. "Just thinking," you murmured, your lips brushing against his hair. He tilted his head back to look up at you, his dark eyes warm in the firelight, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
"About what?" he asked, his voice a low vibration you felt through your hands. "About our little girl? Or about the Hendersons' new lad?"
"Both," you admitted, moving to stand beside his chair, your hand sliding down his arm to lace your fingers with his. "Seeing them today…holding their baby. It made me think."
His thumb stroked over the back of your hand. "Think what?"
You took a breath, the words feeling both terrifying and thrilling on your tongue. "I was thinking about our daughter. About how she'd be as a big sister. And I was thinking… I want another one, Patrick."
His smile softened, his gaze turning impossibly tender. He let go of your hand, his large palms coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until you stood between his strong thighs. "Another one?" he repeated, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble that made your stomach flutter. "Are you sure, my love?"
You nodded, your heart thudding against your ribs. "I've never been more sure of anything. I feel a little silly- the ravenous need I have for you is unlike any other, and I want to have your child again, I want to be filled.”
Patrick let out a slow breath, his eyes searching yours. Then, a different kind of understanding dawned in his gaze, a look that was both doctor and husband. "My love," he said softly, his voice a low, intimate caress. "Are you aware of what day it is?"
Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Tuesday?"
A slow, handsome smile spread across his face. "It's the fourteenth," he clarified, his hands tightening on your waist. "The fourteenth day of your cycle." He watched as the realization washed over you, the scientific precision of his words colliding with the deep, emotional yearning in your heart. He knew your body as well as he knew his own. "You're at your peak. You're most fertile."
The air crackled with a new, potent energy. It wasn't just a wish anymore, it was a possibility, a tangible, scientific fact. "Oh," you breathed, the single word full of awe.
"Oh, indeed," he rumbled, his eyes darkening with a primal heat. "So you see, my love, we have a very small window of opportunity." He surged upward, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in the soft fabric of your dress at your stomach. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him close, the desperate ache in your chest finally easing, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated want.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his hands sliding down to cup your backside, squeezing gently. “It's your body telling you- it’s nature.”
He rose from the chair in a fluid motion, his strength effortless as he swept you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and his mouth found yours in a searing kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a kiss of agreement, of a shared purpose, deep and full of all the love you had for one another. He carried you from the parlor.
In your bedroom, he lay you down on the soft quilts as if you were something precious, his body following yours, covering you with his familiar weight. His hands were everywhere, pushing up your skirts, his calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs. "You're so perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice a reverent praise. "So ready for me. Your body knows what it wants, doesn't it? It knows it's time to be bred."
You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping you as his thumb found the slick clit between your legs, circling slowly. "Patrick," you whimpered, need coiling tight in your belly.
"Shh, I know, my love," he soothed, his mouth trailing down your neck. "I'll give you what you need. I'll give you everything." He freed himself from his trousers, and you felt the thick, hard press of him against your entrance. He looked down at you, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "Right now," he said, his voice a low growl, “Big stretch like always, sweet girl, breathe in-”
With one slow, deep thrust, he was inside you, stretching you, completing you. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"Your cervix is soft, open, ready. I'm going to push my seed as deep as it can go, right where it needs to be." Each soft, steady stroke was a declaration, a promise. "That's it," he grunted, his forehead pressed against yours. "Take it. Take all of me. You feel that? M’right in there, sweet girl. That's me giving you our future."
The pleasure built, a blinding, all-consuming wave. His words were a litany of praise and desire. "So good for me. Always so good. My beautiful wife. The mother of my children.”
"Tell me, love. Tell me what you want."
"You," you gasped, your head thrown back against the pillows. "You, Patrick. A baby. Our baby."
"God, yes," he groaned, his pace quickening just enough to make your toes curl. "Say it again."
"Give me a baby," you whimpered, the words tumbling out, broken by his powerful strokes. "Please, Patrick. Fill me up."
"That's my girl," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I'm going to. I'm going to flood this sweet little womb until it can't hold anymore. I'm going to make sure you're carrying our child by morning." He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, and the raw, possessive love you saw there was your undoing. "Look at me when I give it to you. I want to see your eyes when I put our baby in you."
You blinked your eyes open, your vision blurred with pleasure, and held his gaze. The connection was electric, a circuit of pure, unadulterated need. "So so big- ngh!" You choked out, “feel so full,"
"And you're going to stay that way," he promised, his voice a low, commanding growl that sent you spiraling. "I'm not going to let a single drop go to waste. I'll keep you plugged up all night if I have to. You'll go to sleep with my seed inside you, hmm?" His hand slid down your body, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly, right above where he was buried so deep inside you, and he gave you a sweet, wet kiss to your cheek. "Right here. Ngh! S’where my come belongs-”
The thought, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure of his cock, sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, beautiful wave that ripped a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clenched around him, a greedy, desperate pulse, milking him.
"Fuck, yes," he snarled, his control finally shattering. He drove into you one last time, impossibly deep, and his whole body went rigid. “Look at me, honey, look at your husband- let me see those beautiful eyes,”
You felt the hot, thick flood of his release, a powerful, endless surge that seemed to fill every part of you. He pulsed inside you again and again, his groans a sound you would cherish forever.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart in your ears. He was a heavy, welcome weight on top of you, but he didn't move. He didn't pull out.
"Patrick," you breathed, your voice hoarse. "I can't, I can't feel my legs."
A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against your skin. "Good," he mumbled into your shoulder. "Means you won't be going anywhere." His dark eyes soft and hazy with satisfaction. "We're not done, my love."
Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting. With a strength that never failed to astonish you, he wrapped an arm around your waist and rolled, taking you with him until you were straddling his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you. You gasped at the new angle, the way it filled you to the hilt.
"There now," he murmured, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your pebbled nipples. “Shhhh...” He watched you, brushing back the little baby hair stuck to your sweaty forehead.
"You're going to take another load, aren't you? You're going to take everything I have until I'm sure it's taken."
He began to move you up and down, with a slow, subtle rocking of his hips that sent jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive body. You whimpered, your hands bracing on his chest. "Patrick, I can't, it's too much."
"No, it's not," he soothed, his voice a hypnotic caress. "It's exactly enough. It's what your body was made for. To take me. To carry my child." He leaned up, capturing a nipple in his mouth and sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the peak. The dual sensations of his mouth and his hips rocking into you were overwhelming, stoking a fire you thought had been extinguished. "Just one more, sweet girl. One more to make sure. Give me one more, and I'll give you everything."
His words were like a drug, the pleasure began to build again. You began to move with him, matching his rhythm, your body knowing exactly what to do.
"That's it," he praised, releasing your nipple with a soft pop. "Ride me, love. Take what you need. Show me how much you want that baby." His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his own hips rising to meet yours, each thrust a deliberate statement. Your husband takes your chin in his handa nd guides you to look down at the bulge in your tummy at each thrust. "Look down. Look at us. You feel me there, angel?"
Seeing him disappear into you again and again. It was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.
“Y-yes!”
"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his eyes fixed on the same sight. "My beautiful, fertile wife. Taking my cock so well." He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. "I'm going to fill you again. I'm going to make a mess of this pretty little pussy, and you're going to thank me for it, aren't you?"
"Yes," you sobbed, the pleasure cresting, a sharp, blinding peak that stole the air from your lungs. "Yes, Patrick, thank you..."
Your second orgasm tore through you, and this time, he followed you right over the edge. With a guttural roar, he slammed you down onto him, his hips jerking upwards as he spilled himself into you for a second time. You felt the heat of it, another thick, copious flood that mingled with the first, filling you to overflowing until you could feel it beginning to leak out, trailing down your thighs.
“There- there-” he cooed between pants,
He held you there, his arms wrapped around you like a vise, his face pressed against your chest as he fought for breath. You were boneless, spent, a complete and utter mess, and you had never felt more loved.
After a long moment, he kissed you, a slow, deep kiss full of lingering passion. Patrick lifts you gently and grabs a pillow to place under your hips, guiding you to lie down.
"Stay just like that, angel," he whispered against your mouth, his hand coming to rest possessively over your lower belly. "We'll give it a little while. Let gravity do its work. We want to be absolutely sure."
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