A prompt response to this; R u taking prompts? I have a great need for an OQ uni story where robin is the ruggedly handsome professor (like english or philosophy) and regina is this sassy, outspoken, argumentative student in his first year class that he can't help but be transfixed by
I wrote four mini chapters (all of which are below) and they switch between Regina and Robin's point of view. RATED M folks, especially the last two sections. :) Enjoy and let me know what you think.
He is sexy, no, not just sexy. Professor Locksley is ruggedly handsome, gorgeous, and those dimples, those piercing blue eyes, they have her contemplating thoughts and actions she really shouldn't. Not about her teacher anyway, not when she should be concentrating on his words, on the lecture, rather than the way his biceps flex beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, or how she wishes she wouldn't have sat five rows back on the far right.
He says something then, something positive and naive, something she wouldn't expect from a professor of ethics, and it has her eyes narrowing, her brow furrowing. His words are idealistic, impractical, and she can't help but roll her eyes. He is speaking of morality, of what makes a person a 'good' person, and she wonders vaguely if he truly believes these things, truly believes in the inherent 'goodness' of people.
She is hurriedly jotting down notes, trying to comprehend, trying to understand, but then she can't, her pen pauses mid-sentence, and she finds herself voicing her disagreement just so she won't have to listen to him spouting nonsense any longer. The other students turn her way, and his eyes find hers, those blue eyes, and they make her feel melty, feel warm and wet between the thighs, but she won't let that distract her.
"Do you truly believe people are inherently good?" She questions, brown eyes searching blue. "That people can be selfless?" She doesn't believe these things. Hasn't believed them since she was a child. A naive young child who hadn't yet faced the harshness of a mother who never loved her, a father who might as well have been absent, and the loss of the only person on this earth she ever felt was truly good, the only person who ever showed her love.
His eyebrows lifts slightly, and his gaze settles on her face, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips before he asks, "Well Miss," he pauses, waits for her to fill in the space, to give her name.
"Mills." She responds with an unamused tilt of her head. "Regina Mills."
"Hmm, well Miss Mills. I am not saying that we, as humans, are inherently good, but I am saying that we have the option. We have goodwill, unlike animals, we have a choice to act on that will." His words flow easily, his voice exudes confidence, security, and if she wasn't so used to the british accent from living in London for the last semester, she is sure that the lilt to his words would make her blush.
No matter how handsome she finds him, or his voice, she still can't believe what he is saying, can't understand his view. "You set us that far apart from animals? You don't believe we act for mere self preservation above all else?" Regina leans forward as she questions him, her forehead creasing in confusion, shock even, that anyone, especially someone as knowledgeable as a professor could honestly believe such a thing. "Are you really that idealistic?"
His smirk grows wide, and she finds it mildly irritating, condescending. She responds by leaning back, straightening her shoulders, and crossing her arms, an action that puts her cleavage clearly on display. His smirk falters, and she can track his gaze traveling downward, just for a moment, a moment that makes her feel like maybe she has the upper hand, and she briefly wonders what that says about her. Why she feels the need to feel in control of the situation, of most situations.
"Are you so cynical as to think otherwise?" He questions, and her jaw drops open, a response not quite prepared, just on the tip of her tongue, but he continues. "Kant's theory of goodwill supplies that our will is good as long as we act on something out of duty rather than inclination." He steps in her direction, walks to the edge of the seats until he is as close as he can be with her in the fifth row. "I understand that people do act out of their own inclination, that they do things to serve themselves, and themselves alone, but I also believe that people can act out of duty, act in accordance with moral law."
Her eyes are pinned to his, and she had almost forgotten about the class, had almost felt like there was nothing beyond the two of them, beyond this conversation, but then another student speaks. The young man's voice sounds from the opposite side of the lecture hall, and it has the professor's eyes lowering, then turning, and she slowly comes back to her surroundings, begins scrawling her notes, listening intently.
By the end of class her right hand is cramping, several pages of her notebook filled with some valuable information, some pointless, in her opinion. Professor Locksley made some interesting points, some valid ones, but throughout the past hour Regina found herself in disagreement more often than agreement. She thinks that should probably concern her, the way their differences of opinion could affect her grade, but at the moment all she can think of is coffee, a large, warm latte in fact, something to get her through her afternoon classes.
"Miss Mills?" His voice finds her ears, and now she knows she was wrong, now she notices that the accent she thought herself desensitized to is definitely attractive still, definitely affects her.
She looks up from her messenger bag, blindly closing it as she meets his eyes, and it is only now that she notices they are practically alone. Apparently she was thinking about coffee longer than she realized.
"Would you like to discuss the lecture?" He asks, lips lifting at the corners, dimples deepening on his cheeks.
She stands, smoothes the creases from her shirt, before lifting her bag to her shoulder. "I would," she says a smile pulling at her mouth, "but I'm afraid you would find most of my views in opposition with yours."
His smirk widens into a smile at that, a heartwarming smile that has her responding with a similar bright grin. "I think the world would be rather dull if we all agreed on everything Miss Mills."
She nods, lifts an eyebrow as she allows her eyes to travel over the structure of his lips, the stubble of his jaw. "True."
He gestures toward the door, steps aside, then says, "I was just about to get a cup of tea. Care to join me."
He notices her immediately. She is wearing red, a deep crimson, and it suits her, draws his eye. Red in a pool of gray, of black and tan, of neutral tones and neutral faces. She stands out. She is stunning with dark flowing hair framing her face as she stares at her desk, at her notebook.
He shakes his head, brings his focus back to the task at hand, back to teaching. He is her teacher, and he mentally scolds himself for the attraction he feels just from a mere glance in her direction. It isn't like he's new to this. This is his fourth semester teaching at King's College, his fourth semester as a philosophy professor, and he prides himself on his skill, on the way he can connect with students.
He knows part of that comes from his age. He is young, straight out of a master's program into teaching. The youngest of his students, like those in this first year ethics class, are only five years or so younger than him. Some of his older students are his age, but he is a popular professor, well liked, yet he has never, ever pursued a personal relationship with a student. He never intends to. Such conduct would be unethical.
She changes that. She makes him want to bury himself deep within her, kiss and caress her warm skin, wrap his fingers in her soft hair. Her words cut through the lecture hall, a deep, sultry voice, velvet flowing to his ears, and he had been able to divert his eyes before that, had been able to avoid looking and staring, but now his gaze is drawn once again, and for the first time, he can see the warm brown of her eyes looking back.
She disagrees with him, that is clear. Her words are cynical, negative, and she reminds him of himself. She reminds him of the man he used to be, of the young man who lost the love of his life in childbirth, the man who didn't want to live in a world without Marian, didn't know how to raise a son alone, but she has something he didn't; passion.
Passion exudes from her, pours forth like hot water from a spring, and it makes his lips curve up, makes him want to find out just how passionate she can be. That is, until she leans back in her seat, crossing her arms beneath her chest, providing him with an ample view of the supple curves of her body. He feels his cheeks heat, gulps audibly, and clears his throat before addressing her again.
They banter, and it is all too brief, interrupted by an eager young undergraduate who seems to be aiming to be teacher's pet. Little does the young man know, that position was filled the moment Regina Mills called him 'idealistic', the moment she questioned him with those plump, red lips, the moment she rolled those brown eyes.
He asks her to join him for tea, and she does, well, she gets a latte with an extra shot of espresso, and explains to him her need for caffeine if she is going to stay awake for Professor Leopold's course on classic literature.
"You don't like his class?" It surprises Robin, yet another thing that surprises him about Regina.
She smiles, sips at her latte leaving a faint red mark from her lips on the cup. "I do like the class," she responds, meeting his eyes as she sets her cup next to his, "well, I like the subject matter at least, but the Professor's teaching style is a bit," she pauses, thinking, "dull."
He knows Professor Leopold, and dull doesn't begin to describe him, not to mention his reproachable behavior with young, beautiful undergraduates. Robin has a moment of self-doubt, of insecurity, and he wonders if sharing this time with Regina makes him no different than the perverted old Professor he abhors, but then her hand is on his arm, his wrist, where his sleeve is lifted to reveal a tattoo, and the brush of her skin against his pumps blood to regions of his body long ignored.
"What's this?" She questions, and he explains the crest, the tattoo his father had, and his grandfather, and now him, explains that he hopes his own son will never feel obligated to do the same. He sees her eyes drop to his left hand, gaze searching for a ring, and he isn't sure what makes him open up to her, isn't sure why he shares, but he does.
He tells her of Marian, of Roland, his toddler, and she shares in turn, tells him of Daniel, her first love, and how he died too soon. It makes sense to him, her negative outlook on life, on people, and he wonders what else has happened to her, but then she is crossing her legs, her knee bumping his, and his mind is drawn to that knee instead. Drawn to her knees, and her thighs, and what lays between.
She knows he finds her attractive. That is clear, painfully obvious, but it is also clear how she blushes as they talk, how she wets her lips frequently, sliding her tongue between teeth and flesh, and how she smiles even when she is accusing him of being unrealistic and utopian. He laughs, tells her she is distrustful and skeptical, and she responds with exasperated sighs, sighs he wishes were made out of pleasure rather than irritation.
"I am." She states, and he tries to mentally catch up, wonders if he missed something while he was thinking of the silkyness of her hair.
"I'm sorry?" He questions, brow furrowing in confusion. She smiles, and he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of seeing her smile. It is glorious and bright, and passionate, everything about her is passionate.
"I am cynical," she sips at her drink again, "and skeptical, and distrustful. Everything you said, but," she looks at him, her brown gaze filtering beneath dark lashes.
"But?" He questions, inching closer to her, his voice lower.
"But, you make me feel less so," she smiles, blushes, and a rush of pride flows through his veins knowing he brought that color to her cheeks, "you make me feel less sardonic, more optimistic, almost hopeful."
He smiles at that, no, smirks, and he knows that this woman, that Regina, will have him questioning everything he thinks he knows.
It takes three weeks. Three torturous weeks before Professor Locksley, or Robin as she has come to call him, finally touches her, finally does what she's been waiting for since the moment she first saw him.
It's been weeks of arguing, of laughing, of flirting. Weeks of foreplay and banter, weeks of getting to know each other, and weeks of denying the sexual tension stretched tight between them. She is a rubberband stretched taught, has been waiting and waiting, and when Robin finally relents, she can feel her entire body snap with relief.
Hands coast across her skin, calloused fingers skimming and grasping, and his lips, those glorious lips are leaving hers, trailing a moist path down her chin, the column of her neck, and along the dip of her collarbone. She is eager, desperate even, her fingers unbuttoning, unfastening until she can feel his flesh, caress his toned torso, and he gasps against her neck at the contact.
The sound has her arousal heightening, even more wetness gathering where she is already slick and warm between her thighs, but she can feel him pulling back, feel him slowing down. She pushes her hips into his, grinds herself against his arousal, where he is solid and hard against her.
She knows what he is thinking, knows the argument he is about to make, because he has been making it since they first met. He tells her she is his student, that it isn't ethical, that he'd be taking advantage of her, and she tells him they have different views on ethics. That has been clear from day one, and she tells him how she wants to feel him inside of her, how they really are no different than animals, and all animals have urges that need to be sated.
"Regina." He whispers, her name slides passed his lips, and it makes her shiver, makes her hold up a finger to his mouth as they pull apart.
"Robin," she takes a step back from him then, lets his heated gaze travel the expanse of her almost naked body, "you are not taking advantage of me." She moves her hands, fingers finding the clasp of her bra, black lace, and she loosens it, lets the straps fall down her arms. "If anything, I'm the one taking advantage."
He swallows, eyelids fluttering closed as his breathing quickens noticeably. He leans against the desk behind him, finds some balance, and she can't help but appreciate the way his abdomen curves and flexes as he moves. She only wishes she had pushed the shirt all the way off his shoulders before stepping back and baring herself. She wants to see more, wants his biceps, his arms, wants to scrape her nails along the flesh of his back, wants to press kisses along the stubble of his jaw.
He stands there, those blue eyes slowly opening, and they aren't so blue now, darkened, almost black, and right now she is certain they aren't as far from the animal kingdom as he may think because he is looking at her with a carnal hunger, a hunger that makes her feel like his prey, prey that would willingly fall.
She smiles, a coy thing, and she can see it in his face, see his resolve completely fade away as she stalks toward him, quickly morphing from prey to hunter. "Professor?" She questions, chuckles at his reaction to the title, and brings a perfectly manicured nail to his chest, scrawling slowly across his skin as she speaks. "I'm quite willing to learn," she lifts both hands, pushes his unbuttoned shirt back, over his shoulders, lets her hands glide across his heated flesh, looking up at him through dark lashes, her eyebrow raising in challenge, "if only you'd teach me."
He doesn't know how it came to this, when it came to this, but he isn't sure he cares, not with her body writhing in front of him, his cock buried deep inside of her. She is wet, so ungodly wet, and the slickness coats his thumb as he rubs her clit, massages her while he languidly moves his hips back and forth, in then out.
She already came once. Bit her lip, muffling moans, while she came on his tongue, while her body squeezed and throbbed around his fingers. This isn't what he had in mind when he told her he'd be working late, grading papers into the wee hours of the morning. Granted, this is actually what he's had in mind since the moment he laid eyes on her, but he never planned on acting on it, not even when she made it clear that she wanted it as badly as him, not even when she showed up here tonight.
Then she stripped off her long jacket, revealed only strips of lace and soft skin beneath, and he couldn't contain himself, couldn't stop his feet from closing the distance, his hands from exploring, from finally feeling her silky tresses wrapped around his fingers.
He moves inside of her slowly, pushing forward until he can't get any deeper, pulling back until only the tip of his erection remains in her. This motion, this pace, has her fisting at the edge of the desk, her eyes squeezing shut with each thrust forward, and it allows him to hold back, allows him to watch her, bring her closer and closer to that edge without toppling over himself.
He wants her to come, wants to bring her pleasure, and he wants to be selfless, as selfless as possible in this situation that makes him feel very selfish, makes him want to take rather than give, but he doesn't. He gives, and he gives, and he hopes that she can sense his choice to please her above himself, hopes that she can feel that he would always put her first, will always put her first.
Her eyes open then, seek his, and something is so fragile about her. He knows that underneath all of her pessimistic babble she has a pure heart, a soul longing to trust, longing to remove itself from the disillusionment of the world she knows. He wants to give that to her, thinks perhaps he has, because he can see the trust in her eyes, he can see the mask she lets fall, shrivel, and fade.
"Robin, I'm, I'm going to," she is gasping, hips bucking out of rhythm, and so he grasps at her, holds her still while he pounds faster and harder, and she is coming around him, throbbing against his cock, sounds of ecstasy leaving her lips, expletives leaving his as he spills over, empties himself into her.
It is much later, after they dress, after they make it back to his apartment, and after they undress again that they lay in a nest of twisted sheets. That is when she confesses that she thinks he might be right, that there might be some good in some people, or at least, some goodwill.
