master. (professor!joel miller x student!reader)
series: spoiled boys (chapter I - the literature student)
pairing: professor joel miller x male student reader
summary: a promising young literature student visits his strict professorâs apartment one autumn evening to collect the books his professor promised to lend him.
âI loved your master perfectly⌠I taught him all that he knew⌠And I sent you to him with my guarantee⌠I could teach him something new.
And I taught him how you would long for me No matter what he said, no matter what you'd do"
tags: MDNI dark academia-ish vibe. big age gap (professor joel is 64, reader is 20) smut, praise and breeding kink
word count: 5,2k
playlist: master song - leonard cohen/teachers - leonard cohen/that old feeling - chet baker/empire line - the national/waiting room - phoebe bridgers/length of love - interpol
a/n: this is the first chapter of a series i'll call "spoiled boys", i think the title is pretty self explanatory. this was inspired by "master song" and "teachers" by leonard cohen. let me know what you think of it!
"is my passion perfect?" "no, do it once again."
đđđ
the autumn afternoon light filtered weakly through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long golden shadows across rows of dark oak desks. outside, the wind whispered against the ivy-covered stone walls of the old university building. it was only midway through your first semester, yet you had never felt more alive. english literature, this world of fiction worlds and theories. had already begun to consume you. you were doing well.
the lecture hall was almost empty, the last few students trickling out while chairs scraped against the old wooden floor. you stayed behind, clutching your notebook like it could steady you. professor miller was still at his desk, sliding papers into his leather satchel. the sleeves of his charcoal sweater were pushed up to his forearms, revealing quiet strength. he carried an air of severe and magnetic authority. you approached slowly. âhey, sir,â you said, stopping right in front of his desk. âi think i already know what i want to write about in my final essay. itâll be about the magic mountain.â
professor miller looked up, one eyebrow raised, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he leaned back against the edge of the desk, hands resting on either side of his hips. âbut you have the rest of the semester to think about it,â he replied, voice calm and low. âthereâs no need to rush.â âyeah, i knowâ you said, shifting your weight. âjust thinking ahead.â he studied you for a moment, those sharp, intelligent eyes lingering on your face a second longer than they should. the silence felt heavy. when you spoke about hemingwayâs iceberg theory, when you lingered after class to ask about faulkner, even when you stayed quiet in the back row. âlisten,â he said finally, gentler now, âyou should go for something easier to start with. a short story. something compact so you can really develop an idea with substance. donât forget the literary theory weâve been studying, alright? i have some books in mind i can lend you. then you can think more clearly about your essay.â he reached for a pen and a small piece of paper, writing quickly. âthatâs my address, come by this evening if youâre free.â
your pulse quickened. âyes, sir. thank you so much.â professor miller gave you a slow nod. you gathered your things, a shy smile playing on your lips as you left the room. you slipped the piece of paper into your coat pocket, fingers tracing the ink he had touched only moments ago. the corridor stretched long and dim before you, lined with portraits of dead scholar. this world was everything to you now. you were only twenty â still soft around the edges, still eager and untouched by the real weight of the literary world. professor miller was⌠something else. he could show you the way. he could mold you into the kind of scholar you desperately wanted to become. the autumn wind howled softly through the quad as you stepped outside. you headed toward the classics building for your latin class, but your mind was far away. by the time you reached the lecture room and sat near the back, your cheeks were flushed from more than just the cold. as the professor droned on about declensions and the ablative absolute, your thoughts kept drifting back to professor miller, to the quiet promise in his invitation. all the way home, you kept wondering which stories he had in mind for you.
it is a cold evening. the autumn wind had sharpened into something biting, and your hands were freezing by the time you reached his street. your backpack hung heavy on your shoulders, filled with notebooks, a half-read copy of the magic mountain, and the nervous weight of anticipation. streetlamps cast pale golden pools on the wet pavement as you climbed the stone steps to his building. it was dark grey, almost black. his apartment was on the 7th floor.
he opened the door wearing a green overcoat. you noticed that the years had touched him beautifully â silver at the temples, fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. he looked like the kind of man who had read every important book twice and still found new things to feel. âevening,â he said, his voice low and warm, cutting through the cold air. âyou came.â there was quiet pleasure in his tone, as though he hadnât been entirely sure you would. professor miller closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click. the warmth of the apartment wrapped around you instantly. it was darker than you expected. intimate and shadowed. the air smelled faintly of old paper, cigarrettes, coffee, and something like cedar. a record player sat in the corner where a chet baker record was playing. the walls almost entirely hidden by tall, overflowing bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. you couldnât help but stare. thousands of volumes. you wondered if it was possible to truly read them all in one lifetime.
âhave you read all of these?â you asked, still standing somewhat awkwardly with your backpack clutched in front of you. professor miller smiled â a slow, charming smile that deepened the lines around his eyes. he slipped off his green overcoat and hung it up, revealing a dark sweater that fit him perfectly. even in his mid-sixties, he moved with the calm confidence.
âmost of them,â he said in his deep voice rich with experience. âsome iâve read three or four times over the decades. others i keep for the pleasure of revisiting them when the right mind comes along.â you swallowed, feeling painfully young and inexperienced next to him. still, the words slipped out before you could stop them: âiâve read most of dubliners already⌠but i donât mind reading it again with your notes in the margins.â the moment the sentence left your mouth, you felt a flush of embarrassment. it sounded so eager â almost childish â but you couldnât help it. you were still so obviously starved for everything this world had to offer. and especially for his guidance.
âgreedy boy,â he murmured, his deep voice warm and slightly amused. the affectionate nickname sent a shiver down your spine. âi like that hunger in you. itâs rare.â he reached out and gently took hold of your backpack strap, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. âhere, let me take your jacket and your backpack,â he said, his tone low and intimate. âyou wonât need them in here. letâs go somewhere comfortable.â he led you into the living room, where a large, deep leather sofa sat facing the bookshelves. the room was bathed in the warm glow of several antique lamps. you sank into the soft leather, acutely aware of how small you felt in such a refined space. professor miller didnât sit immediately. he stood in front of you for a moment, then leaned against the edge of a heavy oak table, hands resting on either side of his hips. the position made his sweater stretch across his chest. âyouâve been doing an excellent work this semester,â he said, his voice low and sincere. âbetter than excellent, actually. i donât say that lightly.â you knew how rare his praise was. other students called him strict, even ruthless â a professor who could destroy an essay with a single red line and a few coldly precise comments. he was feared for his high standards. yet, from the very first week, you found yourself able to contribute confidently in class, even when discussing difficult theory you had barely encountered before. he made you feel capable.
âwould you like something to drink? tea? wine? whiskey?â only then did you notice the small but elegant bar cart in the corner of the living room, dark wood and glass, stocked with crystal decanters and heavy tumblers that gleamed under the lamplight. it looked like something from another era. sophisticated. adult. your eyes drifted back to professor miller. an almost empty whiskey glass sat on the oak table beside him, the amber liquid reduced to a thin shimmer at the bottom. you had never tried whiskey before. the thought of drinking something so strong, something clearly part of his world, made you feel thrilled. âiâll have whatever youâre having, sir,â you said quietly. âbold choice,â he murmured, clearly amused. âwhiskey it is, then.â
he moved to the bar cart with the calm confidence of a man who had done this many times before. you watched as he poured two generous measures of rich amber liquid into heavy crystal glasses. he handed you one of the glasses and sat down on the sofa beside you â close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body and catch the faint scent of his cologne.the leather creaked softly under his weight. professor miller took a slow sip from his glass, savoring it, then turned his sharp, intelligent eyes on you. you held the heavy glass in both hands, the whiskeyâs honeyed aroma rising to your nose. you took a small, careful sip. it burned pleasantly down your throat but a slight wince betrayed you. professor miller noticed immediately. âyouâve never tried whiskey before, have you?â he asked, gentle amusement coloring his deep voice. you hesitated, cheeks warming. you didnât want to come across as an inexperienced boy. ânot⌠not really, sir,â you admitted quietly. âitâs alright,â he said, rising from the sofa âthis jack daniels honey is already quite gentle, but we can make it even kinder for your first time.â he walked over to the bar cart and returned with a can of red bull. he poured a generous amount into your glass. âtry it now. slowly.â âso much betterâ you said. professor miller watched you with quiet amusement, then leaned back into the sofa, resting one arm along the backrest. being this close to him, you became aware of details you hadnât noticed before. his chest was broad and firm beneath the charcoal sweater. you could see the faint outline of firm muscle. the strong line of his jaw softened by a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard, and the elegant veins on the back of his large hands. his jet-black hair that was strikingly distinguished by elegant streaks of silver at the temples and throughout, catching the warm lamplight like threads of fine metal. it made him look wise, experienced, and impossibly handsome all at once. sitting this close to him made your own youth feel almost fragile by comparison. he was everything you hoped to become one day.
âtell me,â he said, voice low and curious, âwhatâs your favorite genre? what kind of literature truly moves you?â
âi donât really have one favorite,â you answered honestly, a little shy under his attentive gaze. âi like anything that makes me feel something. anything with a powerful narrative that stays with me⌠that leaves me thinking about it for days. it doesnât matter if itâs sad, unsettling, or beautiful. as long as it moves me.â professor miller watched you intently, his expression softening with quiet satisfaction. he rested one arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers not quite touching your shoulder. âthatâs a good answer,â he said, nodding slowly. âan honest one. most students your age try to impress me by naming the most intellectual or fashionable authors. but you⌠you want to be affected. i see that hunger in you,â he continued, his voice dropping lower. your face burned. you felt trangely electrified. âdo you like poetry?â he asked. you hesitated, suddenly self-conscious under his attentive gaze. âi⌠donât read much poetry, sir,â you admitted quietly. âiâve tried, but it always feels like iâm missing something. like i donât know how to read it properly.â professor miller smiled, the smile of a man who had guided many young readers through their uncertainties. âthatâs perfectly alright,â he said gently. âmost people are never taught how to read poetry. theyâre expected to simply feel it, which is unfair.â he stood up and walked over to one of the tall bookshelves. his fingers moved with practiced familiarity across the spines until he found what he was looking for. he returned with a beautiful cloth-bound volume and sat back down, even closer this time.âi wonât push poetry on you tonight,â he said, opening the book with care. âbut i will show you something better. someone who writes prose that feels like poetry.â he handed you the book. the collected stories of katherine mansfield. you took the book reverently. it was an old edition, the pages slightly yellowed, the cover soft under your fingers. professor miller leaned in slightly, pointing to a story titled âthe garden party.â âstart with this one,â he murmured. âitâs only a few pages long, but it will stay with you for years. iâll lend you this copy. make notes in the margins if you want. i want to see what you feel when you read her. keep it as long as you like.â you smiled, unable to hide your excitement. âthank you, sir. i canât wait to read it,â you said softly, your voice warm with genuine joy. you held the book a little tighter against your lap, already imagining yourself curled up in your room later, reading the words he had chosen for you. already imagining late nights spent underlining passages he had once read, hoping he would approve of your thoughts. the idea that he wanted to know your thoughts made you feel seen in a way no one else ever had. professor miller watched your eager expression with quiet satisfaction. âare you thinking about getting a masterâs degree?â he asked you hesitated, unsure how to answer. the truth was you hadnât thought that far ahead yet.
âyou should consider it.â his thumb brushed slowly along your jaw. âit would be a waste not to let that mind go as far as it can.â a small, teasing smile curved his lips as he studied you. his voice dropped even lower, laced with seductive amusement. âthough i suspect..â he murmured, eyes darkening, âdeep down, you want someone to master youâŚâ the words settled over you like warm velvet. professor miller let them linger for a moment, his thumb still tracing slow circles along your jaw. then his voice dropped even lower, rougher, thick with desire. âiâve seen the way you look at me in class⌠how you stay behind after everyone else has left, lingering by my desk even when you donât have a question. we both know what this is.â his fingers slid gently to the back of your neck, holding you with quiet possession. âso be honest with me, velvet porcelain boy⌠what exactly are you hoping iâll teach you?â the question hung in the air, heavy and intimate. you had tried, in the rational hours, to construct other explanations for why you read three times over every text he assigned. why you want so bad to say something precise enough to make him pause. to make him look. you had told yourself it was ambition. academic devotion. he reached out and slowly brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his thumb lingering for a moment against your temple. the touch was gentle. the mansfield book still rested in your lap like a silent witness to the growing tension between you. âiâŚâ you swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. âi want you to show me things i donât know yet. i want to know everythingâ âeverything,â he repeated softly, tasting the word the way he would a delicate line of poetry â slowly, deliberately, savoring its weight. âthatâs a very large appetite for such a careful boy.â his hand returned to your neck, fingers stroking the sensitive skin with soothing possession. âyouâre trembling,â he observed softly, almost tenderly. âthereâs no need to feel nervous around me.â
professor millerâs voice was low and reassuring, like warm honey dripping over velvet. he rose from the sofa with calm, deliberate grace. the lamplight cast a golden glow across his broad shoulders as he stood before you. âlet me teach you your first real lesson.â he picked up his whiskey glass and without breaking eye contact, he reached down and slowly undid his belt, then the button and zipper of his trousers. he freed his enormous cock â thick, heavy, full of veins and half-hard â letting it rest against the rim of the glass before slowly lowering it into the warm whiskey. âiâll teach you how to drink whiskey properly.â the sight was obscene and strangely elegant at the same time. âkneel for your master.â professor miller stood tall and commanding in front of you, one hand still loosely holding the glass, his wet, glistening cock waiting for you. this was really happening. the distinguished professor who had spent weeks shaping your mind was now offering something more. you slid off the sofa and knelt before him without a word. the carpet was soft against your knees. as you looked up, the sheer size and weight of him so close to your face made your mouth water. professor millerâs hand came down gently to rest on the top of your head, not pushing, just guiding. you leaned forward and took him into your mouth. the first taste hit you immediately â sweet honeyed whiskey mixed with the warm, masculine flavor of his cock. you sucked slowly, savoring the way the sweetened whiskey coated your tongue while his thick shaft grew steadily harder between your lips. the more you sucked, the harder he became, filling your mouth with growing heat and weight. professor miller let out a low, pleased groan, his fingers tightening gently in your hair. âwhat a receptive boy you areâŚâ he praised, his voice rough with pleasure. you moaned softly. you could feel him growing fully hard now â impossibly thick and rigid â stretching your lips as you worked him deeper. âeasy, boy⌠just like that,â he murmured, guiding your head with gentle pressure. âa little deeper. let me feel your throat. you can take more. i know you can.â he pushed in a little further, careful but firm, watching with dark, hungry eyes as your lips stretched around him. the taste of whiskey was fading, replaced more and more by the warm, masculine flavor of his skin. âyouâre doing so well,â he whispered, voice full of approval. âlook at you⌠such a brilliant, beautiful boy on your knees for meâŚâ professor miller let out a low, satisfied groan and gently pulled your head back by the hair, sliding his thick, glistening cock from between your swollen lips.
âcome here, sweet boy,â he murmured and before you could fully process it, his strong hands slid under your arms and lifted you effortlessly. in one fluid motion, he pushed you back onto the deep leather sofa. your back hit the cushions as he followed, covering your body with his much larger, heavier frame, pressing you down with weight. his tongue pushed past your lips with confident hunger, sliding against yours, tasting you thoroughly. he kissed like a man who had waited weeks for this: slow, wet, and demanding. his tongue explored every inch of your mouth. the faint taste of whiskey still lingered on his tongue, mixing with the taste of his cock that was still fresh on yours. you moaned into his mouth as he devoured you, his silver beard brushing softly against your skin. he tilted his head and kissed you even deeper, sucking on your tongue, licking into your mouth with filthy, luxurious strokes. one of his hands slid down to grip your thigh, pulling it higher around his hip as he pressed his still-hard, heavy cock against you as he started to take off your clothes with hunger. his fingers moved with practiced urgency, pulling your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion, barely breaking the kiss. he tossed it aside and immediately ran his warm palm over your bare chest, thumb brushing across your nipple as he groaned into your mouth. âso soft,â he whispered as he touch your skin, voice rough with desire. âsuch a perfect boy.â he sat up just enough to work on your pants, unbuttoning and unzipping them with impatient hands. in one strong pull, he dragged your pants and underwear down your legs together, leaving you completely naked beneath him. âopen your mouth for meâ you obeyed instantly, parting your lips. he leaned over you and spit slowly into your open mouth. the act felt so filthy, so possessive, that a needy whimper escaped your throat. you loved it. you held his spit on your tongue, tasting him, swirling it slowly in your mouth like a sacred offering before finally swallowing it with a soft, grateful moan. âgood boy,â he growled softly. he stood up from the sofa, pulling his charcoal sweater over his head, revealing a broad, powerful chest dusted with dark hair threaded with silver. fully naked, he was magnificent. âcome here,â he order, looking at you with commanding affection. âlet your master teach you how to worship properly.â you rose to your feet and stepped close to him. professor miller towered over you, radiating quiet power. he placed one large hand on the back of your neck and gently but firmly guided your face toward his raised arm. you moved slowly, reverently, tasting the faint salt of his skin. professor miller hummed in approval, his fingers threading gently through your hair. âthatâs it⌠good boy.â
encouraged, you moved lower, kissing and licking down the center of his torso. your tongue traced the defined lines of his abdomen, savoring the firm ridges of his six-pack. he was impressively toned. you took your time, licking every groove, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the hard muscle, occasionally sucking lightly on his skin. you lost yourself in it, licking and kissing with increasing devotion, sucking lightly on the sensitive skin. the more you tasted him, the harder you became. âgood boy⌠such a hungry, perfect boy,â he praised, pressing your face deeper for a moment. âyou worship me so beautifully.â your mouth moved past his toned abdomen, following the sharp v-line of his hips. you looked up at him for permission. professor miller stroked your cheek with his thumb, eyes dark and full of possessive affection. he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. he led you back to the sofa, guiding you down onto your back with careful strength. the leather was cool against your heated skin. he lowered himself and took your cock into his mouth. the heat was overwhelming. his mouth was incredibly warm and skilled. his tongue pressed firmly along the underside of your shaft while his soft silver-streaked beard brushed teasingly against your thighs. a deep, guttural moan escaped your throat as pleasure shot through your entire body. he took you even deeper, relaxing his throat and swallowing around your length with practiced ease, then pulled back to swirl his tongue around your sensitive head, savoring the taste of your precum. he looked up at you with dark, satisfied eyes while his mouth continued working you so beautifully. âyou taste so good,â he murmured against your wet cock, stroking you slowly with one large hand. âdo you like when your professor takes all of you in his month?â âyesâ fuck, yes, sir.â you gasped, voice wrecked with pleasure. âi love it. it feels amazing, sir. please donât stopââ
âsuch a filthy boyâ he praised while grabbing a firm handful of your ass. he squeezed it possessively while he continued sucking you with slow, wet strokes. suddenly, he pulled off your cock with a wet pop and flipped you over onto your stomach. you gasped as your chest pressed into the leather sofa. professor miller knelt behind you, spreading your legs wider and pulling your hips up so your ass was raised for him. âsuch a perfect ass,â he growled softly, voice thick with lust. âso soft and untouchedâŚâ he leaned down and spat directly onto your hole, you felt the cold liquid right into you. then he did it again, making sure you were dripping wet. his fingers joined in, spreading his spit around your tight entrance, rubbing slow circles. now you could feel the thick blunt head of his enormous cock, he slapped your ass with it twice before he pushed in slowly, steadily, the spit and precum letting him slide in surprisingly deep on the first thrust. you felt every inch as he filled you, stretching you open in the most delicious, overwhelming way. âfuckâ professorâŚâ you whimpered, fingers gripping the sofa. âthatâs it.â he stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his large hands gripping your hips. then he began to move â slow, deep thrusts that made your whole body light up with pleasure. every stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you, sending waves of intense bliss through your body. âyou feel incredible,â he breathed against your ear, pressing his chest to your back. âso tight⌠so warm⌠gripping me so beautifully. my clever, eager boy.â he started fucking you harder, deeper, the wet sound of his hips meeting your ass filling the quiet room as he claimed you completely. professor millerâs enormous cock felt impossibly thick as it slid deep inside you, filling you completely, pressing against every sensitive spot. the wet, filthy sound of his spit-lubricated shaft pushing into your tight hole made your mind hazy with pleasure. he pulled back slowly, almost removing his entire length, leaving just the fat head inside you â only to slam back in with one powerful thrust. your eyes rolled back, a broken moan tearing from your throat as intense pleasure shot through your body. âso wetâŚâ you whimpered, voice shaking. âit feels so fucking good, professorâŚ" professor miller groaned in satisfaction. after a few more deep thrusts, he suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your back, and grabbed your legs. he hooked them over his broad shoulders, folding you beneath him. he looked straight into your eyes with a possessive gaze â the look of a man who knew he was claiming something precious. âlook at your master while he ruins you.â one of his large hands wrapped around your rock hard cock, stroking you in time with his hips.
he started to fuck you harder, picking up a relentless rhythm. his hips snapped forward with powerful strokes, driving his enormous cock deep inside you again and again. you could feel every thick vein dragging along your walls with each thrust â the heavy, ridged texture stretching and rubbing against your most sensitive spots perfectly. he looked so strong above you. broad shoulders flexing, powerful chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat hair falling messily over his forehead as he pounded into you. he gripped your thighs tighter, folding you further as he railed you faster, deeper. the wet, obscene sound of his heavy balls slapping against your ass filled the room. every brutal thrust made you feel him completely â the heat, the thickness, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed inside you. you didnât need to say anything. he could read you so easily. he knew exactly how desperate you were to be filled. âcum for me, babyâ he growled, voice rough and desperate. his hand stroking your cock faster. the pleasure crested violently. âthatâs iâ good bâ fuck!!â professor miller growled. âurghhhhh!â with desperate moans, you both came at the same time your cock pulsed hard between his skilled fingers, shooting thick ropes of cum across your stomach and chest. at the exact same moment, professor miller buried himself to the hilt with a deep, guttural groan and began flooding your insides. he came hard, pulse after heavy, powerful pulse, pumping an incredible amount of thick, warm cum deep into you. you could feel every throb, every spurt as he filled you beyond full. he kept thrusting through his orgasm, slow and possessive, fucking his massive load even deeper into your body. even after reaching his edge, he didnât stop moving. he continued with long, lazy strokes, making sure every last drop stayed buried deep inside you. for a long moment neither of you moved. the book you had come for had fallen to the floor at some point.
"fuck," he rasped "god, you are justâŚ" he growled with deep satisfaction, staring down at the creamy mess leaking from your ruined hole. thick warm cum slowly dribbling out of you, running down your balls and onto the sofa. âfuck, youâve got such a tight little ass, baby,â he groaned, rubbing the fat head of his cock against your cum-soaked entrance. âletâs push professorâs cum back where it belongs.â he gripped your hips and pushed forward. a broken moan escaped your lips. he felt even bigger this time, sliding through the sloppy mess he had already pumped into you. your heart was still going. you could feel it everywhere, your throat, your fingertips, the place behind your sternum where something bright and almost painful had taken up residence and showed no sign of leaving. "look at you," he dragged a thumb through the mess on your stomach, swirling it. "absolutely ruined. and you fucking love it, don't you?" "mm-hmm," you hummed, your voice cracked and breathless. "my little scholarly seducer.â he said. the dark leather of the sofa was slick, stained with the evidence of our collisionâ spilled whiskey, sweat, and the cooling traces of our release pooling in the creases of the upholstery. "you're so devoted, aren't you?" he pulled me closer, his skin sliding against mine with a wet, tacky friction. "not just to the texts, or the theories⌠but to the sensation of being completely undone."
đâ.Ë âžâ.Ëâ¨
you woke up slowly, still dazed and heavy-limbed, curled against professor millerâs chest on the wide leather sofa. the room was quiet now, lit only by the soft glow of the antique lamps. for a moment, everything felt surreal, until the pleasant ache in your body and the sticky warmth between your thighs reminded you exactly what had happened. you were still naked, pressed against him. your skin was soft and smooth, almost delicate compared to his. his chest and shoulders carried the texture of a man who had lived fully. faint scars, sun spots, and the natural marks. yet he looked incredibly gorgeous. professor millerâs large hand moved slowly up and down your back. âdid you enjoy your first real lesson?â he asked you hid your face in the crook of his neck for a moment, cheeks burning. âyou were perfect. so devoted⌠so passionate.â he completed âiâm not sure if i really learned my lesson⌠do it once again.â












