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kainablue · 5 years

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LECTURE ME - Don’t Ask (part 1)

[Chain Reaction] [Distracted] [A Quick Smoke] [Into the Wild] [Heavy Rain (part 1)] [Heavy Rain (part 2)] [Moonstruck (part 1)] [Moonstruck (part 2)] [On the House]

Okay, wow, I have a small collection here! Yay!

Here’s the next chapter (finally!) In case you’ve forgotten - this is a dirty little bundle of stories about a professor and his student (and some other peeps). You can read them in any order that you like (except for the ones with ‘part 1′ and ‘part 2′ on them - these chapters were too long and that’s why I separated them like this)

The first part is pretty safe. Only some profanities and a bit of thirst! Enjoy! 🍷

Don’t Ask (part 1)

Oliver

What a shitty day. And not just because of rain.

As if getting scolded by the department's secretary for losing the keys to my office - again! - wasn’t bad enough, a couple of students at my last lecture were particularly annoying. Two wiseasses trying to convince me that morality is completely unnecessary in modern times. I wanted to crack their shit-filled skulls with an iron bar. But I kept my cool, I did. Barely, though. And I wonder was it really worth it because now I have a fucking headache as if someone smacked me with an iron bar.

A familiar smell of petrol tickles my nose. My eyes dart to my dashboard - I’m almost out of juice. Fuck. I rub my throbbing forehead and wonder what the helI did I do for karma to punish me like this.

Well - I can feel a smirk tugging my mouth - I haven’t been an innocent lamb jumping around the meadow, have I?

As I turn around the corner, two streets away from my home, a slight silhouette darkens my peripheral view. I would have missed Filipa if she wasn’t always on my mind. I do believe my brain is overstimulated and now I am hypersensitive to anything related to her.

I memorized the sound of her shoes walking over different types of floors. From the way utensils are positioned on a plate, I can recognize her leftovers in the dining hall. And I can sense her arousal by breathing in her sweat enriched with musk and floral perfume. Aaah, just the memory of that sex aroma, that perfect combination of refined and vulgar, is making me dizzy.

I pull over next to a willow tree bending over the gates like Juliet over her balcony. A shower started recently, a light drizzle, but strong enough to be annoying. Filipa is pacing, her head bowed down, carrying a box in her hands. Several rectangular stamps are one it. Oh, so she’s been to the post office. But why aren’t her packages delivered to the Academy's department office, like everyone else's?

I open the window. “Need a ride, pretty lady?”

Filipa lifts her head and stops, swaying a bit. There’s something odd. Was she— A tight knot of pain stabs me in the throat. Was she… crying? There are no telltale signs on her face, just… the feeling. Like when you see a famous actor on the street for the first time. They look the same but it’s not the character you know. Like another person. Like someone without a mask.

Filipa doesn’t avert her eyes (she’s never the first to buckle - never!) and approaches my car. A lovely, almost innocent smile curves her lips and the whole costume is back on - the mask, the robe, the hood – the girl I saw just a second ago has vanished.

She places one her elbow on the window edge and the other hand holding the mysterious box on the car roof, bending her back. There isn’t much happening at the front of her clothes: her flat chest covered by her school uniform with buttoned up shirt. But her skirt… I imagine it is now way up. As she lowers her upper body, adjusting herself to my height, the skirt is going up and up, slowly sliding above her knees and her thighs. Maybe even her ass.

A passer-by checks her out from behind, looking under her skirt like a fucking pervert!

That ass is mine!

“We are going in opposite directions, professor.”

Her voice is creamy like always, with some light notes of mirth attached to the word professor.

“How about a detour?” Really, why not? “Hop on. I have something to show you.”

Her eyebrow jumps in surprise and then joins the other one in vexation. A very different sounding words shoot me.

“Seriously? Of all the cheesy lines you have, you are offering me 'I have something to show you' one? I know how your dick looks, Oliver.”

“But it’s a very fine dick, wouldn't you agree?” The rolling of her eyes was expected but always entertaining. “No, something else, but not as big, I’m afraid. Come.”

“Where to?”

“My apartment.”

She tilts her head, amused. “Wouldn’t it be suspicious, professor: a young naive student and her mentor heading to his unholy den?”

“To earn her some extra credit.”

I crack myself up sometimes. The absurdity of my statement even draws a low chuckle from Filipa.

“All right,” she sighs and pushes herself away from my car. I forgot about the box. Such a dull looking thing, wrapped in a brown paper, and yet she holds it like a treasure… The familiar static fills my brain clouding my every thought. Oliver, don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do —

“What’s in there?”

You. Fucking. Did. It.

If eyes could make a sound, hers would be hissing at me.

“I should head back, professor.” And with that statement, heavy as a concrete block, she proceeds to march towards the Academy.

I fucked up.

I put my Ford in reverse and start to follow her.

“Fine. I’m sorry. Don’t tell me what’s in your damn box. Let’s go.”

She doesn’t stop. There is no other person who can blank you like Filipa can. I turn off the engine and take a deep breath. She won’t like this. Not at all.

I get out, leaving the car door open. In several big steps I catch up with her and immediately block her way. Because she was walking with her head down, probably protecting her eyes from the rain, Filipa headbutts my chest. I touch her upper arms but she springs backwards. She clenches her package and snarls like a monkey holding stolen goods. The ire in her eyes is so forceful I freeze.

We stand like that for a few moments. Rain is dripping down my face and dampening my shirt. It's cold. I swallow a lump. Filipa is all wet and beyond pissed now. Why do I get horny when she looks like she wants to massacre me.

“Come on, doll. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

She hardly blinks. Rain is getting heavier by the minute and she… isn’t bothered even the slightest? Blinking is for the weak, and Filipa is everything but weak, I laugh inwardly.

A much lighter expression takes over Filipa’s features. Not necessarily a good thing. She shifts into a more relaxed pose.

“Beg.”

Not what I expected. “Okay, please.”

“No. I mean… beg.”

Oh.

Someone could fucking see us! I turn around: luckily, the street is empty, but that can change in a second. And far more importantly - my clothes! Crap! I stare down at her. I could literally scoop her up and carry her to my car, but… She wouldn’t just kill me then, though; she would literally crush me into a lump the size of a marshmallow and eat me.

The resting bitch face in front of me is unforgiving. I know she doesn’t care. She will just leave if I refuse. And… I don’t want that. Just like I wouldn't want any of my nails pulled out with rusty pincers.

I take a deep breath in… and kneel. A humiliating wet cold enters my clothes and spreads over my knees and calves. Fuck!

“Please.” I stare at Filipa’s ugly, dirty shoes, gritting my teeth. Someone will see us! And then I’m screwed! “Please, please, please.”

Filipa is silent. She is enjoying this so much, I just know it. Murky water around my knees is restless from the raindrops hitting it. But I can somehow make out two faces: one pathetic, with eyes wide open in apprehension; the other, upside-down – and victorious.

Her foot moves up, water dripping from the shoe sole. The dirty, worn-out tip has a shallow scratch - just above her big toe.

"Kiss."

I swallow. I was expecting this.

Let's get this over with.

I close my eyes and press my lips on a dry patch, just above the scuff. The smell of mud and old leather tickles my nostrils.

“Are you satisfied?” I croak. My head is flying from one side to the other, checking if someone’s approaching. This is so dumb and risky and… exciting. I suck on my lower lip. Fuck me and my sick, twisted brain! I want to bend even more, shove my elbows in this disgusting sewage water and lick her legs. I want her to place her hand in my hair and pull while —

A finger brushes along my jaw and lifts my head up. Filipa’s lips are curved into a poisonous smirk. Her smile is like a drug – a deadly line that boils my blood and ruins my life. And I need it all the time.

All the fucking time.

“Very,” she whispers, a slight tremble in her voice. She really is. “Let’s go.”

***

Filipa

I expected Oliver’s room to be a bit more… chaotic. More bachelor like. More I’m-overwhelmingly-anxious-to-keep-my-job-but-also-uncontrollably-hedonistic-like. But it isn’t.

His shoes are neatly aligned next to a hallway wall. The wooden floor is old but clean, not even a pebble stuck between the boards. No weird stains, no underwear on the kettle, no porn hastily hidden bellow a carpet. He has a separate bedroom, but I bet he even made the bed before leaving his apartment this morning. Smell of cigarettes is glued to every piece of furniture and I soon spot a full ashtray. But aside from that dirty metal container and a bunch of papers and books scattered all over the floor and any horizontal surface, this apartment is… quite neat.

“I don’t think you came here before?” Oliver moves the curtains and more grey light colours the room.

“I haven’t.”

There are no pictures on the walls. I think they used to be white,long time ago when this house was built; but they are more creamy brown now. Years of tobacco using tenants did that, I guess. Except for one spot where colour is still unsoiled and almost completely clean. In the perfect center, opposite from the windows, there used to be a cross. Not a large one, nor particularly prominent judging by the shape. But it bothered Oliver enough to remove it.

“Have a seat,” he points to an armchair in childish excitement, “and get ready to be amazed.”

I humor him and take a seat. Right in front of me, taking up quite a large portion of the living room, is a… table? A desk? Huge tablecloth covering it falls down some unexpected curves. Not to mention the tabletop is set too low for any standard chair. And yet it’s also too high for a coffee table.

Oliver removes piles of books that were covering the top and, with a wiggle of his eyebrows, he asks: “Are you ready?”

This can only be something incredibly stupid when he’s so excited. I brace myself expecting to see a rocking horse or an overly complicated sex toy. I nod.

He takes the tabletop and lifts the whole thing in one swift move. Table cloth flies with it and for a moment Oliver resembles a magician uncovering a rabbit underneath a mystery box.

But there is no rabbit. Only a - bathtub.

Although, I have to admit, a beautiful one. It is wooden and shaped as those old baths that you can see in period dramas. But this one is brand new and shining like a freshly licked candy. I stand up to get a closer look. It really is gorgeous.

“You made it?”

“Yup.” This big man’s ego just got a bit bigger. “Touch it.”

I glide tips of my fingers along the rim. It’s like ice.

"I used seven layers of finish so it could be as smooth as glass," he trails off and zones out. For a few seconds I was almost able to observe his tiny thought monkey with cymbals taking a break from wanking himself and actually using his brain for a change. And then he spoke in enlightenment: "...for your lovely, precious, little ass."

I don't know what I expected.

"Lord Byron, step aside, you've been outshined."

Oliver chuckles. “I would be honored if your ass would be the first one to sit in it.”

I look at the bathtub again. Is there a trick? Will something happen? I hardly believe Oliver would do something to openly anger me, but to simply push my buttons for shits and giggles – yes. And I’m not in the mood for it.

“Come on, sweetie. You know you want to soak that wet and cold flesh of yours in a hot bath.” He shifts behind me, a towering presence of muscles and heat. Oliver kisses the top of my head. “I will wash you, my mistress.”

A purr escapes my lips in response to this deep, rich and velvety voice whispering in my hair. It would be quite nice to replace the moldy odor of this sad room to a floral scent of soap. Bliss overcomes me as I imagine warm water clinging to my body and the brisk air biting my flesh when I expose myself. Oliver moves closer to me. A slow shiver shoots up along the back of my thighs, where his legs are touching mine. And, of course, the idea of his hands gliding up and down my skin, feeling me, caressing me, teasing me in all the right ways - does sound divine.

“Fine, my beast. You can have your wish.”

~~~

[to be continued…]

#lemon #writeblr #writing #amwriting #adult writing #writers on tumblr #writer #writers #mature writing #romance #romance writing #dark academia #story #my writing #lectureme

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andavs · 7 years

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So there’s this long list of prompts, and I love all of them, so I’m going to do a bunch of them completely unprompted.

Number One: “The skirt is supposed to be this short.”

“I can’t believe this is your dirty secret.”

Boyd raised his eyebrows, adjusting his belt. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know, scrapbooking? Ballroom dance? Secret piccolo prodigy?” Stiles tried to shimmy the massive wedgie out of his buttcrack, but it just slipped in further. God damn it. He was wearing way too many layers to go after it, at least two of them chainmail.

“Piccolo?” Boyd’s tone itself wasn’t threatening, but picking up a broadsword and sheathing it on his belt certainly was. It was much bigger than Stiles’ sword, that was for sure.

“Come on, dude. Do you really not see the irony of a literal werewolf LARPing? And not as a werewolf? You wouldn’t even need prosthetics!”

“It’s not roleplaying if you’re just being yourself.”

“Okay, but why roleplay when you’re already a badass? Let’s face it, if anyone here should be roleplaying, it’s the pack human who doesn't have superpowers.”

“They aren't superpowers!” Derek’s usual reflex response came from behind the curtain, and then he added, “Are you sure you didn’t give me Kira’s outfit?”

Boyd rolled his eyes like they were the ones being unreasonable here. “Yes, I’m still sure. Come out.”

Stiles couldn’t actually hear it, but it was like a sixth sense by now; he knew Derek sighed before yanking back the crookedly hanging sheet that served as a dressing room in a corner of their massive canvas pack tent.

“So, the skirt is supposed to be this short.”

Stiles slapped his hand over his gleeful smile so hard he might’ve broken his own nose. Derek glared. Boyd was as unflappable as usual.

“Kilt. And yes, it’s supposed to look like that.”

Derek looked down at his outfit, at the stitched leather vest and gauntlets, the plaid kilt (that did look a little short over his knees), and very...rustic boots.

“I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t.” Boyd held out a small jar that said RED on the lid. “You just don’t get the full effect without the face paint.”

Stiles squeaked behind his hand, while Derek somehow managed to glare harder.

“No. No face paint. Stop laughing,” he ordered, pointing a threatening finger at Stiles that really wasn’t the least bit threatening while he was blushing up to his ears under that beard.

“Braveheart,” Stiles whispered giddily in response, and Derek’s eyes actually flashed red.

“Don’t think that fake chainmail can protect you from me.”

Stiles snorted. “Big words from a man in a dress.”

“It's a kilt,” Derek growled through his teeth.

“Guys,” Boyd interrupted with a sigh. “Derek, you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. I can try to find you something else.” He said it so sincerely that it was almost believable that he didn’t know exactly what kind of guilt trip he was laying down.

It’d taken five years for the pack to get an honest answer to, “What do you want to do for your birthday this year, Boyd?” and none of them were going to refuse him anything on this, admittedly, unexpected adventure they now found themselves on. At the Beacon County Fairgrounds, of all places. Even Lydia had joined in, looking like a flawless Joan of Arc in her armor, because if she did anything, she did it perfectly and with a shocking dedication to historical accuracy, apparently.

So no, Derek was not going to make Boyd find him something else. Stiles communicated this with his eyes, and Derek quickly composed himself.

“It’s fine,” he said with a little less attitude, while still looking a little like a pouting toddler. Stiles wanted to pinch his adorable pink cheeks.

“Seriously, we can leave, it’s cool,” Boyd continued, laying it on thick.

“We’re staying.” Derek grabbed the jar of face paint out of his hand and unscrewed the lid, frowning down at it. “What do I do.”

“Uh, I think you’re supposed to paint your face,” Stiles suggested shittily, and when Derek glared, he added, “just a guess.”

He felt a little bit bad when Boyd gave him a knock it off look. Boyd was usually the adult in the room.

“I’ll do it.” He took the jar back. “Don’t worry, it’ll look badass.” He dipped a finger into the paint, raised it to Derek's face, and then Scott appeared at the open tent flap, eyes wide with panic. His chainmail was crooked and all bunched up in some places, while still stretched near to the point of breaking in others.

“Dude, can you help me with this? I think it might be backwards, but I don’t know how to get it off without ripping it!”

Boyd was up in an instant, maybe actually supernaturally fast, because he'd put a shocking amount of work into helping them with their costumes, and he was meticulous about taking care of them. He dropped the jar of paint into Stiles’ hand without thought, and followed Scott outside their big canvas tent.

He just left.

Just gave Stiles that kind of power, and left him unsupervised.

“I'll do it myself,” Derek said, but Stiles was waiting for it and immediately countered with,

“Got a mirror hidden somewhere up your kilt?” The only mirrors on the fairgrounds he knew of were in the constantly-in-use porta potties across the field. Boyd was part of a hardcore LARPer guild-thing, no non-emergency tech or modern comforts allowed.

“I’ll take my chances without one.”

“And ruin Boyd's hard work? Just stand still, I got this.”

Stiles couldn't predict what he would do with that cheap shot, but apparently the value of Boyd's happiness on his birthday hadn’t dwindled, because Derek sighed and resigned himself to his fate. Aside from a growled warning of,

“Don’t draw a dick.”

“I’m not gonna draw a dick.” Stiles was almost offended by the assumption, but mostly disappointed that he was juuuust too good of a person to actually do that to Derek.

“And don’t do Braveheart.”

“I’m not gonna do Braveheart. Trust me, it’ll be cool.”

Derek didn’t look like trusted him at all, but Stiles ignored him, dipped two fingers in the red paint, and dragged it down the right side of Derek’s face, from his hairline down onto his neck. He held out his hands to signal that his masterpiece was complete, and that Derek could unclench.

Derek blinked at him, deadpan. “You did Thor, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, I did, and you look awesome.” He actually did look awesome, and Stiles was really hoping chainmail could hide a boner.

Derek considered it for a brief moment, like he was trying to picture it on himself and reluctantly agreed. Then he gave Stiles a shitty smile, and plucked the paint out of his hand. “Your turn.”

That took the wind right out of his sails.

“Actually, I think I’m good,” Stiles stammered, debating how embarrassing it would be to make a grab for the paint and miss when Derek inevitably pulled it out of reach with werewolf speed. Derek liked to pretend he was the unaffected adult when others were around to witness, but he had a pranking streak a mile wide where Stiles was concerned. He was petty and he was ruthless.

“Come on, don’t you want the full effect?” He asked patronizingly.

“I think the effect is plenty full enough already.” Stiles took a step back and Derek followed. Oh god, he was going to write kick me across his forehead, or virgin, he could probably fit ask me about my ED if he used his pinky.

“Look, I already look dumb enough, I don’t need a poop emoji on my forehead to make it worse.”

Crap, now he was giving him ideas.

Derek rolled his eyes. “You look fine, hold still,” he said, pressing his palm against Stiles’ jaw to hold his head, and Stiles realized just how much power Derek really did hold here. No mirrors, no way to check his face, he could only feel what Derek was doing and hope he wasn’t drawing daisies down his cheek.

“Don’t draw a dick,” he joked weakly, and Derek’s face softened.

“I’m not going to draw a dick. Turn your head.”

Stiles obliged and stared at the back of the tent, at the sun peaking through the canvas, while he waited for Derek to make up his mind. Whatever he was planning, it was taking forever, and Stiles was only getting more nervous about it. Oh god, it was going to be complex, and Stiles was going to look ridiculous.

“You know it’s not supposed to be the Mona—”

He couldn’t have finished even if he’d been able to overcome the shock of Derek pressing his right hand against the side of Stiles’ face, this time with something definitely wet between them; Derek’s thumb was laying across his mouth, and Stiles was pretty sure trying to talk would only get face paint on his teeth too.

Stiles blinked at him through his fingers, processing the fact that he was definitely going to have a giant red handprint over half his face.

Derek pressed a little harder, like he was trying to seal it, before letting go completely, leaving Stiles’ face cold where his hands had been. He stepped back, considering his work, and nodded to himself.

Stiles stared at him, still processing, trying to cobble together a reaction. Having Derek Hale’s hands on his face wasn't a situation he'd prepared himself to experience in this lifetime.

“I feel like that orc guy with the handprint,” he tried, and Derek blinked at him. “Lord of the Rings? Killed Boromir? Nevermind.”

Derek screwed the lid back on the jar of face paint, trying to keep as much red off the jar as he could when his entire hand was covered.

“Lurtz,” he said quietly. “And he’s Uruk-hai.”

This time it was Stiles who could only blink. “Wait, what?”

Derek looked up, clearly regretting his words and trying to look innocent.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, you just corrected my Lord of the Rings reference.”

This time Derek huffed, brushing it off. “It’s not hard to tell the difference, anyone who’s seen the movies would know that.”

“I didn’t even know you knew the movies existed!”

“They were everywhere when I was in middle school, how would I not have seen them? Everyone saw them.”

“Yeah, but not everyone knows the name of that one specific Uruk-hai who barely has any lines! Wait,” Stiles’ entire life was shifting, “did you read the books too?”

Derek looked back down at the jar in his hands and almost muttered, “He wasn’t in the books.”

Stiles gaped.

He knew Derek had lots of books, read constantly, but it was always historical stuff. Very specific subjects, like Russian playwrights of the late 19th century, or journals of a guy who owned a farm in Idaho in 1934, biographies of people who really didn’t contribute to any great change in the world—that kind of boring stuff. Never anything actually interesting. Never fantasy.

Derek continued to fiddle with the face paint, avoiding eye contact.

“Oh my god, you’re totally a fantasy nerd, aren’t you?”

He continued to avoid eye contact.

“This is totally your kind of place, isn’t it? Why didn’t you make your costume?” The only reason he was stuck with the kilt was that he’d been too stubborn and standoffish throughout the entire process for Boyd to get chainmail and armor that would fit him properly (and he refused to eyeball it, he was adamant that his pack not look sloppy among his LARPing peers).

“I didn’t want to.”

“You did. You totally did. And we are totally coming back next year so you can look like the badass alpha you are. Something about the kilt just doesn’t say power.” Stiles took a step back and squinted at him, trying to picture a quintessentially Derek outfit. “I think you need a crown.”

Derek huffed, but he looked like he was blushing again.

“Seriously, man, if you want to do this, you should. Boyd would be thrilled. Or, as thrilled as he ever is. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.” Stiles was pretty sure he was having a good time with them all there, but Boyd’s happy smirk was pretty close to his you guys are unbelievably stupid smirk. Though with everything he’d put up with throughout this whole process, his current smirks probably fell somewhere in between.

Derek picked at the red paint on his hand for a second, then, “Maybe.”

“Not a no!” Stiles crowed, and Derek rolled his eyes, but Stiles could tell he was secretly happy.

Probably.

Stiles had his handprint on his face, the guy better be happy.

Hearing a break in their conversation (god, the entire pack could probably hear them outside), Kira shouted for them to hurry up, and Derek started to look a little nervous. Stiles clapped him on the shoulder, and handed him his sword.

“Let’s do this. I saw seven Highlanders on the walk from the car alone, you’ve got work to do.”

That got a grin out of him as he accepted the sword, even if it did have an eyeroll accompanying it.

“Get used to it, man, once we get your cloak on, you are literally a hotter Connor MacLeod. Like him and Thor in one. You’re going to have a fanclub of elven barmaids following you around.”

“My dream,” Derek deadpanned, clearly the last thing he wanted. Stiles couldn’t say that was a problem he’d personally had, but having witnessed it in Derek’s life, yeah, it did look like it got annoying when it wasn’t wanted.

“Don’t worry, my dear alpha.” Stiles unsheathed his sword with some difficulty—it was longer than he thought and it hit the top of the tent, then the main post, then his own knee. He would definitely be sticking to his bat and mountain ash for any actual fighting. “If anyone tries to touch you, I’ll challenge them for your honor. And I’ve fought a literal dragon before, all these nerds are going down.”

“It wasn’t a dragon,” Derek dutifully countered, as usual.

“It was basically a dragon.”

#sterek #ficlet #150 prompt #and you know there's going to be an actual supernatural threat somewhere in this situation #and the pack has to fight it off in armor #and they become celebrities within this crowd #welcomed back like kings every year #and derek eventually gets his perfect outfit sorted out #allison is a badass legolas-looking archery goddess #lydia continues to be joan of arc #kira makes some really badass samurai-inspired look #and stiles likes to think of himself as aragorn #the badass ranger among a lot of fantasy races

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