This was originally an improvised roleplay between myself and a friend who goes by DuelistBrat. We had a great time with it, and ended up posting it in full on a different site. I've since left that site and now, with her permission, am dividing the piece up into chapters to post here. I've edited for clarity and to reduce the roleplay feeling, while retaining the switching POV.
It is nearly eleven o'clock at night when Anya pulls into the university library car park. Her Friday had been long, her busiest day for classes, but this was the only study support session available that fit her schedule. Anxious, tired and only marginally perked up by her fifth coffee, she gets out and walks towards the library, the lights piercing through the darkness and a storm threatening to break overhead. The sharp glow, coupled with the stillness of the ordinarily bustling campus, only makes her exhaustion feel more pronounced, tension locking up her neck and shoulders as she crosses the threshold. The place is virtually empty, the low drone of a single vacuum cleaner emanating from somewhere within.
Anya is in her late twenties, with a youthful, albeit fatigued face, and cascades of wavy, raven hair falling around her shoulders and down her back. Her striking grey eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief. Freckles lightly dust her cheeks and nose. She wears a deep green, cable knit sweater atop a dark, plaid skirt. She wears thick, cream-coloured tights and ankle high, black Victorian heeled boots. A worn leather bag hangs from her shoulder.
Walking towards the stairs, she makes a note of how empty the library is. Much calmer than during the daylight hours. The quiet solitude of the library calms the nervous energy that has been weighing heavily on her mind. She slips into the elevator, and steps off on the third floor. Walking down the corridor, she sees a table at the far end near the windows, where a man sits alone.
This must be my tutor,
she thinks to herself. Noticing the time as she passes a clock, she hurries, anxious not to annoy her tutor with tardiness. The only light comes from the soft glow of lamps on long tables that stretch their way down the library. Towering bookshelves, shrouded in shadows, loom over her on either side. The air is cool, and the faint smell of old books and leather occupies the space. Past the table, a large bay window overlooks a moonlit campus. Her tutor sits patiently at the table, art books neatly stacked around him.
The tutor sits at his preferred table, overlooking the courtyard. The only good thing about the late sessions was being able to book wherever he'd like. He'd had a small break between tutorials and is surrounded by books from each subject: a mix of art history, literary analysis and creative writing. He is hunched over an assignment of his own, running out the clock, assuming nobody would show up to this late session on a Friday night. He wears jeans, boots, and a dark t-shirt. Tattoos travel up his left arm. His shoulders are broad, and his stubble is in need of a trim. His brown hair falls just short of his shoulders and curls at the ends. Upon hearing footsteps he looks up and is surprised to see a woman hurrying towards him. "Oh, are you here for the art history tute?"
He starts packing away his own work, trying to neaten things up, flustered at her arrival.
"I am!" she says. "I apologise for my lateness; I got caught up." Drawing close, she holds out her hand, "I'm Anya."
He shakes her hand, and smiles, "Hi Anya, I'm Dean. No that's okay, you just surprised me!"
When the tutor looks up, she immediately notices his hazel eyes, and is nearly thrown. But she regains herself, shakes his hand and introduces herself. She looks at the table, trying to decide whether it was more appropriate to sit next to or across from him. She can't help noticing the artwork snaking up his arm, and decides to sit across to give herself a better view. Sitting down, she takes in the thickness of his arms and torso, something she wouldn't have expected from an art history tutor. She feels a warm sensation creep over her body and straight down to her core, causing her to squeeze her legs a little tighter.
Who am I to judge?
she thinks to herself, digging through her bag for her textbook and notes.
Gods, I need to get laid. As soon as finals are over, I am going to the nearest party and finding a guy for the night.
Dean sits down across from the young woman, Anya. "I just don't normally have anyone during this session, I wasn't expecting anyone to show up."
His thoughts linger on the soft, warm skin of her hand, contrasting with the dry paper he's been handling all night. He's taken by her bright smile, freckles and curved lips, and finds himself looking her up and down. Taking in the black hair and long boots, he has to force himself not to stare. It wouldn't do to make a student feel uncomfortable. "Regardless, it's lovely to meet you! Can I assume, Anya, that you've attended this week's lecture and done the readings?"
He puts the core textbook in front of him and pulls out an attendance that was, up to this moment, blank for the entire semester.
"Oh, and can I get your surname and student ID on this form. Don't worry about filling out your phone number." Sliding the sheet forward his eyes scan her again, and his overtired mind wonders what kind of figure lies beneath her sweater. He blinks and looks down, trying to keep it together. The poor girl just wants to get some help with her grades, she doesn't need to be getting perved on.
Anya pulls out a pen, "It's a pleasure to meet you too Dean. I did attend today's lecture, but I haven't had the opportunity to catch up on the assignment. Fridays are my heaviest course load day." Her thoughts have been momentarily thrown off by the feel of his warm, rough, firm hand.
I wonder what his hand would feel like around my neck... shit, Anya, stop! You are here to learn, keep it together, woman! He's just trying to do his job.
Wide eyed, flustered and realising she's only been half listening, she takes the attendance sheet from him and fills out her name, student ID and phone number. Sliding the sheet back to him, she thinks she can see tension in his shoulders.
"I can go through the reading, if there is something you need to work on?" She gestures at the work he's putting away. Her eyes trace along the lines of his jaw to his full lips. The way his hair sweeps across his face.
I wonder if it's as soft as it looks.
Their eyes meet again as Dean looks up. His gaze is cool and calculating, the gold sunburst being swallowed by his expanding pupils.
"Is it warm in here, or is it just me?" She laughs and averts her gaze. She could have sworn she could see hunger in his eyes to answer her own. But maybe that's because she hasn't been with anyone all semester.
Dean takes the sheet back and notes that she's put her phone number down.
Don't even think about texting her,
he tells himself,
even if she's channelling that goth/punk vibe you always fall for.
For a moment he's caught up looking at the lines of her throat, but he shakes it off. "Yeah, it's a little warm, it can get like that in here sometimes. Uhm, no, let's go over your assignment. I prefer a more hands-on approach with my sessions. So it's due in two weeks, have you decided which artist from the list you want to focus on?"
He brushes his hair out of his face, stealing another glance at her neck and lips.
"Yes, I was looking at focusing on the works of Bernini." Anya chastises herself,
Of course I had to choose one of the most erotic sculptors to discuss.
Unable to take the warmth she's feeling, she goes to remove her sweater, thankful that she remembered to put on a camisole before driving over. As the sweater comes away, tattoos are revealed curling up both of her arms. All manner of dark, gothic art covers her fair skin. Smoky furls snake around her wrists to meld with a number of macabre scenes, graveyards and a haunted house, night skies with witches performing rituals around a flaming pyre. Her camisole has thin straps that show off the definition of her shoulders, and collarbone, dipping low in the front to show off ample breasts.
Mortified, she realises she's forgotten something vital. "Oh god, I didn't bring my text on Bernini, it's back in my room. Maybe they have a copy I can use here."
I need to take a walk and get my shit together before I lunge over this table and make an absolute fool out of myself.
As she gets up, she flips her hair over one shoulder and a flush crawls its way from her chest to her face. She walks to the nearest terminal to access the library archives.
Dean's jaw almost drops when she takes off her sweater. The pose alone, arms crossed over her chest, back arched, is evocative, but its removal reveals she's covered in tattoos and has a wonderful, full pair of breasts and strong, toned shoulders. She's not just cute, she's sexy as hell. He immediately wonders what it would be like to run his hands over those tattoos, to slide his cock between her breasts, and he feels a tug at his groin. He stammers a little, only barely hearing her sudden concern for the book she's missing. "Uh, Benini, yes! Great choice, uhm, yeah, the library will have, uhm, something."
He watches her get up and walk away, tatted up, black hair, boot-wearing bombshell. He stares at her ass, and imagines her bent over in front of him.
I wonder if she's a screamer or a growler?
