Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

As the Seasons Grey	By : christinecornell Category: Celebrities - Misc > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 46 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Started life as kinky Christmas-related short stories in 2022 and took on a life of its own shortly thereafter. 100 fiction, none of this is real, and I own nothing except for the character of Christine.

Chapter List
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She was the kind of person that only entered a classroom once in every while, and yet she seemed like someone who should have been there forever. A spirit in the night, the way that she moved about, everything and more. She wasn’t one to have a crush on anyone else around her, either; merely someone who had come to class to do her work and ask a few questions here and there, to which she held on to every word that emerged from his lips, and she tended to her notes all the while. There was something so hypnotic about her, especially for him.
She had come to the college on a whim, much like how he had as well. It was as if the stars had bound them together, and yet, there was nothing to tie them by the hip.
The whole entire thing resembled a dream of sorts, as if something beyond them wanted them to be together forever.
There was something in the air that day at school as well, especially once she strode into the classroom and took her spot there at the front of the room. She caught him there at the teacher’s desk on the far-left side of the room. He sat there with his back to the classroom: she knew right away that it wasn’t Mr. Hansen.
She set her bookbag down on the floor by her feet and ran her fingers through her coarse dark hair. She squeezed herself into the plastic chair fused to the smooth little desk, the kind that was barely flat for a pencil to lay flat upon: it was a bit difficult as is even without her long bulky green jacket, but she managed. She peered behind her at the rest of the class as it filed in for the next hour; she then returned to the front of the classroom as he raised his head from the book he was reading, but he never turned around all the way.
Everyone else filled up the desks behind her and to the left of her. A few girls next to her chattered about something, but she paid very little attention. She was merely thinking about what to do for her ceramics class later that day at the noon hour, and yet there was something about the way in which they spoke about it tickled her fancy to a degree. She turned her attention to them, these three girls who sat in a single row all together behind her, all three of them with rich jet-black hair: the one closest to her had a short bob with a little flip on the bottom; the one in the middle had done the top layer of her hair up in a little ponytail; the one on the right had a tight bun with a tortoise shell barrette at the center of it.
If she didn’t know better, she swore that they were triplets as they all had those round pale faces and the same black hair. A redheaded girl had taken her seat behind them complete with a rather flustered look upon her face, to which she ran her fingers through her hair and let out a low whistle.
“You gotta get a move on, Marlene,” the one on the left quipped right then.
“It’s crazy out there, though, Val,” she told her as the boy in front of her took his seat right then.
She had never really paid any attention to him before, but he looked like someone who could tell her his darkest secrets and she would promise to him to never share them with anyone: he had fine smooth inky black hair himself, and yet his skin had this gentle olive tone to it, as if he had come from a household of mixed heritage. He had these stubby little fingers and yet his arms looked so toned and shapely, like he worked out in his downtime away from school.
The room fell silent, and she directed her gaze to the front of the room once again, simply because he had stood to his feet and walked on over to the podium in the middle of the room with the roll call book. The first thing that she noticed about him was the rectangular glasses rested upon his prominent aquiline nose, and the way that the black frames brought out the deep gaze of his eyes. From his stance there alone, he commanded attention.
His voice was warm and tender, however, as if he was in fact meant to be a teacher at some point in his life. He had the grays experience, and yet, he struck her as sprightly, especially when he said their names. At one point, she dropped her gaze down to the white linoleum underneath their feet, and she could feel a wave of warmth spread over her.
“Christine?”
She turned her attention back to the front of the classroom, to that spot right in the middle of the blackboard where he stood there with the book plunked out before him as he took roll call. He glanced over at her.
The substitute teacher for the day, with his shoulder-length black hair and that long plume of gray upon his head, long and thin like that of a feather, as well as the fine lines of age upon his face, wrapped up in a black and blue pinstriped shirt on top of a plain black one and faded black jeans: she chuckled at the sight of his black streamlined Chuck Taylors on his feet.
“Present,” she declared, and he showed her a little smile and a twinkle in those deep-set eyes in response. He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the back of his thumb and proceeded on down the list. The only older man in a room full of college students.
“Eric?” he called out, and the boy next to her raised his hand for him, and he nodded at him. He then turned towards Christine.
“It’s funny, we’ve sat next to each other for the last week, and we never learned each other’s name before,” he quipped to her in a low voice.
“I know, right?” she said with a chuckle.
Soon enough, he reached the very bottom of the list and then he cleaned off his glasses with the bottom hem of his shirt, and then he brought them back to his face.
“Are you the sub?” the girl on the right side of the trio asked him.
“Yes, I am the substitute for the day,” he informed them with a straight face, and then he rubbed his hands together. “I’m not going to lie to you guys: I don’t really know much about music theory, but I do know what today’s lesson holds for all of us. You know, Mr. Hansen told me what you all should be doing for the day.”
“So, we’re not going to watch a movie?” Christine chimed in.
“Oh, no,” he assured her with a shake of his head. “It’s going to be some time before we can watch a little movie.” Through the square lenses of his glasses, she could see his blue eyes as they locked onto her. He hooded his eyelids at the sight of her and even puckered his lips a bit. It was as if right then and there, she could feel a connection with him.
Every so often over the course of the hour, he would look over at her with a playful little smirk on his face and that twinkle in his eye, as if he was up to mischief. It was hard to imagine a professor who carried his weight so well: the way that he walked around the front of the room with his hands clasped together before his chest and the way that the little soft-looking roll of fat around his waist poked out underneath his arms, the very beginnings of a middle-aged potbelly, made Christine think of elegance. Even with the little bit of extra weight on his body, he carried himself so well, with such grace and class, as if he belonged on a runway rather than the front of the classroom.
Whenever he tossed his hair back, he showed off his neck, in all its tender slim beauty. Even with the slight lines around his prominent Adam’s apple, he showed no signs of sagging there. He was graying, growing older, and yet he showed no signs of aging. If anything, he seemed to go along with that big pocket of grays at the front of his hair.
When he scribbled something on the blackboard, he flashed a fleeting, but knowing glance over at her, as if he was trying to read her mind, or come inside of her mind, rather. Whenever he wrote something at a quick pace, he stuck his tongue out at her, as if he was trying to tell her something.
He claimed to not know much about music theory, and yet, he seemed rather astute in the way in which he spoke to the class. He would throw out a question or two and everyone in the class would try to guess what he was thinking. He would let the class teach themselves.
At one point, he turned his back to them, and Christine felt a tap on her shoulder.
“He likes you,” the girl right behind her whispered to her, and she shrugged her shoulders at that.
“No, girl, he’s got it hot for you,” she added.
“Colette’s right, he keeps looking at you like he wants you to undress for him,” the girl in the middle of the trio chimed in.
Right then, he turned back around, and Christine saw that he picked up a nylon-string guitar from the little black metallic rack on the floor, and he took his seat on the surface of the teacher’s desk with it plunked across his lap. A piece of his hair fell over his glasses and the bridge of his prominent nose, all to where Christine could only see his right eye and the right side of his face. Those long, lanky fingers spread across the neck of the guitar like the legs of a scorpion, and he pursed his lips and puckered them out as if he beckoned a kiss from her.
It was right then she realized that his lips were rather full and sensual, as if they were made for kisses.
A chill ran up her spine at the sight of him as he played a piece of Latin music for them at a quick pace. Some of that lush, decadent spice, as if he was playing it all for her instead. She glanced over at the rest of the class and most of them did in fact look rather bored at the sight of him there: he was playing it all for her instead.
At one point, he shook his head about and his hair spread over his shoulders, a fluffy little mane that looked rather soft and plush in texture. She knew that he had had long scrumptious black hair at one point in his younger days, and yet, there was something about that gray plume that struck her as interesting, what caused it and how long as to how he had it.
He jammed it for about ten minutes before he brought it down to a slower, more sensuous outro, and then he finished it out with a final strum of the pluck. A round of applause and he set it back down on the rack on the floor. He then peered up to the clock on the back wall of the classroom and raised his dark eyebrows: when he did, his entire face lit up. An older man, and yet he was still as young as ever.
“Are there any final questions?” he called out to them.
“What are your influences?” Eric asked him.
“I’ll tell you later,” he frankly replied, and a couple of people giggled at that. Colette, right behind Christine, raised her hand.
“What’s the story behind your gray streak?” she asked him. “Like why is that one part of your head gray but the rest isn’t?”
“I don’t really know,” he confessed with a shake of his head. “I’ve heard some people say it’s a birthmark, or it’s a scar—one time, I went up to Indian Rock, north of Berkeley, where I’m from originally, when I was a kid and everyone in my class hit their head trying to go up this thing. I was about fourteen, I was brushing my hair one day and I found a gray hair down in the sink basin. I showed it to my mom, and she goes, ‘oh, it must be one of your father’s’ but my dad was like—completely bald at that point. So—you know, for the exact origin? I can’t really say.”
Christine then shot up her hand. He lowered his eyelids at her and nodded in her direction.
“Not a question, but I like your shoes,” she quipped to him, and he took a glance down to his feet, at those black streamlined Chucks, to which he pushed his body back to look past his little belly.
“I do, too, that’s why I’m wearing ‘em,” he retorted back to her with a quick flash of his eyebrows to her.
“Is that why you’re so good at guitar?” she followed up; with Mr. Hansen, she was usually quiet, but something about him brought out something in her.
“No, I’m good at guitar because I got good at it, my dear,” he said as he turned his body towards her.
“You got good ‘cause the skills are in your pants,” she quipped, and Colette burst out laughing. Eric peered back at her with his tongue out to her as if she had said something right to him instead.
“Oh, ho, we’ve got a little saucy one over here, everyone,” he declared, and he strode on over to her, much to the murmurs of everyone behind her.
“It’s a simple observation, actually,” she insisted with a little wave of her hand about before her. “I feel like what you have in your clothes might have something to do with it as well as—everything else. I don’t really know what I’m saying.”
“I think you do,” Eric said in a hushed voice, and Colette and the other three girls behind them giggled at that. Some hushed whispers from the back of the room caught Christine’s attention right then.
He stood before her with his hands tucked into his pockets, and his shoulder-length hair sprawled over his narrow shoulders. Christine’s eyes scanned him from his lanky feet all the way up his slender, spindly legs, to his slightly full hips, to his full, round waist and his deep chest, to the rolled pinstriped sleeves on his elbows, to the sly little smirk on his round, handsome face and the square glasses that made him look like a proper professor.
“You know what—just for that, I ought to see you after class,” he remarked, and she swore that he had flashed her a little wink.
“Can you even do that?” Eric asked him as a sly little smirk crossed his face as well.
“You know, now that you mention it, I don’t think I can,” he replied with a knitting of his eyebrows. Christine lowered her gaze, and she was face to face with his crotch.
The kids behind Marlene and the trio whispered things to each other right then, and that was when the bell rang.
“Don’t tell Mr. Hansen you watched a movie,” he called after the class as they all packed in for the next period. Christine picked up her bag and stood right before him so he could see her full hourglass shape of a body. The crown of her head reached the middle of his chest.
Eric stood there right next to her for a second with his long black hair down to the middle of his back. He swallowed and bowed his head before he headed for the classroom door.
Christine then turned to him and the little smirk on his face, as if he was about to tell her a dirty joke.
“I do want to see you again, though,” he confessed to her once the three women behind her had left the room.
“Oh, do you now?” she asked him with a raise of her eyebrow.
“I do, yeah,” he replied: it was funny to watch him talk, given the left side of his mouth curled off to the side a bit, as if he had his mouth full of something on the right side. “What do you have next?”
“Well, I have study hall next and then I go to ceramics,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “And then world history—I haven’t decided what I want my major to be yet.”
“Ceramics! That sounds like fun.”
“It is, too,” she told him, and all the while, she could feel the heat from his body, even if she only stood about six inches from him. He pressed his hands together before his chest as if he was about to say a prayer for her. “Between ceramics and history, I have an hour for lunch at one. And then after history, I go back home.”
“Lunch at one, you said?” he echoed her.
“Yeah.” She paused. “Why, you wanna join me?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“If you’d like me to,” he replied. “That boy next to you was looking at you like he wanted a moment with you, though.”
“Oh, him? I barely know the guy.”
“Well, you barely know me, too,” he quipped back.
“True. But you’re the one asking me, though.”
He squinted his eyes at her, and he couldn’t resist the smile on his face.
“I like you, Christine,” he said in a low voice. “I like you. You seem like you know what you want in life—even though you don’t know the whole story yet.”
“I guess that’s true,” she replied with a little tilt to her head.
“You better get a move on,” he quipped right then, and she turned to see a few students for the next period file into the classroom. He gently patted her on the shoulder before he turned away: his touch sent a shiver down her spine all the while.
“I didn’t catch your name, by the way,” she added to him.
“Alex,” he said. “Alex Skolnick.”
“I’m Christine Peck,” she replied.
“I have a friend, his name is Nathan Peck,” he followed up, and then he flashed her another wink.
“You never know, we might be related,” she said with another shrug and a smile to him.
“Run along, dear Christine,” he said to her. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And for a second, she swore that he added to that in the form of a faint whisper on the back of the wind, “you are my sin. My dirty little secret.”
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As the Seasons Grey