You actually cannot skip to being good at a creative endeavour that you haven't put much practice into. You cannot trick your way out of the 'knows that your work is not what you want it to be but don't know how to improve it' stage by planning or reading or talking about it really really hard. At some point you just have to craft through it until your brain finds it's own unique way back to the 'everything I make slaps' stage and be prepared to start the cycle all over again. You just have to make that project you're excited about slightly less good than you want it to be. (Says this standing in a pool of blood and covered in blood and also coughing up a little blood)
Crisp - Firm, brisk, refreshing, zestful. Indicates good level of acidity, particularly in dry whites.
Dry - In relation to wine always means not sweet; sugar fully fermented out.
Finesse - An abstract qualitative term related to refinement, elegance.
Firm - Sound constitution, positive. A desirable quality on the palate.
Flabby - Soft, feeble, lacking acidity on the palate.
Flat - The next stage after flabby, well beyond bland. Total lack of vigour on nose and on palate; lack of acidity; oxidation.
Heavy - Over-endowed with alcohol, more than full bodied; clumsy, lacking finesse.
Meaty - Rich âchunkyâ nose, almost chewable flavour.
Piquant - A high-toned, overfragrant, fruity nose verging on sharp, usually confirmed by an over-acidic end taste.
Pricked - Distinctly sharper than piquant. Acetic smell, tart. An irremediable fault.
Sharp - Acidity on the nose and palate somewhere between piquant and pricked. Usually indicating a fault.
Sinewy - Lean, muscular on the palate. Usually a wine of some potential.
Stringy - A texture: on the thin and scrawny side, lacking equability.
Supple - Texture, balance: pleasant combination of vigour and harmony.
Tart - Sharp, nose catching, tongue curling.
Velvety - A textural description: silky, smooth, a certain opulence on the palate.
NOTES
Wine appreciation is an interesting semantic field, because its lexemes are largely figurative applications from other fields.
Terms which we would normally associate with music, textiles, food, physique, personality, morality, and behaviour rub shoulders with terms from colour, chemistry, botany, and nutrition.
Because the topic is so subjective, the lexicon plays a critical role.
The relationships between the lexemes define the contrasts of taste which the wine enthusiast seeks to identify.
To learn about wine is first to learn how to talk about wine (M. Broadbent, 1983).
Source â More: Word Lists â How to Describe Food â Cocktails â Food History
Wine-tasting â Drunkenness â Drinking â Liqueurs â Food Symbolisms
đ Ever wonder how Frankenstein and The Vampyre came to life? It all began during the stormy summer of 1816, a time so eerie itâs now called the "Year Without a Summer." Confined indoors by relentless rain, Mary Shelley, Lord Byron, and John Polidori challenged each other to write the scariest story they could. What followed was nothing short of legendary: Shelleyâs Frankensteinâa tale of ambition, creation, and consequenceâand Polidoriâs The Vampyre, the first modern vampire story that still haunts us today.
These works explore themes we still grapple withâambition, relationships, power, and the unknown. And they remind us of what the humanities do best: helping us ask the big questions about who we are and how we live together.
This Halloween, revisit these iconic stories and reflect on how literature challenges us to confront our fearsâboth real and imagined. Check out our latest blog post to explore the spirit of Villa Diodati and the enduring importance of these tales.
Do Unto Others, a Professor x Gender-Neutral Reader.
Minors DNI
Word count: 3,252
Summary: An alluring quantum physics teacher finds out his prized student caught him in the act and promptly punishes them.
Frost bit the windows, striking patterns of ice threatening to come into the warm classroom that echoed with turning of pages and a warm voice that cascaded throughout the spacious room. Math equations spread across the chalkboard as the man in front of the class tapped on an equation he scribbled.
âThis here is the equation that has puzzled mathematicians for a century, the Riemann Hypothesis. It was first proposed by Bernhard Riemann, a German mathematician. Funny how most scientists and scholars name their epiphanies after themselves, I have yet to see one that was named something much more charismatic or less narcissistic.â
The room was quiet as he paused, as if waiting for laughter or a comment. A toothy smile broke on his face, a soft laugh under his breath. He stroked back his hair behind the reddening tip of his ear, turning back to the chalkboard. His saving grace was anything but his humor, however; the glossiness of his bottom lip, the veins on his nimble hands and the defined slope of his neck connecting with the narrowed chin framed his humor in a wrapped up present for anyone with eyes to rest on.
He adjusted his glasses as he continued speaking, hand flat on the chalkboard and rubbing off the chalk onto his tweed jacket and brown slacks as he rambled. âA man once said that experts are obsessed with prime numbers because they are the foundation of all other numbers. Prime numbers in mathematics are like atoms in chemistry, bricks in the construction industry and ludicrous pay cheques in professional football.â He turned to the audience of students, noticing the soft snores of peppered students in the room sleeping or nodding off.
You smiled cheerfully, pen firm in hand with detailed notes down to his each joke and quote. He cleared his throat, looking down at his tabletop clock and widening his eyes. âThat concludes our lecture for today,â His eyes crinkled as he smiled. His voice was soon drowned out by the anxious stepping of feet and bag rustlings. âThe final essay is next Friday-â Doors slammed open. âRemember to take time to review notes, I posted a text log of each lecture on Canvas.â
The room was empty by the time he was finished, painfully silent besides the clock ticking the seconds until the end of his day. You took your time, stealing glances in his direction as you packed your bag.
Notes, pens, and highlighters galore for this course was necessary at least to you. Every other class notebook was thin and organized, but your Physics notebook(s) were ragged and stuffed full of extra sticky notes so thick the spine aches every time pressure was enforced onto it. The handwriting on each page was in romantic cursive, each letter like a swirl around his own tongue that stuttered and wavered at the complex names of equations or if a question was open ended. Papers he graded with notes on them were cut and shaped to be taped in the back of the notebook, even the smallest words or checkmark was scrapbooked into the monument of your adamant success in his class.
To say you were interested in physics to correspond with your detailed knowledge was laughable. Any other lecture that was recorded by any other person was unintelligible, confusing, and not worth the effort watching. After packing your things, your professor perked up at you striding to his desk.
âYour lecture today was wonderful. I heard about the equation, apparently theyâre offering 1.6 million as a reward since it has stumped so many mathematicians.â His parted glossy lips curled into a smile hearing you inform him. âWould be much more than my tenure here, thatâs for sure. If you solve it, let me know. Iâll take my teacher tax.â Your eyes crinkled from the smile spread on your face, a hint of red dusting them like powdered sugar on the sweetest pastry. âI hope you have a good night, Sir.â He stood up from his desk, quick on his feet to open the door for you. âYou as well, (y/n).â He downturned his head either out of the shyness in his eyes or the chivalry he was desperate to show.
The winter was horrible in Vermont, biting winds and blowing snowflakes that clung onto your long sleeve like barnacles on a steamboat. Confound it for leaving your sweater in his class, the only doors and lights on were the library and study hall for the late night study sessions everyone so desperately needs.
Your footsteps echoed throughout the hallway, creeping down closer to the classroom that had a faint flickering light source shine through the small window of the door. No one should be here this late, not even the student graders. Everyone was ready to be with their families and planning their winter break instead of burning the late night oil. Who would be dumb enough to break into a classroom this late anyway? You decided to peak in, holding your breath so the sound wouldnât alert anyone.
The classroom was almost completely empty yet a soft panting sound was muffled behind the door. At his desk he sat with your sweater gripped through his fingers and shoved firmly onto his face, rolling his eyes back with pleasure. You squinted, recognizing the faded crochet sweater locked in between his fingers and a sparkling pink tip just grazing the drooping sleeve of it.
Each fiber that grazed the base of his cock made him shiver and buck into his hand, as if begging for his release. His shaft was almost as red as his tip, it looked like he had been at it for hours. His once orderly hair now stuck with sweat to his forehead, his glasses pushed to the top of his head with strands daring to escape the barrier his glasses made that dangled in front of his eyes. His chest rose and fell quickly, body shaking then halting to a stop to release his hand off himself. Your professor was a whiny one, you could hardly believe no one could hear him besides you.
The sweater was his saving grace, asphyxiating him with how hard he shoved his nose down into your scent to inhale every particle of âyouâ that was left. He wanted to devour you, breathe every part of you in and die with his mouth taped close so he could never breathe you out. âY/N,â He whispered to himself. âPlease let meâ Iâll be a good boy for you. Let me cââ His words turned into a pained stifled moan, shuddering from the small drop of pre that dripped down his shaft. âFuck sâ close..â Gasping for air and sitting up more in the chair he shakily grabbed over at the clock, mouthing the number of seconds that went by before lolling his head back in his chair as if his pleasure was agony. âHahâ Okay..â He sat his head upright and spread his legs, the slacks wrinkling around his shaking thighs.
The sweater practically caked his heat in, he removed it and his once white and stiff shirt was practically opaque and disheveled. If one were to shine a light on his skin directly, heâd glow like a starry night lit by the sun instead. You suddenly realized how cold you were, sulking in the dark hallway with the snow melting on your body. No one could deny you were excited, feeling the heat radiate through your body but it just wasn't enough. You desired more, to sweat in pleasure as if you were on a Florida beach. To taste your professors unruly hair as he digs into your neck, vicious, desiring.
You gripped at your clothing, pulling at the fabric around your thigh at the aching desire for friction, to give him what he begged the imagination of you for. He pushed his hair back, standing up and propping himself up with one of his hands. âYes,â He softly whispered, his hand wrapping around the tip earning a whiny moan and a squeaking inhale of anticipation. âYes,â He pumped it loosely, his lips parting and his head rolling back slowly. The slope of his neck glowed in the candlelight, he gripped onto the desk again and caved in. His moans were unbearable to hear, mocking sounds to your cold hands that envied the warmth growing between your thighs. âY/N!â He squeaked out, rhythmic moans that lined up with each thrust into his hand getting squeakier by the moment.
He jumped with shock at hearing the knocking at his door, scuffling to button his pants and throw back on his blazer in an attempt to hide his translucent shirt. âCome- Come in?â He cleared his throat, breathing hard through his nose as he sat down at his desk, shoving out an inkwell and some old graded papers onto his desk. You smiled as you entered, âSorry for the intrusion.â âNot at allâhahaâ what ah, what can I do for you?â His eyes could barely meet yours as you entered the room, arm propped on the desk that quickly sought to cover his mouth with his hand. âAh, my sweater.â You mentioned, sauntering over and grabbing it and feeling the warmth and slight dampness from his sweat. âIt is.. damp?â You looked at him, enjoying him flustering and being tortured by your gaze and your question. âThat? Ah, so.. Well you see, a window flew open and I was here mopping it up! And ah⊠I lit a candle so it would dry everything. Thatâs- Thatâs why I have it here on my desk. Closest to the candle.â He smiled briefly and nulled the expression with wide eyes and pursed lips. You narrowed your eyes, debating on your next stab. You brought the sweater to your nose, sniffing it deeply just as he had and smile. âAh, makes sense why it smells wonderful now.â He bit his lower lip, trying to hide his shy smile knowing that you smelled him on the fabric. âIs that all you needed? I need to get back to grading. Sorry..â
You narrowed your eyes, taking apart how his eyes flicked away from your gaze and the way his hands shook. What a shame he was so coy and uncertain. âHmm. Alright,â You grabbed your jacket, noticing his eyebrows upturn at the sight of its absence on his desk. âIâll see you in class tomorrow, sir.â Your steps filled the room until he squeaked out a quiet âyes, will doâ.
That sweater was the best pillow you had now, balled up and pressed against your face at night now lulled you to sleep. The picture of him bent down onto his desk with his eyes shut tight and mouth hung open brought a smile to your face, his desperation was the coldest ice water on the hottest day that you sipped at all throughout the next day. It refilled when you filed into the classroom, his eyes catching yours but quickly fading down to the rest of the students filling their seats.
The professor sketched onto the chalkboard âHeisenburgâs indeterminacy principleâ, along with the equation that went with it. Your notes were pure blank today, just a bunch of squiggles and imprinted dots of your pencil as you stared at the professor and the snow that began gathering at the top of a park bench from outside. You took apart last night until each frame of memory was memorized down to the exact detail, nothing could enter your head because of it. It was frustrating. Finals were coming and nothing was satiating the craving your hands feel each time you see him. Your fingers tingled and fidgeted at the sensation his hair would have, tight in your fingers as he wrapped himself in his own. Your hand balled up and you rested your chin on it, staring hard at your teacher hoping the class would end and you could leave something once more. Then of course catch him in the act. The weekend before finals was coming and you needed that itch scratched to score high.
He stacked a few papers together as the students finished taking their notes or conversing with one another. He licked the tip of his finger and grabbed a page seamlessly, laying a graded paper on each desk. Some groaned or sounded pleased with their grade but he saved you for last. He stroked down your arm before softly putting the paper down before you, catching your eyes with his own before heading back to his desk. Peering down you hoped for a note, a heart, a praise for your hard work like how it always was but.. There was only a checkmark. Were you being punished now? You glanced around at everyone else, scribbled notes in red ink and praises were written on everyone elseâs grades except your own. Anger and confusion rushed to your head and what was he doing? Rolling up his sleeves above the elbow and leaning against his desk. He peered over at his watch and smiled. âClass is dismissed. If you have any problem with your grades, we can work out extra credit or schedule tutoring before your final exam.â Students filed out, occasionally asking about class hours and being referred to sign up on the door. You debated, then left a scarf on your desk and hurried out without sneaking him a glance.
The moon came out glowing and bright through the windows of each classroom. Almost each and every one looked lived in, ready to teach even in the latest of hours. You hoped one special classroom would glow with yellow light, a candle shining on his sparkling sweaty face again. Echoes of memory and god the sounds reverberated in your head as you snuck your steps quieter than a mouse past the mahogany built doors and walls. Curse the ceiling to be so high up and empty that orchestrated your steps just enough you couldnât tell if there even was noise coming from the beloved classroom. You peaked, grinning and excited only to see the scarf sat exactly where you had left it, not even the least bit touched. But.. It was the weekend. He would be home, nowhere near the college and âfuckânot you! Your shoulders slumped, eyebrows upturned and you stopped arching your feet to see above the window.
You exhaled sharply, dimmed by the knowledge youâd have to satiate yourself throughout the weekend if you wanted a shred of sanity to stay intact while you study. You heard a soft scuffling, a sharp squeak escaped your mouth when you were shoved to the door. A cold hand pressed to your mouth and warmed slightly from your anxious breathing. âMy class hours are way past time, darling. Clearly I didnât punish you good enough,â You gasped softly as he pushed your shirt up, a hand still clasped over your mouth.
He was most certainly just in the cold, stark shivers violate your body under his cold fingertips stroking your waist up to your chest. You couldnât take it, the lingering and cold feeling of his hands against you not immediately ravaging you senseless. The teasing was already done over the course of months of the âalmostâ kisses, the brushes against your hand when he passed out papers or gave you a pencil to borrow when you âforgotâ yours.
Muffled you begged, âProfessor I-â His hand forced your head back against the door. You could hear his smile when he spoke, âNo, youâre going to wait now.â His fingers trailed down to your pants, rubbing two fingers down your heat and putting pressure on it. His breath against your neck sent shivers through your body, bucking your hips against his hand. His lips curled against your neck, nipping and tugging your neck until it came back a strawberry color. He kissed it, putting a sheet of his love on top of the brutal lust he marked for you. Thatâs all it really was, yet the sheet hadnât come down for the warmth he was giving with his hands until he found his way through your clothes.
âProfessor, we should go in the classroom, it's not smart to be out in the open..â He grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks hard and pressing his lips onto yours. You couldnât tell who was cold or warm to the touch, but your fingers finally felt his hair and fulfilled that craving you had today. His tongue shoved in with notes of black tea and a tobacco cigarette he no doubt had earlier. The fingers he used to hold that same cigarette now grazed against your hole, glazed in your heat and dipping in the tips of his fingers to gauge your readiness.
With each flick of his hand he shoved his tongue deeper, using his hand to dip under your knee and cage it between the door and his hips. His fingers slipped in easier now that your pages were spread, he blindly read the braille inside you and tinged against that spot where language and dialogue braided together and shocked your eyes closed. He smiled against your lips, spreading his fingers and closing them together between your whimpers and called out to him to slow down.
He kissed you softly, pressing your foreheads together and whispered, âI want you to come all over my hands, give me something else to hold against me when I come at the thought of you. I want you to empty yourself right in this hallwayâplease, come onâ Youâre such a smart bunny. Always my favoriteââ âFuck, I think Iâmââ âThatâs it, doing such a good job. Go on, come for meâ He quickened his pace, pushing deeper on your leg to spread more.
He was more than an attuned lover, praising each thing that made your mind run wild and swirl into a mess. His eyes looking down at you were hard to sway from, a deep green that sucked you into a deific space where all he saw was you. Right now you were his religion, his very purpose in this moment was to pleasure you and give you everything you wanted. Hot white spots filled your chest and head, flashing colors as your body was drawing close to an orgasm. Landscapes were painted all around the back of him. Heaven radiated its light through the moon and reflected in his eyes that turned mischievous, an upturned smile made you wary.
He pulled clean out right before your orgasm, and he dropped your leg immediately. You came crashing down onto your knees, a hot wet mess that had tears clouding your eyes from the sheer pleasure you had before but was met with sheer spite and soft laughing above you. âSorry, dear.â He kneeled down next to you, his hand grabbing a fistful of your hair to force your ear to his mouth. âNext time, donât interrupt me.â He kissed you like a fucked out trophy then lightly smacked your face before dropping your hair from his now warmed hand. He sucked the fingers clean that were plunged in you a second ago, eyeing you like prey as he stood back up to his feet. âIâll see you in class Monday~â His steps now were the only orchestra reverberating off the walls and high ceiling, until the doors that opened out to the winter hellhole closed behind him.
The perspective of Curly in this is terrifying, suddenly youâre still alive and the person you did a poor job helping is your life line. She forgets your medicine because obviously she has better things to worry about like her SAFETY around Jimmy thatâs spiraling faster than Anyaâs mental health. Youâre paralyzed and suddenly the man you KNOW did all of this, to everyone, is angry and shoving oxycodone down your throat and you can do nothing but cough and never blink because your eyelids are cooked clean off. Being a spectator while everyone is intoxicated and dependent off a sugar and alcohol mixture, slowly noticing Anya is spending way more time in the medical room than usual and eyeing your medication so desperately. You can do nothing but wheeze as your lifeline ends her life as the man thatâs ruined everything try to break in. And god. Daisuki? Hearing his blood curdling screams and the blood from the corner of your eye? You have no tears to cry, no words to express grief, or hands to defend yourself against the knife cutting down your unmedicated body as a substitute for the psychoâs birthday cake. All you can do is watch and feel agony beneath your bandages, watching him lug the dead crew members you swore safety to be defiled and forced to eat sections of your thigh. Just to watch the man monologue to you about his righteous thoughts and how he fixed it all by raining down his insanity to everyone else. Youâre forced to live again for a minimum of twenty years, unsure if youâll be forced to process the events over the past few months while you stay motionless or feel it all when you awaken.
what kills me with Anya is she spent her last moments with the only person that knew her truly well and yet still betrayed her at the end of the day. I wonder if she said anything to him, if he said anything to her. Curly knew. She went where she felt safe and probably had no idea he had a hand in what truly killed her.
Do Unto Others, a Professor x Gender-Neutral Reader.
Minors DNI
Word count: 3,252
Summary: An alluring quantum physics teacher finds out his prized student caught him in the act and promptly punishes them.
Frost bit the windows, striking patterns of ice threatening to come into the warm classroom that echoed with turning of pages and a warm voice that cascaded throughout the spacious room. Math equations spread across the chalkboard as the man in front of the class tapped on an equation he scribbled.
âThis here is the equation that has puzzled mathematicians for a century, the Riemann Hypothesis. It was first proposed by Bernhard Riemann, a German mathematician. Funny how most scientists and scholars name their epiphanies after themselves, I have yet to see one that was named something much more charismatic or less narcissistic.â
The room was quiet as he paused, as if waiting for laughter or a comment. A toothy smile broke on his face, a soft laugh under his breath. He stroked back his hair behind the reddening tip of his ear, turning back to the chalkboard. His saving grace was anything but his humor, however; the glossiness of his bottom lip, the veins on his nimble hands and the defined slope of his neck connecting with the narrowed chin framed his humor in a wrapped up present for anyone with eyes to rest on.
He adjusted his glasses as he continued speaking, hand flat on the chalkboard and rubbing off the chalk onto his tweed jacket and brown slacks as he rambled. âA man once said that experts are obsessed with prime numbers because they are the foundation of all other numbers. Prime numbers in mathematics are like atoms in chemistry, bricks in the construction industry and ludicrous pay cheques in professional football.â He turned to the audience of students, noticing the soft snores of peppered students in the room sleeping or nodding off.
You smiled cheerfully, pen firm in hand with detailed notes down to his each joke and quote. He cleared his throat, looking down at his tabletop clock and widening his eyes. âThat concludes our lecture for today,â His eyes crinkled as he smiled. His voice was soon drowned out by the anxious stepping of feet and bag rustlings. âThe final essay is next Friday-â Doors slammed open. âRemember to take time to review notes, I posted a text log of each lecture on Canvas.â
The room was empty by the time he was finished, painfully silent besides the clock ticking the seconds until the end of his day. You took your time, stealing glances in his direction as you packed your bag.
Notes, pens, and highlighters galore for this course was necessary at least to you. Every other class notebook was thin and organized, but your Physics notebook(s) were ragged and stuffed full of extra sticky notes so thick the spine aches every time pressure was enforced onto it. The handwriting on each page was in romantic cursive, each letter like a swirl around his own tongue that stuttered and wavered at the complex names of equations or if a question was open ended. Papers he graded with notes on them were cut and shaped to be taped in the back of the notebook, even the smallest words or checkmark was scrapbooked into the monument of your adamant success in his class.
To say you were interested in physics to correspond with your detailed knowledge was laughable. Any other lecture that was recorded by any other person was unintelligible, confusing, and not worth the effort watching. After packing your things, your professor perked up at you striding to his desk.
âYour lecture today was wonderful. I heard about the equation, apparently theyâre offering 1.6 million as a reward since it has stumped so many mathematicians.â His parted glossy lips curled into a smile hearing you inform him. âWould be much more than my tenure here, thatâs for sure. If you solve it, let me know. Iâll take my teacher tax.â Your eyes crinkled from the smile spread on your face, a hint of red dusting them like powdered sugar on the sweetest pastry. âI hope you have a good night, Sir.â He stood up from his desk, quick on his feet to open the door for you. âYou as well, (y/n).â He downturned his head either out of the shyness in his eyes or the chivalry he was desperate to show.
The winter was horrible in Vermont, biting winds and blowing snowflakes that clung onto your long sleeve like barnacles on a steamboat. Confound it for leaving your sweater in his class, the only doors and lights on were the library and study hall for the late night study sessions everyone so desperately needs.
Your footsteps echoed throughout the hallway, creeping down closer to the classroom that had a faint flickering light source shine through the small window of the door. No one should be here this late, not even the student graders. Everyone was ready to be with their families and planning their winter break instead of burning the late night oil. Who would be dumb enough to break into a classroom this late anyway? You decided to peak in, holding your breath so the sound wouldnât alert anyone.
The classroom was almost completely empty yet a soft panting sound was muffled behind the door. At his desk he sat with your sweater gripped through his fingers and shoved firmly onto his face, rolling his eyes back with pleasure. You squinted, recognizing the faded crochet sweater locked in between his fingers and a sparkling pink tip just grazing the drooping sleeve of it.
Each fiber that grazed the base of his cock made him shiver and buck into his hand, as if begging for his release. His shaft was almost as red as his tip, it looked like he had been at it for hours. His once orderly hair now stuck with sweat to his forehead, his glasses pushed to the top of his head with strands daring to escape the barrier his glasses made that dangled in front of his eyes. His chest rose and fell quickly, body shaking then halting to a stop to release his hand off himself. Your professor was a whiny one, you could hardly believe no one could hear him besides you.
The sweater was his saving grace, asphyxiating him with how hard he shoved his nose down into your scent to inhale every particle of âyouâ that was left. He wanted to devour you, breathe every part of you in and die with his mouth taped close so he could never breathe you out. âY/N,â He whispered to himself. âPlease let meâ Iâll be a good boy for you. Let me cââ His words turned into a pained stifled moan, shuddering from the small drop of pre that dripped down his shaft. âFuck sâ close..â Gasping for air and sitting up more in the chair he shakily grabbed over at the clock, mouthing the number of seconds that went by before lolling his head back in his chair as if his pleasure was agony. âHahâ Okay..â He sat his head upright and spread his legs, the slacks wrinkling around his shaking thighs.
The sweater practically caked his heat in, he removed it and his once white and stiff shirt was practically opaque and disheveled. If one were to shine a light on his skin directly, heâd glow like a starry night lit by the sun instead. You suddenly realized how cold you were, sulking in the dark hallway with the snow melting on your body. No one could deny you were excited, feeling the heat radiate through your body but it just wasn't enough. You desired more, to sweat in pleasure as if you were on a Florida beach. To taste your professors unruly hair as he digs into your neck, vicious, desiring.
You gripped at your clothing, pulling at the fabric around your thigh at the aching desire for friction, to give him what he begged the imagination of you for. He pushed his hair back, standing up and propping himself up with one of his hands. âYes,â He softly whispered, his hand wrapping around the tip earning a whiny moan and a squeaking inhale of anticipation. âYes,â He pumped it loosely, his lips parting and his head rolling back slowly. The slope of his neck glowed in the candlelight, he gripped onto the desk again and caved in. His moans were unbearable to hear, mocking sounds to your cold hands that envied the warmth growing between your thighs. âY/N!â He squeaked out, rhythmic moans that lined up with each thrust into his hand getting squeakier by the moment.
He jumped with shock at hearing the knocking at his door, scuffling to button his pants and throw back on his blazer in an attempt to hide his translucent shirt. âCome- Come in?â He cleared his throat, breathing hard through his nose as he sat down at his desk, shoving out an inkwell and some old graded papers onto his desk. You smiled as you entered, âSorry for the intrusion.â âNot at allâhahaâ what ah, what can I do for you?â His eyes could barely meet yours as you entered the room, arm propped on the desk that quickly sought to cover his mouth with his hand. âAh, my sweater.â You mentioned, sauntering over and grabbing it and feeling the warmth and slight dampness from his sweat. âIt is.. damp?â You looked at him, enjoying him flustering and being tortured by your gaze and your question. âThat? Ah, so.. Well you see, a window flew open and I was here mopping it up! And ah⊠I lit a candle so it would dry everything. Thatâs- Thatâs why I have it here on my desk. Closest to the candle.â He smiled briefly and nulled the expression with wide eyes and pursed lips. You narrowed your eyes, debating on your next stab. You brought the sweater to your nose, sniffing it deeply just as he had and smile. âAh, makes sense why it smells wonderful now.â He bit his lower lip, trying to hide his shy smile knowing that you smelled him on the fabric. âIs that all you needed? I need to get back to grading. Sorry..â
You narrowed your eyes, taking apart how his eyes flicked away from your gaze and the way his hands shook. What a shame he was so coy and uncertain. âHmm. Alright,â You grabbed your jacket, noticing his eyebrows upturn at the sight of its absence on his desk. âIâll see you in class tomorrow, sir.â Your steps filled the room until he squeaked out a quiet âyes, will doâ.
That sweater was the best pillow you had now, balled up and pressed against your face at night now lulled you to sleep. The picture of him bent down onto his desk with his eyes shut tight and mouth hung open brought a smile to your face, his desperation was the coldest ice water on the hottest day that you sipped at all throughout the next day. It refilled when you filed into the classroom, his eyes catching yours but quickly fading down to the rest of the students filling their seats.
The professor sketched onto the chalkboard âHeisenburgâs indeterminacy principleâ, along with the equation that went with it. Your notes were pure blank today, just a bunch of squiggles and imprinted dots of your pencil as you stared at the professor and the snow that began gathering at the top of a park bench from outside. You took apart last night until each frame of memory was memorized down to the exact detail, nothing could enter your head because of it. It was frustrating. Finals were coming and nothing was satiating the craving your hands feel each time you see him. Your fingers tingled and fidgeted at the sensation his hair would have, tight in your fingers as he wrapped himself in his own. Your hand balled up and you rested your chin on it, staring hard at your teacher hoping the class would end and you could leave something once more. Then of course catch him in the act. The weekend before finals was coming and you needed that itch scratched to score high.
He stacked a few papers together as the students finished taking their notes or conversing with one another. He licked the tip of his finger and grabbed a page seamlessly, laying a graded paper on each desk. Some groaned or sounded pleased with their grade but he saved you for last. He stroked down your arm before softly putting the paper down before you, catching your eyes with his own before heading back to his desk. Peering down you hoped for a note, a heart, a praise for your hard work like how it always was but.. There was only a checkmark. Were you being punished now? You glanced around at everyone else, scribbled notes in red ink and praises were written on everyone elseâs grades except your own. Anger and confusion rushed to your head and what was he doing? Rolling up his sleeves above the elbow and leaning against his desk. He peered over at his watch and smiled. âClass is dismissed. If you have any problem with your grades, we can work out extra credit or schedule tutoring before your final exam.â Students filed out, occasionally asking about class hours and being referred to sign up on the door. You debated, then left a scarf on your desk and hurried out without sneaking him a glance.
The moon came out glowing and bright through the windows of each classroom. Almost each and every one looked lived in, ready to teach even in the latest of hours. You hoped one special classroom would glow with yellow light, a candle shining on his sparkling sweaty face again. Echoes of memory and god the sounds reverberated in your head as you snuck your steps quieter than a mouse past the mahogany built doors and walls. Curse the ceiling to be so high up and empty that orchestrated your steps just enough you couldnât tell if there even was noise coming from the beloved classroom. You peaked, grinning and excited only to see the scarf sat exactly where you had left it, not even the least bit touched. But.. It was the weekend. He would be home, nowhere near the college and âfuckânot you! Your shoulders slumped, eyebrows upturned and you stopped arching your feet to see above the window.
You exhaled sharply, dimmed by the knowledge youâd have to satiate yourself throughout the weekend if you wanted a shred of sanity to stay intact while you study. You heard a soft scuffling, a sharp squeak escaped your mouth when you were shoved to the door. A cold hand pressed to your mouth and warmed slightly from your anxious breathing. âMy class hours are way past time, darling. Clearly I didnât punish you good enough,â You gasped softly as he pushed your shirt up, a hand still clasped over your mouth.
He was most certainly just in the cold, stark shivers violate your body under his cold fingertips stroking your waist up to your chest. You couldnât take it, the lingering and cold feeling of his hands against you not immediately ravaging you senseless. The teasing was already done over the course of months of the âalmostâ kisses, the brushes against your hand when he passed out papers or gave you a pencil to borrow when you âforgotâ yours.
Muffled you begged, âProfessor I-â His hand forced your head back against the door. You could hear his smile when he spoke, âNo, youâre going to wait now.â His fingers trailed down to your pants, rubbing two fingers down your heat and putting pressure on it. His breath against your neck sent shivers through your body, bucking your hips against his hand. His lips curled against your neck, nipping and tugging your neck until it came back a strawberry color. He kissed it, putting a sheet of his love on top of the brutal lust he marked for you. Thatâs all it really was, yet the sheet hadnât come down for the warmth he was giving with his hands until he found his way through your clothes.
âProfessor, we should go in the classroom, it's not smart to be out in the open..â He grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks hard and pressing his lips onto yours. You couldnât tell who was cold or warm to the touch, but your fingers finally felt his hair and fulfilled that craving you had today. His tongue shoved in with notes of black tea and a tobacco cigarette he no doubt had earlier. The fingers he used to hold that same cigarette now grazed against your hole, glazed in your heat and dipping in the tips of his fingers to gauge your readiness.
With each flick of his hand he shoved his tongue deeper, using his hand to dip under your knee and cage it between the door and his hips. His fingers slipped in easier now that your pages were spread, he blindly read the braille inside you and tinged against that spot where language and dialogue braided together and shocked your eyes closed. He smiled against your lips, spreading his fingers and closing them together between your whimpers and called out to him to slow down.
He kissed you softly, pressing your foreheads together and whispered, âI want you to come all over my hands, give me something else to hold against me when I come at the thought of you. I want you to empty yourself right in this hallwayâplease, come onâ Youâre such a smart bunny. Always my favoriteââ âFuck, I think Iâmââ âThatâs it, doing such a good job. Go on, come for meâ He quickened his pace, pushing deeper on your leg to spread more.
He was more than an attuned lover, praising each thing that made your mind run wild and swirl into a mess. His eyes looking down at you were hard to sway from, a deep green that sucked you into a deific space where all he saw was you. Right now you were his religion, his very purpose in this moment was to pleasure you and give you everything you wanted. Hot white spots filled your chest and head, flashing colors as your body was drawing close to an orgasm. Landscapes were painted all around the back of him. Heaven radiated its light through the moon and reflected in his eyes that turned mischievous, an upturned smile made you wary.
He pulled clean out right before your orgasm, and he dropped your leg immediately. You came crashing down onto your knees, a hot wet mess that had tears clouding your eyes from the sheer pleasure you had before but was met with sheer spite and soft laughing above you. âSorry, dear.â He kneeled down next to you, his hand grabbing a fistful of your hair to force your ear to his mouth. âNext time, donât interrupt me.â He kissed you like a fucked out trophy then lightly smacked your face before dropping your hair from his now warmed hand. He sucked the fingers clean that were plunged in you a second ago, eyeing you like prey as he stood back up to his feet. âIâll see you in class Monday~â His steps now were the only orchestra reverberating off the walls and high ceiling, until the doors that opened out to the winter hellhole closed behind him.
