Chapter Text
The Professor’s still an intimidating figure in this light, airy office, surrounded by leather-bound books in deep, rich hues. The chair he sits in could almost be a throne. You perch primly in your own, legs crossed at the ankles.
He’d called you here, presumably to punish you for the way you would always challenge him in lectures. It seemed unfair, really, when he made it so damned easy. Supposedly, this Raphael was a world leading-authority on the hells, from a long line of academics, but he seemed more interested in looking intelligent than actually demonstrating any sign of being it.
Nevertheless.
“Your essay on the Hells was passable,” he says. “Perhaps even worthy of ‘good’, if I were feeling charitable.” He leans back in the chair. “But your conduct in my seminars is unforgiveable.”
“What conduct?” You reply, slightly too quick. You know, of course, but you want him to confess how threatened he feels by your interactions.
“You are a student,” he begins, “and yet you see fit to challenge me on my own work. You delight in distracting your cohort, and no doubt trying to distract me.” You feel his gaze rake down your body. “And the way you dress is not fit for a lecture hall, especially not at this university.”
You smooth your skirt down. “I don’t dress for you, Professor.”
“Evidently,” he replies. He leans forward and places his elbows on the desk, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on them. “Tell me, what did you think of the latest reading?”
“Self-aggrandising, meandering, and vague,” you shrug. “Setting your own work as readings must be the only way you can get any attention for it. I’ve certainly learned nothing from it.”
You watch as the muscles in his jaw tense. Silently, he pushes back from the desk and gets to his feet, walking past you. You turn slowly in your seat – to see what’s suddenly caught his attention, if nothing else. He’s standing before a book on a carved lectern, hands now clasped behind his back.
“You might stand to learn something from this,” he says, without even looking back.
As much as it tempts you to challenge him on that, too, the book has you intrigued. The lectern, carved with depictions of devils and demons and all matter of infernal and abyssal creatures, is interesting on its own. But the book, bound in relatively plain crimson leather, commands your attention entirely.
“Keep your hands to yourself. Very few people have laid eyes on this,” he says. “Even fewer know what it says. Only I know what it means.”
You can’t help but snort at the man’s posturing.
“You would do well to remember your manners, girl,” he snarls. “Show some respect.”
You ignore him, reaching towards the book. The soft, plain leather seems to call to you, drawing you towards it.
Strong, slender fingers close around your wrist. He spins you to face him “Did you not hear me, girl? Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Or what?” you ask, voice defiant. You can’t help but notice the way his entire body seems to thrum with barely repressed rage. Without thinking, you add, “you’ll spank me?”
“You are a constant thorn in my side,” he snaps. “You’d make a fine academic if you weren’t so hell-bent on being a vexatious little harlot.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” you smirk, emboldened.
He glares down at you through haughty, half-lidded eyes. “I refuse to give you the satisfaction.”
And yet he’s still holding your wrist.
“So you can’t satisfy a woman, either?”
He leans in closer. “You ought to shut that insolent mouth of yours, before I shut it for you. I have no need to prove myself to you. In anything.”
You can’t help but smirk a little at that. Your free hand grazes the soft fabric of his shirt – no doubt it’s expensive, probably foreign. “That’s never stopped you before. Indulge me.”
His mouth twists. Wordlessly, he lets your wrist drop from his grasp, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve pushed him too far – whether you’ve misread the heated glances, the passionate debates, the—
Your back hits the bookcase mere moments before his lips meet yours.
There’s a savageness to the kiss that makes your heart stutter in your chest as his fingers wind through your hair, canting your head to the side to expose your neck. The cruel angles of his body press against yours, sharp hipbones holding you against the shelves like a butterfly pinned into a frame. His lips drag across your skin, settling at the most sensitive point of your neck. In the fleeting moments where thought still feels possible, it occurs to you that you’ll be needing a scarf for the next few days. Your breath hitches in your throat as he marks you, all lips and teeth and hunger.
It almost feels like a dream.
Hells, you’ve fantasized about him before, whenever your mind wandered, but nothing could ever quite compare to having your decidedly unacademic curiosity sated so thoroughly. You’re not quite sure when his thigh found its way between your own, and the friction sends a jolt of need through you that leaves you grasping and clawing at his broad shoulders. He doesn’t seem to mind, even when your nails dig into that soft shirt fabric and the sunkissed skin beneath. He must summer somewhere hot.
Your own skin is burning, now – you’re surely blushing.
But then Raphael steps back, and the sudden absence of his warmth shocks you back to reality. You open your mouth to question it, but quickly close it again as he takes your hand. He leads you back to the desk, but then disappears from your eyeline. There’s no sound in the room but the click of a key turning in a lock. Warm hands settle on your hips, and you feel the brush of his lips against your ear.
“For your insolence,” he says, planting one hand in the centre of your back and using it to fold you over the desk. He hitches up your skirt, revealing crimson lace beneath. Slim fingers hook into the waistband, and you feel the soft scratch of the lace as he draws it down your thighs. The cool air makes your body clench around nothing, and you take a single shaking breath as he palms the curve of your ass, the other hand firm on your hip.
“Keep quiet,” he says, as his hand pulls back.
You hear the crack of his hand against your skin as much as you feel it, biting down on the cry it elicits.
“Good girl,” he purrs. “But you’ve not learned your lesson just yet. You do not talk back.”
Crack.
“You do not touch what isn’t yours.”
Crack.
“You do not test my patience.”
The fourth blow stings even more than the others, and you can’t help but mewl pathetically into the papers on his desk.
“Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Professor,” you mumble.
Crack.
He repeats the question, voice more forceful, “Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Professor,” you say, louder this time.
“Good girl.”
You flinch a little as his hand settles on your ass once more, but he simply strokes the reddening skin – no doubt admiring his handiwork. The other hand has not moved from your hip.
“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” he asks, not expecting you to answer. “Glistening like a fresh cherry, begging to be touched, and tasted.”
You’d felt yourself grow slick even as he’d grasped your wrist – never mind what had come after. And now he knows it. You’re not sure whether to feel shame or anticipation.
Perhaps both.
He laughs. “Who am I to deny myself such a delicacy?”
His hand dips between your legs, exploring and tracing. “So slick,” he coos. “So ready, aren’t you?”
Call it wishful thinking, but you’re fairly sure you’ve already felt his cock poking against your ass - just before he bent you over the desk. His fingers wouldn’t be enough. Nevertheless, you push back against his hand, and are met by a hum of amusement.
“Don’t get desperate,” he chides, pulling his hand back.
He teases you in silence for a while, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction of anything louder than a quiet gasp, a hitch in your breathing. But then he starts toying with your clit, and you can’t help yourself.
You moan.
Like some wanton maiden.
In your imagination, you can practically see the cocksure smirk on his face.
So there you stay, bent over his desk. Entranced by his touch. He slips a finger inside, and then another. Heat pools in your core with each stroke, each meticulous touch, every fibre of your body pulled as tight as a bowstring.
His other hand is still firm on your hip, holding you in place.
Not that you feel much like moving, anyway.
That is, of course, until he stops. Right as you’re about to go tumbling over the edge—
“No,” you breathe, almost a whine. The building pleasure starts to subside.
“Stand up,” he says, and once you’re sure your legs will support you, you do.
“Turn around.”
You turn to face him, and watch as he lifts his slick fingers to his mouth and licks each one clean.
“Sit,” he says, occupying himself with the buckle of his belt. He sounds almost bored, his nonchalance a challenge. You won’t beg for his attention, but he knows he has yours.
You watch as he frees himself from his trousers, revealing a cock bigger than you’d dared expect. He smirks, anticipating your reaction even though he’s not looking at you. You sit, kicking your panties off and spreading your legs as he strokes himself and steps between them. He grips your hips and slides you to the edge of the desk, tipping you back. You try and wrap your legs around his hips to bring him closer, but he remains in place, the head of his cock barely skimming your entrance.
“You forget yourself.” He leans over her, eyes dark and face stern. “Don’t get greedy.”
Hells, you want to be greedy. You want all of him – lips and tongue and teeth and skin on skin.
He plants one palm beside your head, the other still firm on your hip as he positions himself. There’s a furrow to his brow that betrays some level of focus – an attentiveness that makes your traitorous little heart lurch. And, hells, when he finally sheathes himself, the indulgent little groan that passes his lips…
It’s not a sound you’ll forget.
He positions your legs over his hips, and then braces his other hand against the desk, caging you with his body. Once satisfied that everything is in order – as if you’re an artist’s figurine, in need of posing – he begins to move in earnest. It’s not the frenzied tangle of limbs you’d enjoyed – no, endured – with other members of your cohort. Not at all.
He savours you, hips rolling slowly and indulgently against yours. The fullness takes you a little while to adjust to, and he gives you precious little time to do so before starting to increase the pace. No matter – you’ve always been able to keep up with him. You cant your hips up to meet his, and he moves a hand to pin you down again. You reach up to brace your own hands against his strong, broad shoulders, and he gives you a warning glare. You run your nails up the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the neatly styled waves of his hair and watching him struggle to suppress a shudder. His eyes flutter shut. You wait until they open again, the look he gives you a whiskey-hued assurance that he’s in control.
And then, as you do in the lecture hall, you prove to him that he isn’t.
You tense the muscles in your core, clenching around him. His rhythm stutters, and a half-strangled groan slips from his lips. The smirk curling at your lips turns into a sweet smile as he glares at you. In response, he pushes in harder. The desk creaks in protest. You squeeze him again, fingertips stroking lazy circles at the base of his skull, and he practically growls.
“Vexatious little harlot,” he snarls, treating you to another forceful thrust.
You shift position, taking advantage of his apparent strength to lift your back off the desk and angle your body towards his. His mouth falls to the column of your throat – as if to rip it out – and you can’t help but gasp breathlessly as his lips and teeth roam across the sensitive skin, marking you once more. Your nails dig in, leaving scattered crescents impressed in his skin as he moves faster, each stroke almost vicious.
He pushes you back down to find a more advantageous angle, no longer stopping you from arching your back or angling your hips. In fact, he doesn’t seem to really notice you much at all. His brow furrows, and his eyes shut. His breathing is rough. Nevertheless, each stroke sends a jolt of pure pleasure through you. You move with him, against him, grinding against his hips as you both take what you need from eachother.
Seeing him like this thrills you. You won’t be able to look at him the same way again, and hells, he won’t be able to look at you without remembering this. Even better, you know just how to taunt him, to stoke that fire until it consumes you both in some violent blaze.
“Raphael—” you breathe. “Fuck—”
You watch his throat bob as he swallows hard, body responding to your words.
“Say it again,” he grits out.
“Fuck—” you whimper, deliberately misinterpreting him.
“My name,” he growls. “Say it.”
You moan a little more, refusing to give him the satisfaction even as he angles his hips just right to set your nerves, your willpower, fraying. Neither of you will last much longer.
“Raphael,” you moan (adding a little dramatic flair, of course). He shivers, rewarding you with another perfectly angled thrust.
You’re almost there. Still, none of it is quite enough to push you over the edge, even as Raphael continues at his punishing, relentless pace. His meticulous rhythm starts to slip, and his face is the picture of lustful, reckless abandon.
“You’re not—” you pant, as he pounds into you, “You’re not going to come without making sure I do.”
“You’re not really in a position to make demands,” he grunts, far from the proud, preening man you’d set your sights on at the beginning of the year. Locks of his hair hang around his face, sweat curling the ends.
“I’ll tell everyone you couldn’t satisfy me. That you fuck just as selfishly as you write.”
He growls, frustrated, as if your pleasure is an imposition. An obstacle to overcome in pursuit of his own. Nevertheless, you’ve clearly both come to the same conclusion. This, whatever this is, will be better without the artifice, the theatrics of faking a climax to stroke an ego. So, instead, he reaches between your legs once more.
“Needy little bitch,” he hisses, circling your clit with his fingers. You watch intently – the rough but practised movement of his hand, his flushed, slick cock pressing into you.
“Faster,” you whisper, and he has no choice but to obey.
He growls a complaint, but brings you right to the edge of release. He takes some cruel delight in watching you squirm beneath him, both of you breathing fast and hard. And then he hits that perfect angle again, pushing you over the edge. You spiral, clinging to him as pleasure crashes through you. Hells, he’s still relentless, riding you through your climax even though each wave of pleasure forces him closer to release as you clench around him.
He hilts himself, over and over again. He hilts himself so violently that the desk judders an inch or so across the floor, but you’re too boneless, too fucked-out to care. And then he comes undone with one final, decadent moan, still buried deep inside. He stays there for a moment, leaning on his hands to catch his breath. Coming back to your senses, you reach up to sweep one of the errant locks of hair back behind his ear.
You swear he freezes.
Eventually, wordlessly, he lets himself slip free, and steps back. He hands you an immaculate, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, presumably to clean yourself up a little. You sit up, still slightly boneless, and set about preparing yourself to leave.
“So, where’s my feedback?” you ask.
He gives you a strange look. “Well… a little needy for my tastes, but you’ve got quite the tight little—"
“—My essay, Professor?” you ask, smoothing your skirt back down as he silently arranges himself and buckles his belt.
“You’re sitting on it,” he says simply.