welcome, odd ones, to the weathervane β¨οΈ
Ana \ 25 \ she/her \ british \ dyslexic af
quick nav π
* requests closed, but feel free to send ideas and I might muse on a few
* blog rules
* 2025 Kink-tober masterlist
* 2025 Christmas masterlist
* professor Isaac mini-series masterlist
Isaac Night
* ghoul and goose β‘β·
* Isaac with a sick!reader β‘β½β·
* were mine β·
* the Addams equation β‘β½
* Isaac as a munch β·π΄
* Oh, Isaac β‘β·β½ | Pt. 2 β‘β·
* was that really so hard? π΄
* bonding β‘β· | Pt. 2 β‘π΄
* thursdays π΄ | pt. 2 π΄ | pt. 3 β‘β½π΄
* mi musa β‘π΄
* frustration π΄
* Isaac seeking touch drabble β‘
* peep π΄ | pt. 2 π΄
* heated π΄
* vestige β‘β½β·
* the duet [part 1] [part 2] β‘
* coffee β‘
* leather gloves π΄
* the roommate reassignment β‘π΄
* talk science to me π΄
* sweet boy β‘ [part 2] β‘π΄
* saccharine sweet β‘π΄
* anonymous β‘π΄
Ajax Petropolus ~ retired
* dating Ajax hcβs β‘
* in bloom - pt. 1 β‘ | pt. 2 β‘β½
* more than okay - pt. 1 β‘ | pt. 2 β‘
* Ajax falling for a normie hc's β‘ | x normie hc's pt.2 β‘
* just friends β‘
* curious β‘
* real β‘β½
* green eyed monster β‘β½
* Winchester woe β‘β½
* together β‘β½
* Ajax and your insecurities drabble β‘
* caught red handed β‘
* angel β‘
* lessons from Nevermore β½
* while i'm here β‘β½
* wake up call β‘π΄
* pretty patient β‘
* paint β‘ | pt. 2 π΄
* shotgun β‘π΄
* truant π΄ | pt.2 β‘π΄
Tyler Galpin [playlist] ~ retired
* what youβre left with β½β·
* who do you take me for β‘π΄
* the future β‘
* cold coffee β‘π΄
* the car π΄
* the greatest thing β‘β½
* rain β‘β·
* hand kink π΄
* scent β·π΄ |. pt. 2 β·π΄
* car ride β‘π΄ | pt.2 β‘π΄
* cuddling tyler drabble β‘
tag guide π
tyler galpin > all things tyler (reblogs and own posts)
ajax petropolus > all things ajax (reblogs and own posts)
isaac night > all things isaac (reblogs and own posts)
professor!isaac > all things teacher's pet series
weathervane thoughts > thoughts about the show/characters
weathervane rambles > personal thoughts/musings
cafe radio > character inspired playlists
cafe library > absolute favourite reblogs I want to revisit.
i will be forever grateful to you for bringing professor Isaac alive π₯Ήβ¨ such a masterpiece!
And Iβm forever grateful for you all loving him as much as I did π₯Ή Iβm so happy i decided to take the first part and draw it out, I just hope you all love how they ended up in the end.
Iβm going to take a (hopefully) very small writing break and then get started on my next longer fic which puts another post-nevermore survivor Isaac in a (quite frankly) absurd position. Hopefully youβll all love that Isaac too π€ all Iβll tease is ex-school rivals and smut. And Iβll leave you with that.
the epilogue β prof!isaac x f!reader [the final part]
notes: it's the final small installment for my prof!isaac series - it's short and sweet (and a little suggestive), but i think it rounds it all off nicely - thank you all so much for loving him with me, i will never get over how much you all came to adore him. π€
Professor Night stood on that autumn day as he always did β slightly off centre, lecture notes in hand, and thin, wire-frame glasses balanced high on the bridge of his nose (a stronger prescription than they had been seven years ago).Β
He taught later classes now. And at a different university β this one even more prestigious than the last. His schedule had shifted to allow for later mornings, settling at a far more respectable four oβclock. Regardless, he still boasted one of the highest attendance rates on campus, and a cursory glance from the back of the lecture hall over the bowed, note-taking heads of his master's students suggested that it was still due, at least in some small part, to the fact he remained one of the finest-looking academics in the department, the deeper set lines framing his eyes and soft, barely-there streaks of grey peppered through the orderly curls having done nothing to dampen his charm.Β
His distinguished academic history was merely an added bonus.
He hadnβt seemed to notice as you slipped into the back of the hall and took an empty seat. The class was nearing its end, if youβd calculated correctly, and based on past habits, he was never one for running over, eager as he was to return to his own research.Β
Youβd missed watching him teach. Missed the familiar patterns his lectures took when he was consciously trying to avoid running away with himself into topics too advanced for the young minds in front of him. Missed the way heβd press his lips tighter at an incorrect answer as if it was that difficult to suppress his harsh corrections in favour of constructive feedback.Β
He still rubbed the corner of his notes whenever a question amused him. Still carried the papers in the first place despite no longer needing the reminders. Seven years, another university, several promotions, and somehow he had still remained infuriatingly the same.Β You were sure the rumours of his distaste for teaching had followed him here, too, and if they hadnβt, it would only be a matter of time.Β
He didnβt glance up even as he dismissed his students. The steady procession of shuffling bodies wrapped tightly in coats and scarves to ward off the early winter chill filed sluggishly out the door. It wasnβt hard to catch the quiet discussion of grades as they passed β his marking still as stern as ever.Β
You waited until the final stragglers took up their bags at last β a couple of young girls who had delayed tidying away their laptops on the front row, dallying in a still all too familiar fashion until it was clear that attracting their teacher's attention was futile.Β
They offered nothing more than vaguely disgruntled looks your way as they passed and you stood.Β
βI have a question, Professor,β you called, lingering at the back. βIf you have the time.β
There was no disguising the satisfaction his surprise afforded you. His lips parted as he looked up from his satchel, caught entirely off guard by the ring of your voice through his classroom. It took only a moment for it to soften.Β
βAlways for you, Doctor.β
You couldn't suppress your smile as you made your way down the rows towards his desk, conscious he had abandoned his tidying.
βIf subject A has established dinner plans, what is the minimum level of psychological or logistical coercion required to convince subject B to participate?β
Your framing had the desired effect, drawing a soft huff of laughter as he flipped his satchel closed.Β
βIβve missed you.βΒ
βYou always do.βΒ
For a moment, he simply looked at you, a soft pause as he watched you round the desk, fingers dancing over his lecture notes, glancing over the familiar handwriting and even more recognisable notes, taken from your paper and knitted into his curriculum. You smiled.
βCome here, would you?β
The steady weight of his palm balanced your tip-toed efforts to reach his lips, grinning with the brush of his nose against yours, the familiar nudge of his glasses against your cheek when he inevitably pressed closer, hand flattening against the curve of your waist on instinct.Β
βI didn't think you were home until tomorrow.β
You steadied yourself on flat feet again, although he found no reason to retract his hand, his fingers curling fractionally, anchoring you in his proximity.
βI managed to get an earlier flight. I wasn't needed for the last day of the conference, anyway.β
Isaac made no effort to dodge your reach for his glasses, the frames folding neatly in your fingers as you slid them from their perch and dropped them beside his bag. It didnβt take long for you to join them, your weight barely settled against the dull edge before his lips found yours again, unrestricted now by the lack of frames, pressing closer, hungrier, as if entirely forgetting that you were not at home, nor even his office.Β
There was no attempt to temper his lack of subtlety, either. The faint catch of his breath as your perfume settled against his lungs only confirmed his relief, the slow, deep inhale enough to betray the solace he found in having you back again, as if it had been far longer than a week since he had seen you last.Β
βI would have come to get you if Iβd known.β His thumb continued its steady rhythm at your waist, hardly subtle as he sought the hem of your blouse, anxious to brush against the skin beneath.
βFran picked me up from the airport.β
One dark brow lifted. βDid she now?β
βMm hm.β
βSo I may safely deduce that these dinner plans are hers?β
βNaturally.β
You busied yourself plucking a loose strand of lint from the close-knit weave of his sweater, your gaze dropping from his as he hummed knowingly. He had long since accepted how dangerous you and his sister were when left to your own devices. Ever since the afternoon you'd sat down opposite Fran for coffee, and she'd produced his graduation photograph from her handbag without so much as a hint of shame, he'd known he was hopelessly outnumbered.
Very little had changed.
βI can make time,β he mused.
You glanced back up, previously busy fingers flattening against his chest. The disadvantage of thick knits, you'd discovered over the years, was that despite how well they suited him, they dampened the steady ticks you had come to rely upon for comfort. At the very least, you could still feel the soft hum of it beneath your palm, fading as it trailed across his sternum, pausing against his stomach.Β
βSo long as I get my favourite dessert afterwards.β
His smirk was redundant, his intent hardly masked by the honeyed drop in his tone, nor the twitch of his fingers against your hip, although you doubted he had any intent to obscure it.
The idea of it prickled across your spine.Β
βI think that can be arranged, Professor Night.βΒ
It was not in your nature to back down from his challenges, nor to shy away from the ardent attempts to fluster. It was only natural, then, that your touch drifted lower, grazing the cool leather of his belt, hooking barely in the loop to tug him more firmly between your thighs.Β
βHow kind of y-youβ,β his voice caught, composure breaking in increments as you ghosted over the full outline of his trousers, ββDr. Night.βΒ
Your grin widened as your fingers gave the gentlest squeeze, just enough to draw a quiet gasp, rasping from his throat with the flutter of his lashes, whittling away his composure.Β
βThe reservation is at eightββ your hand relented, negotiating his urge to press the evidence of his infatuation flush against your warmth, your finger tense where it jabbed into the right of his chest, ββWe cannot be late again.βΒ
He took one shuddering breath, βI make no promises.βΒ
βIsaac!βΒ
βWell, if you didnβt wear those dresses thatββΒ
Your eyes narrowed, your husbandβs snark quick to cease.Β
βFine,β he distracted himself suitably, his grip leaving your waist to fidget with the locket against your chest. βIβll behave.βΒ
βYouβll be well rewarded.β Your kiss ghosted the corner of his lips as you pushed away from his desk.Β
βI believe you onced called this an unethical strategy.βΒ
βAnd yet,β you smile, slipping from the wooden desk and smoothing down your clothing again, βI suspect it will be extremely effective.β
ππππ, ππ πππππ₯, π£ππππ π
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the kiss β isaac night x gn!reader
note: I had one, one second glimpse of owen about to kiss someone and I had to write making out with isaac. warnings: suggestive, but not smutty
There was nothing graceful about the way Isaacβs hands dove beneath the boundary of your shirt. The fabric crumpled in his path, and the lower buttons strained against the intrusion of his grasp as he roamed the exposed skin, restless in his insatiable curiosity β as though he could not decide where he wanted to hold you most.
Each brush burned. Each scrape of his clipped nails dispatched shivers through your nerves. Feeling. Studying. Groping. Finding the slope of your chest and anchoring there at last, palm pressed against the curvature of your ribcage, feeling for the pulse of the heart below, fingertips curling into the skin upon its discovery.
The classroom door had barely found its frame again when your back hit the cool stone beside it. The rough, rugged bricks biting into your shoulder blades did little to dissuade the arch of your body into his. His palm splayed broad and steady against the bare skin of your lower back, holding your hips flush to his, unwilling to permit even the slightest of distance between you.
His lips had scarcely left yours since you'd crossed the threshold. Your fingers traced the tick of muscles along his jaw, the protrusion of each under tension, mouth working against your own to betray his incessant want.
Isaac Night, for all his genius, was only a boy after all.
The skin beneath your touch creased, dimpling with the attempt of a smile and a weak laugh, the absurdity of your desire bubbling past his usually impeccable composure. The steady rush of his breath across your cheeks betrayed his reluctance to part even for breath. Each ragged inhale, exhale, forced through his nose as it ghosted across your skin, the tip brushing yours with every slight inclination of his head, lips hungering for yours.
Surreptitious sighs passed between you, muffled by the roll of tongues, the taste of him heavy and bordering on distracting. So much so that it was almost impossible to render the events that had led you here. How you had been walking from class one minute and in his clutches another. How conversation about your upcoming project had dissolved so easily in contact with teenage lust. All it had taken was the brief flick of his gaze from eyes to lips, and whatever good sense either of you possessed was abandoned.
Warmth trailed from every point he held you. The faint traces of the cologne he'd applied that morning still clung to his skin, softened by the almost-sweet scent of his shampoo drifting from the curls that refused to stay where they belonged as he stooped to meet your advances. They tumbled between you, threatening to tangle in your lips until your hand smoothed them back into place, each absent-minded stroke coaxing another soft, beautiful sigh from low in his chest.
He pressed closer still, surrounding you almost entirely as if to shield you from non-existent onlookers β your only company the dust motes unsettled by your abrupt intrusion β as if to consume you, greedy and desperate.
This is what it was like to kiss Isaac Night. A boy as devoted to the artistry of desire as he was the craft of his machines.
As your knees weakened and his strength became your scaffold, you decided there was no superior feeling.
the kiss β isaac night x gn!reader
note: I had one, one second glimpse of owen about to kiss someone and I had to write making out with isaac. warnings: suggestive, but not smutty
There was nothing graceful about the way Isaacβs hands dove beneath the boundary of your shirt. The fabric crumpled in his path, and the lower buttons strained against the intrusion of his grasp as he roamed the exposed skin, restless in his insatiable curiosity β as though he could not decide where he wanted to hold you most.
Each brush burned. Each scrape of his clipped nails dispatched shivers through your nerves. Feeling. Studying. Groping. Finding the slope of your chest and anchoring there at last, palm pressed against the curvature of your ribcage, feeling for the pulse of the heart below, fingertips curling into the skin upon its discovery.
The classroom door had barely found its frame again when your back hit the cool stone beside it. The rough, rugged bricks biting into your shoulder blades did little to dissuade the arch of your body into his. His palm splayed broad and steady against the bare skin of your lower back, holding your hips flush to his, unwilling to permit even the slightest of distance between you.
His lips had scarcely left yours since you'd crossed the threshold. Your fingers traced the tick of muscles along his jaw, the protrusion of each under tension, mouth working against your own to betray his incessant want.
Isaac Night, for all his genius, was only a boy after all.
The skin beneath your touch creased, dimpling with the attempt of a smile and a weak laugh, the absurdity of your desire bubbling past his usually impeccable composure. The steady rush of his breath across your cheeks betrayed his reluctance to part even for breath. Each ragged inhale, exhale, forced through his nose as it ghosted across your skin, the tip brushing yours with every slight inclination of his head, lips hungering for yours.
Surreptitious sighs passed between you, muffled by the roll of tongues, the taste of him heavy and bordering on distracting. So much so that it was almost impossible to render the events that had led you here. How you had been walking from class one minute and in his clutches another. How conversation about your upcoming project had dissolved so easily in contact with teenage lust. All it had taken was the brief flick of his gaze from eyes to lips, and whatever good sense either of you possessed was abandoned.
Warmth trailed from every point he held you. The faint traces of the cologne he'd applied that morning still clung to his skin, softened by the almost-sweet scent of his shampoo drifting from the curls that refused to stay where they belonged as he stooped to meet your advances. They tumbled between you, threatening to tangle in your lips until your hand smoothed them back into place, each absent-minded stroke coaxing another soft, beautiful sigh from low in his chest.
He pressed closer still, surrounding you almost entirely as if to shield you from non-existent onlookers β your only company the dust motes unsettled by your abrupt intrusion β as if to consume you, greedy and desperate.
This is what it was like to kiss Isaac Night. A boy as devoted to the artistry of desire as he was the craft of his machines.
As your knees weakened and his strength became your scaffold, you decided there was no superior feeling.
the game β prof!isaac x f!reader smut [pt. 3.5]
warnings: mild fingering, teasing, orgasm denial, mean Isaac ~ loosely based on a request by π« anon
βSit still, dove. You are going to disturb the board.βΒ
Isaacβs hands settled firmly against your inner thighs, slick fingers warm against the soft skin as he encouraged them further apart to better accommodate the board balanced on the edge of the coffee table. It was gentle, but searing, drifting further away from your bare cunt for the sixth time that game.Β
βItβs your move.βΒ
Was it? You hadnβt been paying attention.Β
If you had been less exposed β had you not been stripped entirely while he remained in the final vestments of his suit β the way his arm tightened at your waist to keep you balanced as you leaned for your piece might have been described as romantic. Alas, your shaky fingers found your knight and shuffled it forward to take his own, only to collapse back against his clothed chest. It was bordering on disparaging.Β
Isaac tutted against the shell of your ear, fingers lifting from the juncture of your thigh to articulate his fingers, twitching to send his Bishop to capture your Knight.Β
βYouβre not concentrating.β His fingers kneaded deeper into the plush of your inner thigh, trailing higher. βDo you not want to try and win at the very least?βΒ
Your words withered on your tongue as they ghosted over the ridges of your clit, drifting with the decided intention of teasing, to draw out your agony as your head lolled to rest against his shoulder, risking the inclination towards his throat as if the nuzzle of your nose against his rhythmic pulse might have done anything in the way of swaying him to be lenient. Instead, the lingering residue of his cologne only made your mind swim, the haze thickening as you inhaled a second time, more deeply.Β
βI do!β It was pathetic at best, a poor excuse of a whine strangled as his arm tightened against the involuntary rut of your hips. βT-This isnβt fair.βΒ
βIs it not?βΒ
His fingers curled again, the warmth of them pressing deeper, working you open again until his knuckles skimmed your skin. It was entirely maddening. You shook your head furiously, gasping against the intrusion of another digit, the steady stretch settling when they stilled, heavy and insistent against your walls.Β
Dread descended steadily when his lips twitched, his mouth lowered to brush the exposed expanse of your throat, twisting into the sly edge of a grin.Β
βN-No.β You twitched in his grip again, and again it tightened against you on instinct. βPlease, Isaac, let me cum. Itβsβ¦ Itβs been hours!βΒ
The familiar tut tickled your skin, buried fingers twitching once before withdrawing entirely. He did so slowly, so that you might feel every ridge of the slender digits, fluttering around them as if to drag them back into your heat.Β
βYou wanted lessons, dove. Wanted your professor to teach you again. Do not fault me for using positive reinforcement when we both know you crave it.βΒ
βI wouldnβt call this positive.βΒ
His slick fingers fastened around your thigh again, the nudge of his shoulder sitting you forward in his lap β your turn. You shuffled your Pawn forward meekly.
He barely glanced at the board as his Bishop retreated.
βPlay till your resignation.β Your mind shuttered at the prospect, the aching emptiness left behind by his fingers gnawing at the remaining shreds of your composure. Youβd been held at the edge for too long, the fabric of his trousers below darkening where they strained, a dribbled mess of your slick ruining the freshly-pressed cotton.Β
Still, you found it in yourself to scoff, to muster your energy to move your Pawn again. βAre you so sure you will win?βΒ
His fingers twitched again, gaze fixed intently on your exhaustion-shone eyes.
βOh dove, you lost at least four moves ago. I can win in less than 15.β A gasp shook from your lungs as his fingers entrenched themselves in your heat again, curling against you only to send his Bishop into check.
βNow, it's your turn. Play on, then I will let you cumβ¦ Good girl.βΒ Β
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βDonβt be ridiculous.β He held his hand aloft, fingers outstretched and seeking your own. βNow do as youβre told, and sit.βΒ ---- ooooooh i'm suddenly weak in the knees π« need to fuck him while he wears those glasses, so yummy!
π€ I am so glad you loved that bit - I love playing with a slightly dom isaac who just cannot help but be desperate! There will forever be something about clothes isaac with a naked reader that appeals to me - probably why I am putting it in the next mini chapter, too.
the glasses stay on β prof!isaac x f!reader smut [pt. 3.25]
warnings: oral (f!recieving), face riding, prof!isaac's glasses.
βHave I ever told you how much I like your glasses?βΒ
Isaacβs widened eyes met yours from above the pages of his book, magnified just enough to appear almost comical against his thin face β the large, thin-rimmed glasses around them perched high on the bridge of his nose. The soft lamplight beside his bed caught against the lenses, reflecting back the impossible stygian brown of his irises. For all his sharp angles, the round lenses softened him in a way you found unfairly endearing.
βI think this might be the first.β He wet his lips, turning the page slowly. βYouβre late.βΒ
βStudy session,β you shrugged.Β
You pushed away from the doorframe as his attention drifted back to the page. Crossing the room, you flopped onto the empty stretch of mattress beside him, the movement earning little more than the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
βI wish you wore them for more than just reading.β
βI feel like they make me look older.β
You snorted. βThey're kinda cute.β
One dark brow arched.
βKinda?β
βYes.β You reached over to nudge them lightly where they sat on his nose. βBut if you don't like them, why not fix them? You can fix anything.β
βEyes, I have realised, are more difficult to correct than a heart. Ocular mechanics possess an altogether new challenge, and for vision so marginally affected as my own, it is not worth the potential risk to the brain. Iββ he paused abruptly, and it took you a moment to realise it was that he was staring β or rather β had realised you were staring. βWhat?Β
βIββ your tongue darted to wet your lips, βI really like them, I suppose.β
His book clapped shut, and was tossed to his nightstand. His hand rose to slip the frames from their perch.Β
βWould you leave them on?β Your hand wrapped around his wrist, feeling the tension in his tendons as he paused, confused, the nose pads hovering above the slightly reddened bridge. He dropped them with a purse of his lips, arms falling back to his now crossed legs, surprisingly compliant.Β
The drift of your finger along the arm was followed as best as he could manage with his eyes, trailing the sweep of your thumb where they nearly brushed his cheek.Β
βWhat are youββΒ
Your mouth moved with full support of your conscience this time, pressing to his and quietening him in what you had found in the last nine months to be the most effective method. His shock gave way after but a second, a hand raising to temper your advance, settling resolutely against your jaw, tilting your head enough to deter the further smoosh of the lenses against your cheeks.Β
βIβm confused.βΒ
They were not words that left his lips often, if ever, muffled against your own while you slipped into his lap, his touch quickly falling against your waist to settle your weight more comfortably, your assault resolute.Β
βI saidββ you paused only to meet his kiss again, the grip steadily tightening against your hips ββI like them.βΒ
βMonths, and you kept this to yourself?β His palms ghosted your waist again, settling against your thighs, pressing them closer to his own with the dig of his fingers into the plush. βYouβre simply insatiable, arenβt you?βΒ
βMh hm.β Your nod nudged the glasses again, nose catching the quickly smudged lens, disturbing them from his nose. βKeep them on, Professor. Please?βΒ
Whether it was your confirmation, the breathy ease of your request, or the way your fingers tangled in his hair that encouraged the whine from his throat, you were not sure, but his lips were already chasing your affection again with renewed vigour.Β
It was easy to indulge him, the clash of his tongue against yours almost distracting from the feeling of him stiffening beneath you, spurred by the feeble attempts to urge your body against his own, taught fingers bruising your hips with each clumsy drag.Β
Isaac kissed in two ways: The first, which served the majority of his advances, was rather tame, not to say it was lacking in romance, but it was safe, relatively speaking β offered before bed, or when he was feeling particularly possessive when dropping you off on campus. The second, with which you were blessed at present, was something altogether different. It was messy, lacking in the precision that was usually synonymous with your ex-teacher, and betrayed the fact that he was, beneath the metal filigree nestled in place of his ribs, a man of flesh and blood β blood that now seemed entirely concentrated between his legs and in his cheeks.Β
βLet me taste you?β He pulled back enough only for this. The glasses sat more awkwardly on his cheeks now, pressed too high up, the glass smudged enough to surely have obscured his vision, despite the dilation of his pupils.Β
It was easier to wrestle from his lap, tugging quickly at your clothes, than it was to answer. You watched satisfied as he shuffled, reclining so that he lay flat, bunching his pillows out of the way, his curls fanning around his temples against the fabric. Your brow rose.Β
βCome here, dove.βΒ
Your cheeks burned. βIsaac, Iβll suffocate you.βΒ
βDonβt be ridiculous.β He held his hand aloft, fingers outstretched and seeking your own. βNow do as youβre told, and sit.βΒ
It was on unsteady thighs that you eased yourself back onto the mattress, one knee settling beside his shoulder. His hand steadied you, fingers entwining with yours as he guided you forward until you found yourself astride his chest, perched above him, instinctively holding yourself tense to spare him of your weight.
Isaac only tutted.
The hand holding yours lifted, threading your fingers into his hair before giving them a gentle squeeze, encouraging you to maintain your grip.
βDon't go shy now, dove.β
Now freed, his hands found your thighs, tugging you so resolutely towards him that there was no room for argument nor concern, forcing your cunt against his lips, his tongue sinking between the folds before you could protest nor think to steady yourself again. His caging grip dragged you closer still until his nose nudged the swell of your clit, indulging so directly in your sweetness that you had no choice but to surrender your previous embarrassment.Β
Especially when he sighed so prettily, breath warm, fanning across your steadily heating skin.Β
One generous lap followed another, your weight growing steadily heavier against him. The hand not clutching his strands making a poor attempt to keep you upright, knuckles lightening against the headboard, nails struggling to find purchase on the varnished wood. He worked methodically, as was his habit, dragging against the ridges of your slit, flat and warm, rolling and attentive in every way he had learned you loved.
It had taken him several hours of methodical study to learn your body the way he had, undoing and undoing again until you were rendered slack-jawed and witless, until his name was the only word you remembered.
βShitβ Oh, IsaacββΒ
His name spluttered past your lips as you risked glancing down, fighting lethargic eyelids to take in the ruination of your lover. The plush of your thighs framed his flushed cheeks perfectly. He chased every undulation of your hips, encouraging the slow grind of your cunt against his lips with unmistakable delight.Β Your muscles ached, barely helped by his rough kneading, palming your flesh as a kitten might, desperate for milk.
There was nothing slow about his treatment of you. There was no ounce of teasing, his urgency working you higher, tighter, contracting against nothing. You could feel every low groan, every hum of satisfaction, reveberating through the arc of your spine, warming your chest. He might as well have been enjoying his favourite dessert. If you had the faculties to ask him, you were sure he would have approved your conclusion.
He seemingly paid no mind to the way the arms of his glasses dug into his temples, the thin metal threatening to buckle beneath the steady pressure of your thighs. Dark lashes trembled against his cheeks, his brow drawn tight, eyes closed in concentration. The purse of his lips came with a desperate groan, suckling, kissing, drawing out the steady boiling point of your nerves, challenging your quickly depreciating strength as if he dared you to slump against him entirely.Β
It was with a particularly harsh shudder, the scrape of your nails against his scalp, that his eyes opened at last, heavy brown gaze meeting your own through the haze of steadily fogging lenses.Β
It was unfair, how easily his undivided attention forced you to the edge. As his tongue delved past the boundary of your body, his slick-soaked nose nudging its way through your soaked folds, you came undone β the sudden release overwhelming, your body contorting and contracting, quivering and grinding against his cheeks, tugging him impossibly closer, caring little for the soft splutters breaking from between vivacious slurps until he tapped hastily against your hip, moving you steadily until you rested against his chest, splayed fingers acting as your scaffold, poised against your ribs.Β
The soft lamplight caught the gloss of you coating the lower half of his face. He was pretty like this. His cheeks red, glasses off-kilter. If you were not so breathless, so boneless, you might have considered kissing him. Capturing his swollen lips between your own, stealing what little breath he seemed to be fighting for, the erratic tick of his clockwork coming to you more noticeably now the blood paused its assault against your eardrums.Β
The glasses, you decided, should stay on more often.Β
ππππ, ππ πππππ₯, π£ππππ π
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Oh, I'm sobbing! I want this sweet professor to hold me so bad, I can't handle it π
I think a hug from him might fix me, honestly. He would be so cosy in his big knit sweaters (it would probably counter the way his bones stick into you otherwise, slim mf).
