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wesstars · 8 months ago

Text

crush

cairo sweet x fem!reader (no pronouns used)

summary: when cairo goes home, what comes to mind are thoughts of you. wc: 2.3k tags: explicit, minors DNI!! all characters 18+. university au. masturbation, smoking, non-linear narrative. reader is cairo’s teaching assistant, reader described as masc presenting. a/n: let me know what y’all think :) for the vibes

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“Is Professor Miller not coming?” Winnie had just dropped into her unassigned assigned seat next to Cairo, two minutes before Greco-Roman Literary Theory started. The flipping of pages punctuated the chatter of other students waiting, a comfortable sound.

“He said he’d be gone today,” Cairo replied absently. “There’s a ‘guest lecturer,’ our teaching assistant.”

“Oh, right. Who’s that?”

Cairo shrugged. “Who knows.”

As if on cue, the door swung open. Cairo didn’t even look up—Miller mentioned that he kept a handful of research assistants that would be there to help with the advanced reading. But honestly, Cairo wasn’t sure what they could tell her that she didn’t already know. A melodic hum fell through the air for just a moment, a chorus.

“Good morning.” At your lilting voice, rough with the edge of 10am, Cairo started. She watched you set your messenger bag on the desk. Your white shirt pulled over your shoulders; there was a glint at your collar, a necklace peeking through. A thin watch adorned your wrist. Winnie, along with some of the class, echoed your greeting, and Cairo blinked.

Late spring afternoon draped across the furniture in Cairo’s room, the quickly waning light giving easy way to a blue hour. Dropping her bag at the door, she tore off her shirt and skirt with the confidence of one standing before a crowd. Running a hand up from her sternum to her neck, she stretched languidly, sinking down onto her bed. After so many uneventful days—when she applied to Yale, she didn’t think that there would be any uneventful days—she finally had a story to turn over in her mind.

You. You were a mystery. Even as you had started the class with an introduction, telling Cairo you’d graduated from a middle-of-nowhere college in California and sought a writing career in Vermont before delving into research, she longed to lay out the details and pull them out from under the rug. Where did you learn to teach? Did you like to drive, or be driven? Mountains, or the sea? Where did you grow up? Was there coffee or tea in your cupboard? Cairo’s stomach burned to know. Her dark eyes burned the ceiling with smoke signals, searching for you even though you were god knows where in that seaside state.

Arching her back, Cairo let her hand travel down, palm flat against her stomach, to trace the seam of her upper thigh. As the class had progressed, your keenly observant nature did not elude Cairo. Maybe listening was something that your pedagogy instilled in you, but the way you held each student’s question in the cant of your head, an answer in your crinkling eyes, listening seemed to be in your nature. It was meticulous, the way you picked apart the class text, weaving in references and tying it all in. In that two hour lecture, Cairo learned that you watched the same way you listened.

Balmy as it was, the humidity made her dark waves cling to her skin, and she shivered as she brushed them back, thinking of a different pair of slim hands. Your scrutiny of each student had an intention that she couldn’t quite place; a determination that thrilled her. Cairo imagined that you’d observe her the same way, that she would be the one you were most fond of. It was only natural that her own attention would draw yours onto her. Holding the weight of your envisioned gaze made Cairo’s core twist, a pleased little flush that she prayed you could see. Your affected impartiality didn’t bother Cairo—in fact, it pulled her into your shadow. In her bed, she rolled onto her stomach then her knees, shaking her hair out.

Her hands were steady as she reached for her bedside table, thumb rolling on the wheel of her zippo as she held the cigarette to her lips. Cairo took a drag, blowing out neat smoke rings as she settled back on her heels. The skin of her own fingers was cool against her lips, and when she took the smoke away, she studied the pattern of her lipstick on the white paper as she had so many times before.

She’d watched, unabashedly and unafraid of being caught, as you drummed your fingers on the chalk tray. Would your fingertip be soft or work hardened if it pressed down her tongue? Would your skin carry the stain of her red lip as deeply, as obediently, as the malleable wrapping paper?

“Alright, class,” you cleared your throat, turning slowly around the room to make eye contact with each student. “As you know, Jonathan’s away on a conference today. I’ll start with a bit of roll, just so I can learn your names. Not many of you come to my office hours, I know.” You smiled easily. It was so guileless, Cairo mused, nearly childlike. You had the class go around the rooms with names and majors, a circuit that Cairo gave no attention to other than your lilting rhythm of hums, the tapping of your foot on the floor, the way you flicked the corner of the role sheet with your thumb. Your gaze was soon on hers, waiting expectantly. She looked right back with a blink.

“Cairo Sweet. English major.”

“Cairo.” Her name rolled off your innocent little grin, making her cock her head. “Wonderful.” Fascinating. Would you whisper midnight black desires in her ear, so deep and dark they might be murmured into the ink of your own empty room?

You continued, circling back to the front and easily transitioning to the lesson plan. You had an awfully effortless way of grasping the class’ attention, holding gently and never forcing. It wasn’t like Professor Miller, who always seemed to hasten through the lecture so he could return to his research. She could tell you liked the woods of the text, to fall down into the depths of each word, feeling its weight in you and letting it rock. Just like Cairo.

She sighed into the warm air prickling up her skin, the curl of your voice around her name making her nipples harden in her bralette, even in retrospect. Exhaling around her cigarette, Cairo brought her hands up to palm her breasts, feeling the drag of her rubied nubs on her palms. Was it the high of the nicotine, the blur of smoke ridden air that made her float straight up into the lofty space you’d created in her mind? Though the feel of her own fingers scraping the lace against her skin was familiar, she found herself keen to think of your soft or callused hands. She was wet already, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten wet so fast.

The weight she imagined of your touch on her flushed skin was completely, deliciously foreign. Unbidden but intimately welcome, Cairo wished that your caress would find the map of her chest as familiar as a classic, something you had searched a million times over yet always managed to find something new. Shamelessly, Cairo trailed her fingers down her stomach, nails catching on every rib as she arched her back in the spilled moonlight. The mystery in the crossing of your long legs as you’d leaned back on the desk climbed up her belly, curling in the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. The uneven roll of your sleeves clung to the corners of her eyes, eidetic and oh, so, tempting. She had watched you so ardently—did you like to watch? Would you watch?

The space between her thighs was achingly empty, craving the set of your narrow hips. She was comfortable there, and she remembered the taut stretch of wool as you dropped into your chair and set one ankle over your knee. There was something endearing about the way your trousers had pulled up to reveal slouchy black socks, and darker her mind went as the material pulling creases around your lap made her shudder and—she reached behind to pull one of her fluffy pillows under her, smoke billowing into the air.

Cairo gave her hips an experimental roll, imagining it was the soft fabric of your slacks against her aching cunt, and grinned around her cigarette. Unlike the pillow, you would be ever so solid under her, grabbing for her thighs like a dog yearns to please. Were you more likely to bruise her skin, yanking her into you without care for blood—or would you guide her gently, make a home in her innocence and hold her more dearly than life ever could? Either way, your desire for Cairo would be so apparent that you couldn’t help yourself.

The dip of your tongue in her navel, the little smirk you’d undoubtedly wear as you went down further—would you go for her throbbing clit first, or would your lips press so warm—she didn’t know. She didn’t have to, content with all those different versions of you unfurling before her. In her bedroom, each time she moved her hips, it became easier to imagine you guiding her actions, the bump of your nose on her folds, damned if not addicting.

Cairo grinned as she fell onto her forearms, hips pushing into the soft pillow without abandon. The slide of her panties soaked with slick against her sensitive clit felt like the delicate press of your splayed hand on her desk as you’d passed, eyes occupied by the text you were holding. It had only been a split second, but it was enough for her to memorize every crease, every vein. Cairo let out a whine, a demanding little sound, as her movements grew erratic. Looking up into the heaven where you must be, she imagined that you’d murmur to her, “I’m here, I’m here, how could I be anywhere else but here?” as you traced the dip in her back. Her arousal took her down every sullied path she’d ever dreamed of, but her mind stuck on one gesture that made her mouth go dry.

She remembered the way your shirt got just a bit untucked when you stretched during the class break. You’d instinctively tucked it back in, quick as you surveyed the class. Cairo thought that you’d dress yourself back up the same way after you bent her over the desk after class, pushing her skirt up and shoving your fingers into her, painting bruises onto her hip bones with how tight you held her.

The two of you would share a mutual understanding that she wanted this, wanted it bad enough for you to take it whenever you saw fit. Cairo decided that today, this time, you’d be as rough as you pleased, a cup of pens clattering to the ground as you pushed her down, forearm across her shoulder blades. Your necklace would be cold on her warm skin, would it be cold on her tongue? You’d put two, three fingers inside, humming in that absentminded way you did. She thought you’d nuzzle into her ear, all lips and sharp teeth, asking if she’d sprayed your favorite hair mist of hers because she hoped you’d notice—she did—and take her, break her, whatever you wanted.

You’d send her plummeting down towards a deeper hell (or was it higher, up to your majestic heaven?), already knowing everything that her body needed. Cairo imagined herself coming so helplessly around the stretch of your fingers, so high strung from nights of trying to mimic the press of your touch on her clit, unable to reach the same heights you sent her to. As she held back tears, eyes on the ceiling in reverence, feeling herself drip to the floor, you’d sigh as your mind wandered to other things already, carelessly running a hand down her back.

Cairo gasped, dropping her nearly finished cigarette in favor of gripping the bed sheets. The white fabric wrinkled around her fingers, reminiscent of your shirt creasing as you’d rolled your sleeves up. This was something new you could show her, just how fast she could come and just how wet it made her. It was a marvel, feeling the fabric cling to her cunt, almost as good as how you’d feel. Resting her forehead in the crook of her elbow, she murmured your name over and over again, a little susurrus of a litany, so similar to your preoccupied hum. Panting, Cairo giggled in her bliss, soft and bright as Californian oranges clinging to rich leaves. You were dark enough to be tucked into the wrinkles in the soft pillow, dark enough for Cairo to love, as a journal loves a secret.

Sated, Cairo grabbed her phone and typed your name in. The results spilled out, and she scrolled, looking for all of the details in the background of your social media posts, curiously drunk on the year’s gap in your CV. Cairo noticed the perfect little circle where the cigarette had burned when she dropped it, and she brushed away the remnants. The gesture smeared the ash on the sheets.

—

Walking into your office with barely a knock, Cairo took in the familiar room of an academic, but with your unfamiliar knick knacks around the place. A lighter, a leather wallet, glasses and wired headphones. You didn’t look surprised as you glanced up from your laptop. Instead, you smiled.

“Cairo, isn’t it?”

A flush of pleasure shot straight into her—you remembered. She nodded. Your shelves were covered in books and stacks of reviews, the morning’s leftover cup of coffee sitting on one of the ledges. Did you smoke before, or after your coffee? The terrible, terrible want to replace the taste of smoke on your tongue with the taste of her gave Cairo just the confidence she needed.

“What can I do for you?”

Cairo leaned over your desk, watching the way your eyes dropped to her burgundy lipstick. “Would you be able to help me on the Aristophanes reading?” She pushed her copy of The Clouds towards you. “I can’t seem to grasp it.” Your eyes met hers. “Of course.”

a/n cont'd: can you read my mind, i’ve been watching you… there’s just something about you, baby… ♪ / hope you enjoyed @woewriting :)

please do not repost, reproduce, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way. thank you!

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literaryvein-reblogs · 1 month ago

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hi! could you help with describing different sounds of materials and textures? like dripping of water, clinking of glass etc. maybe a vocab list or your advice in general, doesn't matter ☆

Chatter - to click repeatedly or uncontrollably (teeth chattering)

Chime - to make a musical and especially a harmonious sound (clock chimed at midnight)

Clang - to make a loud metallic ringing sound (anvils clanged)

Clatter - to make a rattling sound (dishes clattered)

Clop - a sound made by or as if by a hoof or wooden shoe against the pavement (clop of hooves)

Clunk - the sound of a blow (books fall to the floor with a clunk)

Crackle - to make small sharp sudden repeated noises (fire crackles)

Creak - a prolonged grating/squeaking sound (creaking wheels)

Crinkle - to give forth a thin crackling sound (crinkling silks)

Fizzle - to make a hissing or sputtering sound (fireworks fizzled out)

Grate - to rub or rasp noisily (metal grating)

Gurgle - to make a sound like that of a gurgling liquid (water gurgling through the pipes)

Hiss - to make a sharp sibilant sound (hissing steam)

Jangle - to make a discordant often ringing sound (keys jangling)

Pitter-patter - a rapid succession of light sounds or beats (pitter-patter of rain on the roof)

Pulse - rhythmical beating or sounding (pulsed from the speakers)

Rasp - to produce a grating sound (rasp of steel)

Rattle - a rapid succession of short sharp noises (windows rattled)

Ripple - to play with a slight rise and fall of sound (rippling water)

Ruffle - a low vibrating drumbeat (ruffle the pages of a book)

Rumble - to make a low heavy rolling sound (thunder rumbling)

Rustle - a quick succession of small sounds (rustling leaves)

Scrape - a sound made by scraping (chairs scraping against the floor)

Sizzle - to make a hissing sound (a sizzling pan)

Slosh - the slap or splash of liquid (water sloshed around)

Splash - to make a sloshing sound (waves splashing)

Splutter - to make a noise as if spitting (spluttering engine)

Squeak - to utter or make a short shrill cry or noise (squeaking wheel)

Susurration - a whispering sound; murmur (susurration of waves)

Throb - to beat or vibrate rhythmically (throbbing beat of the bass)

Thrum - to sound with a monotonous hum (wings thrumming)

Thud - a dull sound (bag landed on the floor with a thud)

Thump - to strike or beat with or as if with something thick or heavy so as to cause a dull sound (thump of footsteps on the stairs)

Whish - to make a sibilant sound (baseball whished past)

Whiz - a hissing, buzzing, or whirring sound (cars whiz by)

Some Words to Describe Different Sounds

Harsh or loud. If you want to articulate abrupt, piercing, or loud noises, use: beep, bellow, blare, cackle, clack, clang, clank, clink, croak, earsplitting, full blast, grating, high frequency, huff, jarring, rasp, rumble, scrunch, shriek, toot, twang, vibrating, wail, and zap.

Soft or subtle sounds. Some descriptors to use to evoke quiet noises: breathy, chime, droning, fizz, glug, gurgle, jingle, moan, sizzle, squish, swish, swoosh, tinkle, trill, wheeze, whir, and whoosh.

Animal sounds to describe noises. English language readers often associate these words with animal noises, but you can use them to create imaginative descriptions of other sounds: bleat, bray, chirping, cluck, hoot, howl, meow, neigh, purr, quack, roar, woof, and yelp.

How to Write With Sound

Auditory imagery engages the sense of hearing.

Literary devices (onomatopoeia; alliteration) can help create sounds in writing.

Sound is a great sense to use to create a mood.

Consider two scenes of the same forest:

You might describe the chirping of many small birds, the rustle of small mammals moving through the softly falling leaves, or the whispering of a breeze through the trees. This creates a particular atmosphere, one that seems peaceful and maybe even a little magical.

Now consider another set of sounds from the same forest. Somewhere in the distance you hear the howl of an unidentifiable animal. Nearer to you, the creak of an old branch, followed by the snap of a twig. The wind, when you hear it, seems to moan.

The same two descriptions of a forest can create entirely different atmospheres with sensory language. Some exercises:

Carry a notebook with you as you go about your normal day.

Pay attention to the sounds you notice and write them down as you go.

Does your coffeemaker whistle, or would you say it hisses?

Do the sirens of emergency vehicles wail, or perhaps blare?

Does your door squeak?

The more you can become attentive to these things, the more you’ll be able to incorporate them into your writing.

Use onomatopoeia to help capture the sound of a scene:

The plop of a frog dropping into a pond

The clink of two champagne glasses

The crackle of a dry log on a hot fire

The whoosh of a car racing by

Onomatopoeic Words: hiss, ping, crunch, pop, sizzle, bang, swish, smash, flutter, clunk, peck, whistle, smack, whack, hush, whir, tip-toe, thud, zap, twang, cock-a-doodle-doo, squish, stomp, tap, thump, splash, purr, tinkle, gush, kerplunk, slurp, swirl, crash, whirl, clang, mumble, squeak, boom, meow, cuckoo, pow, splat, quack, screech, zoom, tick-tock, burp, clip-clop, eek, hiccup, moo, oink, buzz

In general, though, you’ll want to be judicious about using onomatopoeia, unless you’re going for a deliberately cheesy, comic book-type effect.

Tips for Describing Sounds in Writing

Consider your purpose. As you begin a project, decide if you want to render a specific experience faithfully or creatively. Consider the target audience for your creative writing, blog, or journalism. Understanding your goal and audience helps you make descriptors more effective and precise.

Employ onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeia is a type of sensory language in which the descriptive word sounds like what it describes—words like “drip,” “bang,” or “plink.” If you want to achieve an especially sound-driven description, consider using existing onomatopoeic words or craft your own.

Pay attention to verbs. While adjectives (words like “loud” or “sharp”) are the obvious choice for describing sounds, verbs are a powerful tool that can also help you achieve a strong description. For example, saying, “the jet was loud” is accurate and descriptive, while “the jet screamed” evokes an even stronger sense of the sound.

Sometimes less is more. Descriptions are most effective when focused, allowing readers to zero in on the essential details. If you include too many synonyms or attach multiple adjectives to each noun, you can overwhelm or confuse readers.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ 100 Sensory Words

Hope this helps with your writing! :)

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ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused · 4 months ago

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I have recently become obsessed with Logan (I haven’t even seen the new movie yet!) I would love to request a bookworm!reader and Logan pairing. Like the two of them could not be more opposite and everyone is confused about why they are together except for them! Take your time I know you just got back from a break, I’m sure I’ll love whatever you do if you decide to do it! Even if you don’t decide to write it know that I think you’re awesome and really cool and I hope that you have sweet dreams and clear skin for the rest of your days 💕

fem plus size bookworm!reader, wc: 407.

a/n: this was such a welcome reprieve you don't understand! this fic literally has such a mystical vibe, i don't know how to even explain it. this is so seriously fluffy!!

Days spent with Logan are quiet ones.

Your dynamic is laughable really; the self-proclaimed hot-headed Wolverine often finds himself wherever you are, which is more often than not the school’s library.

Sure, you have your own personal room with more than enough comfortable furniture to house your bottom, but you are attracted to the literary aesthetics that comes with being surrounded by constant knowledge and information.

You love the small sounds of pages of books being turned, pencils scratching on paper, and pens dropping to the floor, plus, it doesn’t hurt that there’s a large window that houses comfortable bay seating, giving you a cushiony view out into the gardens.

It feels like a breath of fresh air amongst the crime fighting and world saving. A reprieve.

Logan’s come to find himself enjoying the library as well. It’s hard for him to settle down, to get comfortable and just relax. He feels like he has to be on his a-game all the time when that simply is just not the case. There’s always another shoe to drop, because if there isn’t, what is he supposed to do?

Well, since he’s gotten with you, he just sits.

It’s not like you force him too or anything, he chooses to do it. He chooses to sit at your feet on the bay window as well, sometimes pulling them into his lap to massage your calves mindlessly. Sometimes he’ll even pick up a book for himself.

That isn’t to say that there isn’t any silent chatter, but Logan’s a horrible whisperer, something that you’ve teased him about before. It took him a long time to realize that he’d do anything for you. He’d go where you’d go, and if that’s to somewhere as monotonous as the library, then so be it.

On days where he’s busy, he already knows where to locate you once he comes home, he doesn’t even have to rely on his enhanced smell, even though he does it anyway because you always wear his favorite perfume.

It’s always a serendipitous meeting when he finds you curled up in your spot. Sometimes you’re asleep, snoozing quietly with your head resting on the pane of the window, or you’re so lost in your own world that you don’t even notice him.

It’s okay, because he once recalls you telling him, “Even though I’ve lived hundreds of lives in my stories, this one will always be my favorite.”

He can’t help but agree.

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thefiery-phoenix · 9 months ago

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YANDERE THOMAS SHELBY HEADCANONS

There is a REASON he is known as the Devil of Small Heath around Birmingham. Pretty much all the men who come for a drink at the Garrison have the common sense not to mess with Thomas Shelby, just by hearing his mere name sends shivers up people's spines and for a reason too because of his dark deeds against people who stand against him. If there's one thing he values the most, it's family. He's willing to kill anyone who dares to prove to be a danger to his family

You were new to the city of Birmingham after completing your education overseas at a reputed university and you had a dream and passion for becoming a writer, to make a name for yourself in the literary world. You were supposed to meet your childhood friend Russell whom you've known ever since the two of you were in your school days as you opened the door to the Garrison and took a shaky breath as you entered the pub and sat down on a stool. You fidgeted with the sleeves of your dress nervously as you'd never had the habit of consuming alcohol much less even stepping foot inside a pub. The bartender Harry Fenton's eyes landed on you, as he had a polite smile on his face. "Where are you from miss, haven't seen you around here'' he said in a friendly tone as you told him about you visiting Birmingham for the first time and how you were supposed to meet your friend Russell. The bartender offered you a drink on the house but you politely declined as his lips curved into an amused smile at your refusal, finding it amusing that even though you were in a bar, you'd refused a drink of alcohol. Little did you know, there were 3 pairs of eyes watching you without your knowledge from a nearby booth

"Oh, she's new. Haven't seen her around'' said Ada to her brothers as she sipped her drink and looked at you with an interested expression on her face. "I know...she looks like a goody two shoes, bein' in a pub an all and not drinkin'' said Arthur as he smirked to himself as he gulped down his beer. "I know...real beauty ain't she?" said John as he grinned and took a swig of his drink as the three of them started discussing about you. Just then, they went quiet when Thomas entered wearing his glasses, his smart black suit along with Polly by his side as the two of them sat down at the booth with the rest of them. "Alfie's men are causing trouble again...need to get rid of that bloody dolt for good'' grumbled Tommy as he fished in his pocket for a cigar and lit it as he took a puff of smoke and sighed. His eyes fell on John who was still staring at you as his gaze landed on you as well and he surveyed you with his calculating piercing gaze. "Whos' she?" he asked the others with a stoic expression on his face as they told him about you and how you were waiting for someone

He couldn't help but feel slightly amused when he heard you wanted to become a writer at Birmingham of all places which was definitely NOT the place for you in his opinion. Yet his eyes never left you, as he kept observing you from a distance. "Oh, looks like you fancy her now don't you?" asked Ada in a teasing voice. "Shut up Ada'' he retorted as he continued to look at you. However a few seconds later he spotted some lousy drunk sleazebag trying to make you uncomfortable as he kept getting too close to you and you had an uncomfortable expression on your face. You tried to keep politely declining his offer to join him for the night but the man finally had enough as he grabbed your wrist. "I'll show you what happens to wenches like you who think they're too good for the world...little brat'' he drawled as his eyes traveled down your body hungrily. Within a matter of a few seconds, the man let out a sharp scream of pain as the whole pub fell silent and the chatter around you ceased at once

"She said no...'' said Thomas in a cold voice as he glared at the man who tried to have his way with you and twisted his hand till the man fell on his knees, writhing and groaning in pain. "Pathetic...next time you do something like that, I'll be sure to actually cut your bloody hand off and feed it to the dogs'' said Thomas as he looked down at the man in contempt as the man whimpered and got up and left. Thomas looked at you as you thanked him and he waved his hand dismissively telling you it was nothing, Deep down, secretly, there was a part of him that was glad he could just help you in time. Your friend Russell arrived into the pub a few seconds later as he looked at Thomas with a slightly pale expression on his face. "How about you be punctual on time and not make a lady wait...'' said Thomas as he glared at Russell before he went back to join the others at the booth and continued to stare at you and Russell talking with each other. He hated the feeling that was rising in his chest when he saw you talking to someone else, it was a bitter feeling bubbling inside him

Russell and you talked about your old school memories and how things were back in your childhood days as the two of you caught up with each other on what was going on in each other's lives. Thomas couldn't stand the way you were laughing at that moron's dull jokes, as he scoffed slightly to himself. He saw Russell hugging you which made him clench his fists till his knuckles turned white and he couldn't understand why the hell he was behaving like this for someone he'd just met. Yet, he didn't like the feeling of seeing you with that dimwit. Congratulations, you've managed to spike his curiosity regarding you so you now have the most dangerous mobster in all of Birmingham at your back. He's determined to find out more about you when he's determined to do something, he takes his task at hand very seriously

He'll have Arthur and John dig up information regarding you for him, everything from your history to your daily activities and your likes and dislikes. He's a complete stalker and blends really well in the shadows, his family don't even call him out for his behavior, they're just glad he's finally found someone to love and don't see anything wrong with his obsessive and possessive behavior towards you. Polly is looking forward to making you a part of the family as soon as possible. He'll start off slow, getting to actually know you personally and talking to you. He likes your company and likes hearing your voice. It soothes him and whenever you tell him something about yourself, he'll just smirk slightly to himself since he already knows everything about you, nothing he hasn't heard of before but he'll still play along for your sake

He'll start leaving little gifts at your doorstep like your favorite chocolates or a pretty dress for you to wear or something like that or some of your favorite flowers. You have a feeling like you're being stalked and when you rush to him for protection, his eyes glint with amusement, oh you sweet child, you truly had no idea. But all the same, he's glad and pleased he was the first one to come to your mind when you felt like you needed protection and he's more than willing and pleased to protect you and keep you safe. Rivals? What rivals? He's Thomas FOOKIN Shelby of the Peaky Blinders, when he wants something, he gets it. It's best if you don't know how many people's he's killed for daring to get too close to you. He'll either send John and Arthur to abduct the schmuck in the middle of the night and take the person to a deserted secluded location where Thomas will just use a single bullet to put the lousy scumbag who dared to lay his filthy eyes on you to put them to sleep permanently

He WANTS you to rely on him, it just feeds into that god complex ego of his, but also because he loves you, in his own twisted manner of course. He hates it when you show interest in someone else who's not him, it's like you're insulting him to his face and telling him that he's not good enough for you. Deep down he's just insecure and he doesn't want to lose you, he's already lost plenty of important people in his life and the last thing he wants is to lose you too

He's a control freak, he wants to know EVERY thing that happens in your life and his men are ALWAYS watching your every move. He finally decides to take things to the next step and approaches your parents to ask them for permission to marry you while you aren't in the house. Your father is slightly surprised to see Thomas standing outside his house as he invites him in and after the usual small talk and serving tea, Thomas clears his throat and decides to speak. "Sir...I would like to marry your daughter'' he said as the atmosphere became slightly tense. "Mr. Shelby, with all due respect, I am a father who wishes the best for his daughter. I know what kind of man you are Mr. Shelby, my daughter shall not marry a man as dangerous as you where her life would be at stake constantly or get thrown into the madness of the underworld. Please refrain from seeing my daughter again'' said your father in a firm tone as your mother agreed with his words. Thomas had to hand it to your dad, he was a gutsy courageous man who could actually stand up to him which would make things far more interesting

Seeing your parents and asking them for their permission was merely a formality, he already made preparations to being you to Arrow House which even your parents could not stop. "Mr. L/N, you are a smart man, a father who's willing to protect his darling daughter and I admire that to a certain extent. Your daughter WILL be mine one way or another, coming to see you was just a mere formality. Good day'' said Thomas as he put on his hat and enjoyed the way your father's expression turned pale at his words

That night after you returned back home from your publishing office and you set your books down, during dinner, you saw your parents looking slightly tense and nervous than usual. "Mom, dad...what's the matter'' you asked them gently as they stared at you with mournful looks on their faces. Your mother took a shaky breath before she spoke "Darling...your father and I love you very much, but you...you need to leave Birmingham immediately. It's for your own good'' You stared at them in shock, what were they saying? "Mom, dad... have I...have I become a burden to you both?'' you whispered as your eyes welled up with tears. "Shush child. Don't say such nonsense. You are the light of our lives but that man Thomas Shelby is a dangerous man...he's a relentless monster who wants to make you his and I'll be damned to let my darling daughter get married to a monster like him...you are to leave Birmingham immediately. We've already packed your trunk, you'll be taking the next train to Istanbul where you'll be staying with your aunt and uncle there for a while...it's just temporary my dear...hopefully'' said your father in a gentle tone as he sighed heavily and his eyes welled with tears too

"Mom...dad...I don't want to go, please...'' you said as you sniffed sadly. "It is not up for argument pumpkin, it's for your safety'' said your mother as she said as her voice cracked with emotion and she gulped down a glass of water. After dinner was over, you sat in the carriage with Russell who helped you with your trunk and you hugged your parents as tears streamed down your cheeks, you didn't know how long it would be before you'd get to see them again. You made it to the railway station and got out of the carriage as Russell helped you with your trunk. "It's for your own good you know, Thomas Shelby is a dangerous man...your parents are right. I'll miss you, don't worry, we'll keep in touch with letters'' said Russell as he placed a comforting arm around your shoulder. There weren't any people at the station since it was midnight but you thought it might work in your favor, unaware of what the universe had in store for you

"Step away from my future wife before I shoot you'' said a familiar voice nearby as you saw Thomas and the rest of the men from his Peaky Blinders gang head towards you. Your eyes widened in horror as you tried to back away from them when Russell stood in front of you to protect you from them. "Leave her alone Shelby'' he said. "Tch...how annoying, you know, I'm not a man with regrets but I regret not killing you that day at the Garrison. Not to worry, that can be arranged today'' said Thomas as he brought out a revolver and after a loud bang, your dear friend Russell was now on the ground dead, his eyes looking lifeless as the blood oozed out from his wound and you let out a scream of horror as tears streamed down your eyes. The train to Istanbul was approaching as you saw the train from a distance and your heart almost leapt from relief, this was your chance to escape and leave

John and Arthur held you by your arms and prevented you from escaping as you flailed and screeched on top of your lungs. "Shhh... don't worry, you'll be happy with me. Just be a good girl for me...I'll keep you safe'' he said and those were the last words you heard from him before a rag was placed on your face and you passed out. His passion for your love is beautiful and terrifying at the same time, laced with extreme obsessiveness and devotion to keep you safe. Love truly was the most powerful force of all...

#yandere thomas shelby #yandere thomas shelby x reader #yandere thomas shelby scenarios #yandere thomas shelby headcanons #yandere thomas shelby oneshots #yandere thomas shelby imagines #yandere thomas shelby x reader oneshots #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby headcanons #dark thomas shelby #dark thomas shelby x reader #dark thomas shelby imagines #peaky blinders #yandere peaky blinders x reader #yandere peaky blinders characters #yandere peaky blinders characters x reader #dark peaky blinders #dark peaky blinders x reader

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hedonistbyheart · 8 months ago

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I talked about Twofs with my friend who doesn’t like it recently and she had the most hilarious description of why it didn't work for her. She was like:

"Reading it is like if something really exciting was happening in front of you, that you desperately wanted to see, and then suddenly a little watchmaker and a pianist walked in front of you and sat down to have tea. You're trying to see what's happening behind them, but they won't budge and they're just having tea!"

Somehow that's very spot on, but as I explained to her, I really enjoy watching the watchmaker and his pianist have tea.

#literary chatter #twofs #pulleyverse #Natasha Pulley #I obsess so much over tiny gestures and careful interactions that it's perfect for me #the mystery is just a delightful bonus lol

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son-of-a-top-gun · 1 year ago

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Sky's the Limit (part 1)

Hello all, so I rewatched Top Gun Maverick last night and was inspired to finally finish this enemies-to-lovers series I've had in my drafts for literally months featuring everyone's fav sexy asshole Hangman!

Warnings: two idiots as usual, Jake being arrogant, innuendo, author fem!reader

Sky's The Limit

You take off your glasses and slump your face into your hands. You had been staring at the same blank document for the last two hours and still had not typed a single word. You hear the bar door swing open and chatter filling the bar, but you do not look away, instead keeping your face in your palms.

When your Aunt Penny had offered you the chance to stay with her in sunny San Diego over the summer to finish your long-awaited second book, you practically leapt at the chance. Back in New York, your agent, publisher and frankly every literary magazine were rabidly awaiting the next brilliant idea from bestselling debut author ‘Sky Bentley’. What you couldn’t tell them was that ‘Sky’ didn’t have a single clue what that brilliant idea was. So you had leapt at the chance to not be Sky, just for a little bit, while you tried to figure out your next steps.

You had only been in San Diego less than 12 hours before scuttling down to the Hard Deck. You had loved spending your summers here as a teenager, but hadn’t managed to come back since graduating from NYU. You had tried writing in the house this morning, but Amelia had some friends around and you couldn’t think with all their excitable chatter, so here you were. You knew the bar was pretty empty during the day, but the day was rapidly turning to evening and it was becoming less quiet. But you could tune it out. Until.

“You know darlin’, this is a bar not a library right?”

***

When Jake Seresin walked into the Hard Deck that day, he had assumed it was just another quiet evening as usual. He had strolled over to the pool table as usual, confident that he would win, as usual, when something caught his eye. Unusual.

There was a person sat in a booth, who was…working? It was hard to discern much, except they were wearing a baggy Top Gun T-shirt and what looks like short shorts, although they are sitting cross legged so it’s hard to tell. Judging by this and the messy bun, he thought it might be a girl, but he wasn’t not sure. They had a computer out, but their head was slumped in their hands, with glasses strewn to the side. He had never seen anyone try to work in the Hard Deck in the whole time he has been coming here, especially not at 5pm on a Friday.

“Who’s that?” He asked Javy, who is setting up the balls.

“Damned if I know.” Jake looked over in thought. Javy elbows Payback. “Hey, maybe we’ve found a girl in California that Hangman has managed not to sleep with.” Phoenix coughs. “Except you of course, Natasha.”

Jake smirked and started walking over. He loved a new game.

“Well, not for long.” Javy sighed. Nat considered the scene more closely. She had a good feeling about this.

“How much are you willing to bet?”

***

“Sorry?”

When you finally remove your hands, your vision is still blurry. You can tell there’s some sort of guy in front of you, in what looks like Navy uniform. Fantastic. It was hard to tell as you looked around for your glasses, but you had dealt with enough of these kinds of guys at family parties. Just another meathead who would say the same old shit as they always did.

“Pardon my manners, sweetheart but you seem to be lost. The library is -” Before he can finish, you cut him off.

“Oh yes, actually, I think I am lost. I thought I was at the Hard Deck, but from the looks of you this is where Chippendales go to die? I hope you don’t mind but I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling, thanks.”

You hear him laugh a little.

“I’m pretty sure we’re the same age.”

You look around for your glasses.

“Sure, whatever the Viagra guys keep telling you, buddy.” You can see him fold his arms out of the corner of your eye, but you ignore him, continuing to search for your glasses. Silence ensues for what seems like forever.

“I think you’re looking for these, Grandma.” He hands you your glasses, and you snatch them out of his hands.

“Thanks.” You put them on. You see him properly now. He’s tanned, blond and incredibly handsome, like he’s walked straight out of a Hollister ad. He leans back, arms still folding and biceps definitely flexing and your heart skips a little. Sure, it had been a while since you had gotten some, but then he smirks and it’s clear that he’s the sort of handsome asshole who knows how good-looking he is. You roll your eyes and straighten up, folding your laptop.

“I’ve gotta go. It was a real displeasure meeting you,” You stand up, but before you can turn around, you hear a familiar voice.

“Ladybug! It’s you!”

“Bradley?” At this point Bradley Bradshaw swans into the bar, wearing one of his usual god awful Hawaiian shirts and plants a kiss on the top of your head.

“Ladybug?” Navy Ken raises an eyebrow. Bradley turns and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, I should have known you’d be sniffing around here already.” Bradley turns back to you. “You’ve had the pleasure of meeting Bagman, I see?”

“Bagman?” You mimic Bagman’s expression, complete with raised eyebrow.

“It’s Hangman. Although most people know me as Lieutenant Jake Seresin.” Jake winks at you. “At your service.” You scoff.

“If I’m at your service, I think I’ll rather die.”

At this point Bradley lets rip with a belly laugh, placing a hand on a bare stretch of your arm. You swear you see Hangman’s jaw tense a little.

“How do you two know each other again?”

“Me and Ladybug grew up together.”

“We’re old family friends. Bradley used to babysit me and my sister when we were little.”

“And look at you all grown up now, some bigshot fancy auth-” You shoot him a glare. Bradley is one of the few people in the world you’ve trusted with your secret, and you explicitly told him not to tell anyone. You just wanted a summer to be normal, with no pressure.

“Fancy what?” Jake looks you up and down.

“Academic. She’s a pHD student.” Bradley says immediately. Damn, that was quick, you think to yourself. You look up at him. Was Bradley always this good at lying?

“Yeah. English lit. Here working on my thesis.You wouldn’t be interested.” You make sure to put extra venom in the ‘you’.

Bagman’s furrowed brow offers a little fake smile, but before he can retort, Bradley leads you over to the other aviators. While you are a little tense going into the group of navy guys, most of them are immediately friendly. You struggle to remember everyone’s real names and call signs, but they don’t seem to mind. In particular, the girl, who is called Natasha, links arms and drags you off to a corner.

“Thank god you’re here. It will be nice to have another woman in the midst.”

“Honestly, it would be nice to just have someone who isn’t a pilot”. Her lanky WSO pipes up. “I heard you were doing a English lit degree.”

“Oh, er, yeah. It’s Bob right?” I mean it was sort of true. Except you had completed said degree about five years ago, but it certainly helped as Bob started enthusiastically talking about books. He was cute, and you were trying to reply, but you found it hard to focus when you could feel a certain pair of green eyes boring into you from the other side of the pool table. You deliberately refused to look in Hangman’s direction the rest of the night, until you couldn’t stand it any longer.

You stride over and gently put your hand on the guy who you think is called Fanboy.

“Do you mind if I take this?” You pick up the cue. He nods and you turn back to Hangman. “Right, are you going to play me or what?”

He tilts his head in disbelief. “Darlin’ are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Well, darlin’ If it means you stop staring at me like a wounded puppy all night, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The rest of the squad have all dropped their conversations to turn and stare at the two of you.

“Suit yourself.” He sets up the balls to break, before leaning over to whisper in your ear. “Just remember if it gets too much, you can always beg me to stop, Ladybug.”

You try not to react. After all, it’s better he thinks like this. Having watched him play the last few games, he was clearly a very good player, but you knew you have to play the player, not the game. As you break, the game begins fairly normally. He manages to pot a few in quick succession, looking visibly relaxed with a gloating smile over his beer. You deliberately shuffle, and readjust until you can tell he’s stopped looking at you. This is the time you make your move, potting several balls to take a significant lead. Jake turns back suddenly, his jaw slackening a moment before regaining composure. You can hear Bradley stifle a snigger. Being dragged around from base to base with few kids your age to play with meant that Bradley had grown up watching you whoop the ass of everyone you played at pool since the age of eight.

“Something funny, Rooster?” Jake’s head swivels around.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Jake starts playing more ferociously, almost clawing it back until you’re both got two balls left. You walk past.

“If it gets too much, you can always beg me to stop.” You look him up and down, before you whisper in his ear. “I like a man on his knees.” Jake’s cheek flushes and with that you pot the final two, claiming victory. You yawn. “I think I need to head home, but it was lovely to meet you all. Well almost all of you.” You blow a kiss to Jake, before waving goodbye and swiftly leaving after giving Bradley a hug. The rest of the group stand in stunned silence.

Jake raises one hand. “Don’t say anything.”

****

Jake lies on his bed. He couldn’t sleep. This was unusual. Well, not the not sleeping part. He always struggled to get asleep. At least, when he was sleeping alone. That’s why he made an effort not to. But tonight was different.

For one, it was rare for him to be alone in bed on a Friday night. But he had been so distracted, he hadn’t even managed to follow up with the pretty blonde who had asked for his number at the bar.

He couldn’t stop thinking about your stupid face.You and your stupid face and stupid glasses and stupid lips and the stupid way you said on your knees-

He got up and paced around the room.

This would simply not do.

Not only were you completely infuriating, but you beat the great Jake Seresin at pool. Bradley said you were here for the whole summer. So Jake had some time to get his own back. But how? He had noticed something odd about the way you looked at Bradley when he mentioned your pHD. Something was up, Jake could just tell, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. But not before he had a cold shower first.

part two

#jake seresin x y/n #top gun maverick #top gun fanfiction #top gun hangman #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #hangman top gun #jake hangman seresin x reader

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transannabeth · 10 months ago

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[outsources my creative endeavours to tumblr]

#looking for:#literary agent book deal conventions to apply to people to watch my streams people to listen to my podcast people to buy my merch #not pjo #chitter chatter #yeah im having a GREAT time its SO FINE

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noxturnalmoth · 7 days ago

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Literary Service

Life is a cruel mother but a great teacher. In Noxus, where life is but an afterthought, war raises its people with an iron fist. Whether they like it or not. So when one is courageous enough to escape, they learn to take all that life has to offer, even if it has to be by the skin of their teeth. What would happen if the scholarship that provided you with an escape made you encounter a man as great with his words as he is with hiding the festering wounds in his heart? And what if he was your teacher?

Chapter 2: The Art of War

"You can call me Mr.Marlowe or Professor Marlowe, no casual naming shall be used when talking to or about me. I will be your literature professor this year, and should you find yourself unlucky, for the remainder of your years in this major aswell." His voice no louder than the noise of the chattering surrounding you, yet commanding silence as soon as its gravelly drawl bounces in the large room. High ceiling carrying his voice, the sound wrapping around each student and inspiring total obedience. His gait was slow, deliberate like a predator waiting on its prey, and with his gaze on you it certainly felt as if you were his next meal. You remember his warmth the day prior, although his pale skin was as cold as fine porcelain, and the gentleness of his touch. You also remember the burning orange eye, scalding as the flames that destroyed your home long ago, the bright iris glowing in the middle of a sclera as black as the obsidian freezing the rolling rage deep below your skin. He was an entirely different man in the class, all traces of softness gone, instead stood a comandeering presence; a relaxed and practiced straightness elongated his spine, prolonged by strong squared shoulders.

His eyes leave you as he drags them lazily over the rest of your class, a hand caressing his desk as he walks around it, sitting himself nonchalantly in his chair as he fishes a flash drive from his briefcase. When he turns the class computer on and turns the projector on, showcasing a list of titles, you brighten up. When you arrived in Zaun and were cradled back to health by your benefactors, you couldn't move for a month and searing pain took you as you walked for the next two. So you decided to use the time you had before class to do some research, entering your name in the Zaun Tech site and entering the student space. There were displayed your name, origin, major, and some messages from the board and teachers were in your message box, mainly congratulating you and welcoming you to the school. One was out of the ordinary though.

First year litterature students,

And if you find this to be a hassle, do not come whining to me about being unable to follow my class as I will not wait for you. You should read at least one book to spare both yourself and I some extra work.

as I do each year year, I have compiled here titles that you can, if you so wish, browse through at your leisure. The mind, like a blade, needs sharpening and the long summer break leaves it dull. So hone your reading lest you wish to complicate your back to school with warming up the slow inner mechanisms of your heads.

Welcome to the Zaun Technical College,

S. Marlowe.

And attached to it was a list of ten books ranging from classical litterature, to science-fiction, horror, gothic romance, young adult, poetry and even military strategy. The last one was no stranger to you, and although the other books had been delightful reads from the depth of your bed with your left leg and back surrounded by braces, your thoughts compiled into your notebook, something about the Art of War brought an uneasy sense of relief to you. It was waters you had sailed through before, and reading through the book felt more like gazing at memories you'd rather forget, with all its words engrained in your head, the book quickly discarded before you devoured what remained.

Mr. Marlowe walked back in front of his desk, leaning against it with his hips held by its edge as his wiry form crossed both arms and legs. "Although the list was not mandatory I hope you have read from it. Who amongst you has read through at least half of it?" His voice all but sneers, a dark irritated edge hardening the curve of his eye as he looked to the handful of hands spearing the air. "And I don't suppose anyone has read all of them." He says, words clipped and cold, rattling through the rest of the young people surrounding you. But his face tenses into a surprised frown as you raise your hand, his eyebrows softening in the early afternoon light. His tight sneer calming into a relaxed slight smirk, his head tilting to the side. "Did you now? Then I suppose I will hear a lot from you in this class?" He croons teasingly, his eyes disbelieving, the tumultuous seas of his stormy ocean eyes softened by the glow of something fonder. And as you place your arm back on your table and fiddle with your fingers at the sudden attention from everyone in the amphitheater, you nod a single assured shake of the head that has him huffing. Although from how he relaxed, it was something more akin to a genuine laugh than a mockery, but this man didn't seem to be the type to do the former so you could only theorize.

The class falls into complete silence as he snaps his fingers towards the first title, The Divine Comedy, an echoing sharp sound that sends your atoms in a frenzy as you straighten. A couple of classmates scramble to explain the book's plot, its genre, its author Dante Alighieri, and its publishing date in a messy and unstructured heap of words. An almost bored nod shakes Mr.Marlowe's head as he listens to the rushed and simplified explanations from students that either read through an explanation of said book, or simply skimmed it. Another snap of his fingers rang, slicing through the meek scrambling voices like a seamstress' scissors through silk. The next title, The Mask of The Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe, was described by mumbled answers forced out of students' mouths followed by yet another snap. The Shining, snap. The Hunger Games, snap. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, snap. Again and again, until the last book. Your face screwing in discomfort at obvious fallacies and poor research or reading comprehension as your classmates presented the tomes compiled in the professor's list. The atmosphere became heavy as the last snap rang, students looking at each other and whispering in rushed and scared voices from the display of power from the tall, lithe and commanding man. His dark clothes sucking up all the light in the warmly lit cream colored room, wordlessly ordering attention towards his form, eye lidded, body relaxed yet seemingly ready to pounce, although at what you had no idea.

"The Art of War by Master Sun Tzu, sir." His head tilts as a heavy exhale leaves his lungs and a small rictus makes its way to his sneering lips, slicing through his face like a butcher's cleaver saws flesh and bone. Dissatisfied nonchalance replaced by something akin to patient curiosity, nothing but the slight shift of his shoulders and the light unclenching of his hands and jaw to prove the change. "The Art of War or Sūnzǐ Bīngfǎ, was written approximately in the 5th century by Ionian born Noxian commander Master Sun Tzu. It contains 13 chapters, each devoted to a certain skillset or as he called them 'arts' and their applications in military strategy and tactics. Another Ionian born Noxian warrior, Sir Shenzong of Song, used The Art of War to create his anthology: the Seven Military Classics. The original is mostly known for the quote 'know thy enemy' although one of those most revered amongst Noxians is: 'When the enemy is relaxed, make them toil. When full, starve them. When settled, make them move'." You recite, words flowing from your mouth before your brain could follow, it was an easy yet impossible task to speak those words that were carved into your flesh many years ago. But as you look back up, your ashamed gaze heavy and dragging your head down into a bow, your eyes find Mr.Marlowe.

His face had relaxed, jaw unclenched, arms holding him in a backwards lean against his desk as the teal of his iris drinked in your form, like small sips from a tumbler full of expensive whiskey. The intensity of his gaze was akin to a sandstorm in the burning deserts of Shurima, but it was not violent. No, it was inquisitive, your words had been too smooth and calculated, as if repeated time and time again, your body had stiffened in a strained familiar manner, eyes blank; and you knew it. Just like he'd uttered his commands yesterday, your body reacted to the book similarly, bone deep obedience dripping from your very being yet no weakness in sight, a perfect little carved wooden soldier albeit worn by time and use. Your lips purse. "Piltovan priest Jesuit Jean Joseph Amiot translated it and published the final version in 1772, although it was republished in 1782. The Demacian Lionel Giles also published his own annotated version in 1910." You trail off, hands cupping over one another in an attempt for comfort as your classmates eyes pierce through you like poisoned daggers. The acrid taste of what feels like bitter judgement slowly pooling in your stomach before being soothed by three, slow methodical claps coming from the man at the front of the room. "You lot should take notes into how to properly present literary works like.." He tilts his head at you and you reveal your name, voice tight at uttering it around so many people whose attention was placed solely on you. Mr. Marlowe nods and repeats your name, using it to end his sentence, finality ringing like a blacksmith striking his hammer onto glowing metal.

The rest of class is spent with the svelte man describing the syllabus, his office hours and explaining what his teaching method entailed. He was harsh, expectant, refused to push deadlines unless catastrophic events struck, but he would never refuse to help and re-explain as many times as needed and was just in his grading. Soon came the time to leave and as you stood up, one hand holding your table and the other your crutch, you felt the throbbing pain of earlier's rushing make its way through your weary bones. A quick look at your phone showcased the hour, your next class would be in quite a while but with how unfamiliar you were with the campus and your limp you knew it'd take longer than it would've, had you been able bodied. Your spiral notebook and pencil case were soon back in their place in your messenger bag as you made your way out of the room. "Could I steal you for a moment before you get to where you need to be?" The gravelly yet deceptively soft voice of Mr.Marlowe made itself known as you turned. Eyeing the now sitting man, one hand elegantly holding a pen as he wrote down notes while the other held his head up, at his words you felt a pull and, unable to resist it, one foot stepped forward.

So you made your way towards him, body reacting before you could even process the words, like a sailor succumbing to a siren's song. Yet again the man had puppeteered your body, it was vexing and terrifying. A heavy weight in your stomach as you struggled to figure why he had such control over you. Were you such a well trained beast that you obeyed orders blindly even from a stranger, or was it just him. But if it was, why was it that he could wipe your mind of all the constant, loud, parasitic noise; how did he do it, and most importantly why did it look like, albeit he was in control, he was as surprised as you were. Maybe it was his gentle touch and patient words from yesterday? It couldn't be that, at least not entirely, because he had broken you out of your violent, monstrous rage before that. Your face sours in thought as you lose yourself in the noise yet again, body straight from your feet to your head as settle into the classic Noxian stance, body searching for any familiarity to comfort itself from your confused train of thought.

"At ease." And yet again, all the tension in your muscles ebbs away like seafoam on jagged boulders, piercing the saltwater surrounding them. Your eyes trail to the sitting man who was still preparing his notes, his handwriting an elegant cursive flowing from his pen with practiced ease. "You seemed to want to correct a lot of what your classmates said." He sighs as he leans back, pen settled on the ink covered paper, arms draped over the arms of the chair, and his eye staring at you with a calm curiosity you were not used to. "Well a lot of their facts were shallow, and I suppose they just didn't organize their ideas properly at times and it felt messy. They also got some informations false. For exemple The Mask of the Red Death is a gothic novella, not a fantasy. And Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone was published in 1997 unlike what they said, the movie though was indeed released in 2001." Voice steady yet almost meek you explain the reasons of your tension during class, one hand rubbing at your nape as a hum vibrates the air around you. Mr.Marlowe was softly swerving to side to side on the office chair, right elbow planted on one of the arms as his hand holds his chin, eyes pensively staring through you, a small smile making its way on his scarred lips. "You did read them all then. Something I have stopped expecting after some time as a professor. There is chance for us yet." He nods absentmindedly and leans forward, elbows on the desk as his hands fold together to hold his chin, the crows feet cornering his eye slowly erased as a sigh pushes its way from his throat as if it was escaping his lungs, rushing out of him. "How have you been fairing since yesterday? I hope rest came easy after such an episode, gods know the remnants of inner demons can still drag you back to hell." Your eyebrows furrow at that, not only had he helped you but he also took it upon himself to oversee your state afterwards. It was strange being given such attention, and although kind people took you in when you arrived in Zaun and nursed you back to health, you still couldn't trust such gentleness blindly; the voices in your head growling and hissing in distrust like a pit of starved vipers. But even through the loud fussing, you still couldn't find it in yourself to lie or hide such informations from him, at least out of respect for his earlier kindness.

"I immediately caved in to sleep, sir. Unfortunately it seems I exhausted more energy than I believed and slept through my first two classes." You hear a sharp intake of breath and, looking up, see his eye narrow, eyes raking up and down like clawed beastly paws trying to rip at your carefully crafted façade. One which showed more control than you could actually execute over yourself, your life, or others. "Then I believe I should be glad you've decided to show up to mine. Another class of uninterested young adults would have frayed the last of my patience for the day." His voice almost purrs, dark and playful, like the slow rumble of thunder under rolling black clouds, a flash of chipped teeth in his smirk serving as the lightning punctuating his sentence. His gaze was analytical, each part of you picked apart and pulled back together but from the twitch of his eyebrow it felt like he didn't find whatever it was that he was looking for. "I have also taken the liberty to contact the board about yesterday, you will not be held accountable for your episode as I have made it very clear that what happened was beyond even yourself." It was your turn to inhale, a sharp hiss leaving you as your lungs expanded and your spine strained at the movement, eyes narrowing at the man sitting in front of you in question. Lips pursing in thought as he threw you off yet again, why was he doing all of this, what were his intentions and what did he want in return? "I don't wish to sound ungrateful, but why sir?" His eye closes as he shakes his head, two strands of tar black hair spilling over his forehead like ink in water. "People like us are rarely seen in a good light when our demons take a hold of us and twist us into a monster. If we do not have each other's backs, who will?" His hand rakes through his hair, placing the strands back in place. Your heart was heavy, as if the blood pumped through it was lead, your stomach churning as one piece of the puzzle was revealed to you, people like us. He was like you, different yes, but he knew the horrors of the world as well as you did and came out alive, born anew. Before you could let your train of thought bring you back to the recesses of your mind you look at the clock and wince at the time that has passed.

"I will not keep you any longer, do not rush to class you'll need your energy for it. I will see you on thursday." And with that, you leave, only answering with a nod as you grip your crutch and bag tighter, your throat too closed up for any words to leave your mouth. The rest of the day goes by fast after Mr.Marlowe's class and luckily you can rip your mind away from the thoughts of him. It may have been hidden, but you shiver at the thought of the eye beneath the eyepatch, the scars marring his face like paths leading to the gates of hell. It was as if it still looked at you, through you, even through the thick leather it pierced you like a hunter's bullet pierces his prey. At home later, a boiling shower akin to the ones you were given in Noxus cleared your mind of the nagging curiosity slowly growing stronger. Food was simple and rest was back to the usual terror filled nightmares, cold sweat carving into your skin like water eroding stone. So instead of going back to sleep, you read, preparing homework that you had weeks to finish to occupy and cool your frenzied mind. You were not late for or missed any class that day and the day went quite well, a soft and gentle smile stretching across your lips at the prospect of your life being so tranquil now as you walked to the college's grand library. A beautiful carved stone building topped by a glass dome, the inside showcasing rows of tables and immense bookshelves stretching for what seemed like miles on end. By the time you left to return to your dorm, all of the homework you were assigned was done, neatly pinned together in small files. In thursday's literature class you gave back the homework given on monday as you entered the room, hands brushing Mr.Marlowe's as he hummed in surprise, taking the neat file. "I didn't expect anyone to be so dedicated, yet it's no surprise that if someone had to be it would be you." A twinge of delight colors his dark voice, brightening it enough for you to hear it. And somehow, and without your consent, your body preens at the praise, as if you were a cat being pet lovingly by its master. The mere thought bringing both discomfort, and something bitter and unknown, it was envy but not in a way you knew. It was more raw. "The grand library is the prime working environment, I finished my homework before I knew it. It was as if I was possessed." You chuckle softly, remembering how after entering the library everything felt more like a blur as you excitedly worked over your assignments, finishing them quickly yet not rushed. The man nods softly. "I'm glad it felt that way, the library is indeed a beauty and it's a shame not more people see it the way we do." You agree quickly before making your way to the same desk as last time, crutch laid on the ground and necessary material set on the desk as more students poured into the room, the class soon beginning.

"As explained monday, our first semester will be focusing on Demacian literature from the previous century, its themes and its growing influence over the mentalities in its homeland and all over Runeterra." The man says pacing as the presentation is projected over a blank screen, his long fingers holding a remote and pressing to change slides whenever Mr.Marlowe finished explaining it and its contents. "We will begin reading The Stranger by Albert Camus in class, but I expect all of you to have it by monday to facilitate all the aspects of our work together. You are also encouraged to get the rest of the books annotated in the syllabus list for the semester so you don't need to worry about getting them later." His voice drawls, eyes raking through the crowd lazily before he opens the book and starts reading. Voice spearing through the warm air of the class like the blades you held once upon a time ripping through the flesh of your enemies, innocent or not. Minds compelled and coaxed into listening by the dark velvet of his tone, like children entranced by the pied piper, leading them to the ends of the world. He was focused, not a word fumbled, pacing guiding you through the words with impeccable timing, voice changing just a smidge when he needed to voice a character, different yet still very much him. Sometimes his eye would trail off, mouth still speaking the words etched onto each page as if he carved them in the bedrock of his mind. And sometimes, you would catch him, nodding in what could only be described as reverance, a certain admiration at his perfected reading; as if he channeled the very essence of the author through his being and offered it to his students, wrapped up with a bow made of his voice.

And you took the gift, cradling the words in your heart and drinking in Mr.Marlowe's timbre as he uttered the sentences inscribed on the pages. As he comes to a stop the slow tap of his closing book resounds through the room, sounding more like a bomb than a pile of pages bound together by a string. "What can you tell me about this book that makes it so different than usual Demacian tomes?" He leans against his desk, legs and arms crossed like on monday, teal eye tracing a line through the class like the horizon separates the sea and the sky. "Demacia is known for being a nation of strong morals and honor, which could be a good thing but their pride also serves as a fault. They see themselves as judge and jury more often than not. But Mr.Camus, in this book, describes a man lacking any passion, any grief, any honor or morals. He is empty, some thoughts even make him seem nearly despicable. He is flacid, takes no initiative, he's like driftwood in the ocean, impassible and flowing wherever the waves bring him, he seems more like an object than a human." You say, voice strong yet a slight waver concludes your explanation and Mr.Marlowe nods an appreciative hum coming from his throat. "Indeed. Whereas traditional Demacian behavior is usually confident, morally strong and leaning towards an almost impossible sense of self-righteous justice, Camus here depicts a man at the complete opposite. It doesn't mean he is actively trying to do wrong, no, that would require effort that our protagonist has no intentions of giving. Whether he can or cannot is something I will let all of you theorize. He is indeed empty, a shell with human shape but lacking anything that would make him remotely human in a philosophical sense. He does not even grieve his deceased mother."

You absorb every word, pen gliding on paper as you write all that is discussed. "While his lack of grief could possibly be explained by depression or any other psychological cause of the like that could hinder his emotional response, he also shows no contentment. None at spending time with his friends, none at doing anything at all, no motivation whatsoever in seeking contenment either. He seems to be in a stagnating state of disinterest at everything in the world, even more so towards himself, albeit self-centered at times in his reflection." Teal eye cuts to you, dragging you to the depths of its self contained ocean. "What do we call this lack of motivation and drive, this lack of want or need to feel anything pleasurable or good?" His voice questions, voice seemingly darker, hands braced on each side of his hips against the desk. "Anhedonia, sir." His chest grows in a heavy, quick breath, that almost sounds like a hiss as he releases it. As if a vicious serpent crawled out of his body, but no bitter venom came at you, only the vision of his stiffened shoulders and hands clenching a little more over the edge of the desk. "Indeed." His voice is back to its usual controlled drawl and his body relaxes as class continued, ending just short of 2 minutes after the appointed time. As students rush out, you take your time, not wanting to get pushed and trampled as you limped your way out, you've learned the hard way since becoming disabled that not many care for proper etiquette and you would have to look out for yourself alone.

"Not only are you extremely well versed in military strategies and tactics, able to recite excerpts of ancient manuals with practiced ease and explain them clearly and in their entirety. You are also very attentive at every new project you are given. I applaud you for your dedication." A soft gasp escapes you as Mr.Marlowe's voice shakes the empty room, stopping your slow walk to the exit. "You must be one of the more passionate students I've had the chance to teach." Your back screams at you as you turn towards the man, slowly pacing towards him as he talks, and a small smile stretches on your face. Your heart once again warming at his praise, drinking it like a drunkard does alcohol. "I am here because I love reading and writing, I love thinking, I love seeing all the ways we can show our humanity through literature, the good and the bad. Why would I not pay attention? Why would I not want to dig deeper within the pages until I can find the hidden meanings?" He chuckles, a short soft sound leaving his throat before he can wrangle it into submission. "The Noxian determination is without limit I see. Maybe your ethic will spur on your classmates into taking less time to wake up from their holiday filled stupor. I, for one, would appreciate that very much." His legs cross in his chair as he writes down, notes and pages filled with cursive shaped black ink. He sighs softly and a page turns, his eye tracing over your face pensively before he clasps his hands together in a relaxed manner. "I would like to make an inquiry. It would be an indulgence for me to ask, but I figured that it wouldn't hurt to try." You tilt your head at his words. "What is it, sir?" Clasped hands tighten and cheek twitches almost lost to your keen eye had you blinked.

His hands separate and he holds his pen again, writing a succession of words on the blank page, the cursive becoming intellegible as he turns the paper your way.

The Odyssey by Homer

You bend softly, a wince stopping your descent, and grasp the paper. "I would like you to, if you wish, read this book and come to see me during office hours to discuss it. Take the time you need, do not rush yourself, I am simply asking you to indulge me. Not many students have your passion, or at least they hide it quite expertly, so it is a refreshing sight. I would like to share some time sharing knowledge with a like minded individual rather than simply entrusting it upon someone." His words sink in, he only wished for someone to be as interested in litterature as he was? Coming from a man with such a strong, comandeering aura, it felt almost childish. Yet you couldn't bring yourself to refuse, the books you were given in the list were nothing short of great and if they were anything to go by, you'd guess the rest of his picks were just as pleasing to read. "Of course sir, I'd be honored. I've finished all of my assignments for the moment so I'll try to read and analyze this book over the weekend. I could come.." You trail off, thinking about how you wanted to make good of your free time to read and maybe read again the book he proposed to give a discussion worth his expectations. "Next friday, at around 5 p.m?" He caps his pen and tidies his desk. "That would be perfect. I'll be expecting great things in your report, but especially that you enjoyed my recommendation." His voice is soft as he places his books in his briefcase. Coat plucked from the back of his chair as he rose up. "If it's anything like what you put in the summer list, I know I will." You nod a respectful goodbye and wish him a good weekend as you walk out, heading to the library to get the book so you could read it in the comfort of your bed.

At home, before sleeping, you slip in the comfort of your bed and open The Odyssey, notebook and pencil next to you so you could take pauses and note your thoughts and ideas. Falling asleep after hours of reading as your eyes trace the words written on the pages. Nightmares waking you in the dead of night and making it impossible to fall back asleep. You decided to continue and opened your book back up, realizing that reading will at least soften the anguish provided by the nightly horrors you face. Friday wasn't anything special, and at night you tucked yourself into bed with your books again. The epic of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, and the trials and tribulations he had to face exciting you, pulling at your heartstrings and lulling you to sleep. Saturday and sunday were spent all day reading, book clutched in your hands as you ate and did your daily chores, even taking it for grocery shopping or to get the books Mr.Marlowe wanted for class. Monday's class went fast. "I am done with the book but I want to read it again to see what I might've missed." You utter to the tall man as his fingers click on a laptop's keyboard and he hums. His face lifting a bit to look at you. "Be careful, you'll make me raise my expectations." He teases, voice light and you huff out a laugh. "Whatever expectations you throw at me I'll put all my might into exceeding." It was his turn to chuckle as you smile. "I know you will." And with that you leave, evening routine continuing until friday.

The whole day was spent pacing in your dorm, you sat in bed, then in one of the chairs near your small kitchen, then back on your bed. It was as if you were a starved, caged lion, the prospect of discussing the book with your professor warming you from the inside out. You were making someone proud, and it was not by accomplishing deeds of great violence and being a glorified mass murderer in an army originating from the depths of hell itself. No, he was proud solely because you were passionate about the subject he was teaching. It was as simple as that. So when the time came to leave, you went to the building his office was set in with a metaphorical pep in your pained step. After asking around at the reception you walk towards the left corridor, stepping in its empty space while windows let in the golden light from the setting sun. You straighten and knock three times, a hummed "come in" making you turn the doorknob and shuffle inside. The smell of tobacco immediately hitting your senses as you close the door behind you. Turning around you see Mr.Marlowe at a big mahogany desk, decorated with carved mythological figures, pouring over files as he smoked a cigar. The window was wide open, probably to not to imbibe the room with the smell, although it seems that was too late. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with books of all sizes, some thicker than others, and to your left were a small coffee table and a maroon velvet covered couch, the same maroon velvet that was on the seats and backrets of the chairs facing the grand desk.

"Needless to say you liked it?" You nod as you drink from a water bottle he handed you and he chuckles. "A life of violence can do multiple things. Leave you dead, leave you unable to move on, or leave you with a thirst for all that humanity has to offer. I'm glad to see you are the latter, as am I." Your eyebrows furrow and your head tilts, eyes appraising the man in front of you. His teal eye, the other being similar to a topaz cushioned on black velvet, the scars on his face, the grey hairs caressing his temples, the black shirt, slightly opened at the top. He wasn't acting any different than usual, but maybe it was the proximity or the fact you were alone with him in his office that made his words ring so much louder. The remnants of the class' energy not here to protect you from the comandeering aura of the man in front of you, who looked to be observing you just as much as you were observing him. Two predators in the wild, but one was always going to be the prey, and as his eyes picked you apart yet again, you realized it was you. It was terrifying, someone wanting to know and see you, because no matter what he had seen you knew he'd probably turn in disgust and shun you if he knew and saw everything that you were. A monster. Your nightmares never failed to remind you that fact as they stopped you from getting more than 5 hours of rest per night.

"Ah, there you are. I will not lie that I've been expecting you, even since before the appointed time. Take a seat." Your body obeys him again, slowly setting yourself on one of the chairs you sigh at your unwilling reaction before setting your crutch down andfishing for your notes in your bag, left leg stretched to the side of the desk. When you came back up, his papers had been discarded in neat piles on the side of his desk and one of his hands held up his head, his eyepatch discarded. "I won't lie that I've been pacing all day too, sir. I read the book three times in the span of a week so I could be as thorough as possible and I couldn't wait to get to you." Your voice softly declares with a smile as you open your notebook and he chuckles, waving his hand for you to begin. Words fall from your lips, at first hesitant and unsure but at his gentle stare, the burning eye somehow coaxing you with warm kindness instead of burning you with scalding anger, your voice turns more confident and, with time, even excited. He nods and quips as you decribe all your notes, lending them over to him, your hands accompanying your words in frantic movements. It was as if your mind turned off, his approving gaze, encouraging words and small smirk enough to spur you on. By the time you're finished, almost panting after gods know how long, you notice just how satisfied Mr.Marlowe looks, almost proud. And your insides shiver in delight at that, his approval causing reactions in your body and mind that you didn't even know you could have.

"You left." His voice takes you away from the spiral of your own mind. "What do you mean, sir?" Your voice shakes and he sighs, stubbing out his cigar as the smoke escapes his mouth. "I look at all of my first year students' profiles, it helps me decypher their motivations, ways to push them to do their best. You are from Noxus, and gods know leaving this hellish place is hard if you aren't a noble. Actually, you would know too, wouldn't you?" The bottle crinkles as you hold it tight, fighting off a sneer as you look away in shame. "What if I do?" "Then I'd say your crutch is a consequence. And that the episode you had that day was but the surface of the deep painful abyss left behind by the war, filling every crack of your broken mind with unfathomable darkness." Breath stuttering, your eyes find his, but you don't find disgust, no you find gentle understanding. "And what do you want from me then, sir?" His eyebrows furrow and he leans forward. "For you to see that you can and deserve to heal." He rises, chair creaking at the loss of his weight as he walks towards one of the bookshelves, perusing the selection until his long fingers grasp a tome. Your body is tense, shaking slightly as he approaches you from the side, gently placing a book in front of you as he leans back on the table.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Why?" You try as hard as you can to keep your voice from cracking while looking down, in confusion or from the whirlwind of emotions currently clashing in your heart you do not know. And although your voice stays steady, the grit in it is unusual enough for Mr.Marlowe to sigh as his hand finds your chin and turns your face to him gently. "So you can indulge me some more, I enjoyed our discussion today and would love to have more if you'll have me." His voice purrs low, a softness to it that you would think impossible to be directed towards you. "That's not.." Your voice chokes out, that's not what I meant, was what you meant to say. But it seems like he knew with how his grip on your chin slightly clenches, bringing you back to Earth before your mind sunk back down into the ocean of self-hatred that was your soul. "You will come next friday, same time. If you haven't finished the book by then, we'll read it together, but I will still listen to what you have written about it." His grip leaves your chin with what almost felt like a caress as you grab the book. Heart pounding, head turning and stomach churning. Who was he, and what did he want? Your mind yells at you against following him in the dance he wishes to lead, warning you about bad intentions, about darkness both your own and his, about violence and pain. But as you look into his eyes and remember his praise and gentleness, your mind and body separate, the latter operating without a pilot as it itches to answer. "I'll do my best not to disappoint you, sir." Is what you utter, obedience bleeding into the inner hatred you hold towards yourself, burnt into every fiber of your being. And as he brushes his hand over one of yours, brows furrow, tears almost threaten to leave your eyes and your throat closes up.

"I don't think you ever will."

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leafjoon · 1 year ago

Text

Between the Lines - pt. I

tbhc!alex x reader this chapter is bascially a slow burn, fluffy vibe charged w some sexual tension between the reader who is in college n our beloved alix who becomes her editor. warnings: age gap, alex is 33, reader is in her 20's, cursing, alcohol.

In the heart of the university campus, a quaint café served as a haven for students. Seated at a cozy corner table Y/N and her best friend, Sophie, found comfort in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the hum of hushed conversations.

The soft glow of pendant lights cast a warm ambiance over mismatched wooden furniture, creating a warm atmosphere. Amidst the rustling of students immersed in textbooks and the distant murmur of espresso machines, Y/N and Sophie navigated the labyrinth of academia.

"Ugh, I suck," you groaned, holding your English lit paper in your hands.

"You don't," said Sophia.

"I got a C, Soph."

"Didn’t you do this on three hours of sleep?" she looked at you.

"Yeah," you grumbled.

"You'll do better next time."

"Ugh. I know. It's just such a blow to my confidence," you said, sipping on your ginger tea.

"I know. But this grade doesn't determine your skills. You're great at writing," she said, swirling her spoon in her iced coffee.

"Well. That's debatable," you replied.

She glared at you.

"Fine, fine. I'll stop talking shit about myself," you rolled your eyes.

"Good." She said pleased with your answer.

You scanned the coffee shop and saw students going about their normal routines. Some of them were hurrying to get to their lectures on time. Others were lazing around in their seats, talking to their friends. Chatter filled the room as you let out a stressed out sigh. You sulked, not knowing how you were gonna recover from this grade.

"Anyway, as I was telling you. I asked my dad about Mr. Turner. He said you can give him a call and ask him to check out your novel."

"Oh god,” you groaned. “I mean-thank you so much. I don't wanna seem ungrateful, I just-I don't know. It feels awkward showing someone my short novel. If you can even call it that,” you rambled.

"I get it. I get embarrassed when I show my tutor my paintings. And he always has something to say," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Soph, your paintings are incredible. And your guy is good."

"That's true," she said, a light blush coloring her cheeks.

You smiled at her. You loved your best friend. You met in high school and became close friends senior year. You used to spend hours at each other's places, watching shows and mulling over the characters. She was one of the few people who was there for you through thick and thin and you weren't afraid to show your vulnerable side to her, insecurities and all.

"I'll send you his phone number and you can contact him whenever."

"Okay. Will do." You said, scrunching your face.

"If you don't do it, I will.”

"Ugh, I'll do it, I promise."

"I'll hold you to it."

"I can't wait to go out on Friday. I need to get drunk and forget," you groaned.

"Same. We've been too stressed out lately. We need to let loose," Sophie added.

You and Sophie had a tradition. No matter the circumstances you always went out on the weekend. You often drank alcohol at your favorite bar or club and danced until your feet were numb and your hearts were pounding. Then you stumbled to one of your dorms and ate junk food or watched a shitty movie.

Sophie looked down at her phone, her clock reading 1:47 PM.

"Well, I have to run. I have Literary Criticism soon,” she remarked.

"With Mr. spits when he talks?" you replied.

"That's the one," she said, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

You chuckled. "Good luck."

"I’ll see you later," she leaned down, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

You, on the other hand, finished your lectures for the day. Your Mondays weren't as rough, consisting of only two lectures in the morning and god, were you thankful for that.

Your eyes darted to your phone screen, after you received a notification from Sophie.

Alexander Turner

+378 09 998 890

Anxiety gnawed at you. You took a deep breath and told yourself It’s fine. He gets paid for this kind of job. He’s probably seen worse writing.

You decided to be brave and text him as there's no way you were calling him.

Hello Mr. Turner. Peter Herring recommended you as an editor. I am currently working on a short novel and I am interested in hiring you. Would you be interested in that? Thank you in advance.

You typed it out, reading it again. You erased the words ‘short novel’ leaving it blank.

"Ugh." You said out loud. You decided to retype it and send it without thinking too much, letting out a sigh of relief.

As you were scrolling on your phone, it suddenly started vibrating and a number appeared. It read Mr. Turner.

Oh god. Why the hell is he calling me? Doesn’t this guy know how to text?

You answered your phone hesitantly, bringing it to your ear.

"Hello?" you said.

"Hi." a low voice spoke.

"Um. Is this Mr. Turner?"

"Yeah. What's your name, love? You didn't introduce yourself," he said in a thick British accent.

"Oh-um, I'm (Y/N)."

"Alright, (Y/N). You're interested in hiring an editor, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Great. How's Wednesday evening work for you? 7pm, my office? We can discuss the details then."

"Um, Wednesday evening? Yeah I'm good with that," you said.

"Alright. I'll send you my address then. Don't forget your novel," he added.

"Yes. Thank you," you sputtered.

And with that he hung up the phone. You stood there bewildered at this phone call. You just agreed to go to this random man's office on a Wednesday. You had no idea he was british. Why didn't Soph tell you he was british?

Well I guess you have an editor now.

In the sanctuary of your dormitory, you and Sophie nestled on your sofa as you found comfort beneath your favorite blanket.

"I had no idea he was british! His accent was so thick Soph. Like, I had never heard it before."

Sophie was laughing at you. "I thought I mentioned it."

"Well you didn't. Nothing could have prepared me for that. He was so swift and straight to the point. Skipped all the usual bullshit."

"Yep, that's Turner for you," she replied.

"How did your dad meet him again?" you inquired.

"Oh, he was his student in college. Mr. Turner lived in London for a few years and then moved here after my dad recommended him for this sort of writing position," she shrugged.

"Huh. That's interesting," you said. "Hey, what does this guy look like?" you asked, your curiosity peaking.

"Hmm. Let me show you his Facebook," she said.

"His Facebook?" you asked, furrowing your brows in confusion.

"What? He doesn't have Instagram. He's in his 30s." she added.

"Right," you nodded. You got up and sat next to her, both of you staring at her phone. She found his Facebook page and clicked on his photos.

"He's kinda cute," you said, breaking the silence. Sophie chuckled at your reaction. "He’s good looking," she shrugged.

He had big brown eyes and medium length hair that went past his ears, down to the nape of his neck. His beard seemed neat and trimmed.

"Don't get any ideas now," she looked at you, teasing. "I'm not. I want to see how he looks like so I'm not completely blind sided when I get there."

"Anyway," you continued. "Do you wanna sleep over tonight? My roomie's not here."

"Oh my gosh, yes. I'll go grab my stuff," she exclaimed. "Okay," you said in a singsong and slumped down on your sofa, stretching out your legs.

You couldn't help but feel jittery for Wednesday. You let your thoughts wander for a little, wondering what he was like.

The week was passing quickly, and it was finally Wednesday. You were preparing to leave and go to Mr. Turner's place. To say you were a little nervous would be an understatement. Your palms were sweaty, and you weren't sure what you were wearing was appropriate.

You questioned if you looked like you were trying too hard as you opted for baggy brown suit pants and a red shirt with long sleeves.

Ugh. I'm sure he doesn't give a rat's ass about what I'm wearing.

As you put on your big leather jacket and wrapped a black scarf around your neck, the words he spoke echoed in your mind. "Don't forget your novel." As you went back to your room, you made sure to grab your novel and quickly stuffed it into your tote bag as well as your dorm keys. You couldn't help but wonder if any of his clients had ever forgotten theirs.

You decided to take the bus to his office and followed the instructions he texted you.

102 Ave Street. Nr. 32. If you have difficulties finding it, call me.

As you strolled around the neighborhood, you spotted a house with the number 32. You walked past his charming little garden and couldn't help but admire how nicely maintained it was.

Now, standing in front of his door, a mix of excitement and nerves crept over you. Unsure of whether to give a knock or press the doorbell, anticipation filled the air. You decided to knock.

As you took a moment to take in your surroundings, the sound of the door being opened reached your ears. Stepping into the view was a figure of a pale man.

"Uh, hello," you said, extending your hand for him to shake. "Good evening," he said, a slight awkward smile on his face. He glanced down at your hand for a few seconds before finally reaching out to shake it.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Turner," you said, maintaining the handshake. "Likewise. Please, come inside and feel at home," he invited you.

"Thank you," you quietly replied as you stepped into his house, though a slight feeling of uncertainty lingered. It almost felt like intruding. "This way to my office," he directed, gesturing towards the left.

"Would you like a drink? Coffee or tea?" he asked. "Uh, tea would be fine. Thanks."

As you walked into his office, you settled into one of the inviting chairs positioned near his desk. Your gaze wandered to the oak wood bookcase that adorned the room, its shelves overflowing with a collection of books. Your eyes were drawn to the carefully placed plants that created a warm and inviting atmosphere. You wondered if anyone else lived in this house, although it seemed empty by the looks of it.

"Here you go," he interrupted your thoughts, setting down a mug with hot tea. "I brought you ginger. I don't know if you like it or not," he said with a serious tone. "Oh, that's my favorite actually," you said, smiling awkwardly.

"Great. Careful, it's hot," he looked at you and gave you a half smile. You blushed a little and brought the mug to your mouth, taking a sip. "So, did you bring your novel?" he said, staring at you.

You tried to speak and swallow at the same time and ended up choking on your drink. You coughed for a few minutes as Alex stared at you, his face laced with concern.

"Erm.." he shifted so he could tap your back. "Try to look up. It should help," he said.

You followed his instructions and looked up at the ceiling, coughing. Your throat seemed to calm down.

"S-sorry," you barely managed to say. "No worries. You alright?"

"Yes," you exhaled and took out the novel, handing it to him, trying to move past the awkward situation. "Thank you," he muttered.

He took your novel and opened it, setting it down on the desk. Your legs were only a few centimeters away from each other. You shifted slightly, not wanting to invade his personal space.

You realized he hadn't asked you to send him your novel and wondered if you had made a mistake. Perhaps you should have asked him about it.

"Um... should I have sent a digital copy of it to you?" you questioned. "No, it's quite alright. I prefer reading it in front of my clients," he said, his gaze not leaving the book.

You felt awkward, to say the least. It wasn’t pleasant having someone read your work right in front of you. Especially when you thought editors usually familiarize themselves with your work beforehand.

You fumbled with your fingers, unsure what to do with yourself. Bringing the hot mug to your lips, you took a few sips. Your eyes wandered around the room and settled on Alex. He looked like he was studying your work, wearing a serious expression on his face, his eyebrows furrowed.

He looked handsome. When a few strands of hair fell on his face, he tucked them behind his ear. You felt your cheeks heat up and looked away before he could catch you staring.

As you anxiously awaited his response, doubts clouded your mind about whether any of the sentences you wrote were coherent. You nervously retrieved your phone from your bag, feeling the clamminess on your palms. However, before you could reach out to a friend, he abruptly spoke up.

“S’good,” he looked up at you nodding. “Really? But you didn’t read that much.." you weren't sure what to say.

“I don’t need to. I can see that it’s straightforward and has a clear direction. It’s a bit wordy though and needs some work.” He added.

“Oh, okay,” you nodded. He noticed you slumped a little and found it endearing. He had to remind himself of your age and sensitivity.

“But don’t fret. It’s nothing we can’t fix,” he said, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Right,” you smiled politely. You looked at him for a split-second and then glanced down at your hands.

“Well. I need to read the rest of your novel now. I only wanted to give you a clear picture of what we were gonna do in the upcoming weeks and how this works,” you nodded.

“For now we can meet once every two weeks and then see how your work progresses. Does Wednesday work for you, around this time?” “Uh-yes. I can do that.”

“Perfect. I want to recommend two books for you to read that could help you with your writing. Could you grab “On Writing”, by Stephen King from the bookshelf there?” he pointed to a book with a brown hardcover.

You stood up and spotted the book he was talking about. “This one?” you asked. “Yes. And also the “Bird by Bird” on your left.” You looked around but didn’t see the book he was talking about.

He stood up, approaching you, his chest pressing lightly against your back. His hand reached out just above your head, and a tantalizing scent reached your nose. The subtle blend of cigarette smoke and lavender emerged from his clothing.

“That’s your right,” he said behind you, amused. “Oh, right,” you chuckled awkwardly.

He got back to his desk and handed you the book, your fingers grazing his.

“You don’t need to read these in over a week. This isn’t school,” he chuckled. “But they should help you improve and explore different methods of writing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Turner,” you mumbled. “Oh, feel free to call me Alex,” he said. “Okay. Alex,” you replied.

You felt strange saying his name in such a casual manner. It felt like you were talking to a friend your age, not a 30 something year old accomplished editor and god knows what else.

“Oh uh, how do I pay for this?” “My secretary will contact you for that. The first session was meant for us to get acquainted and make sure that we are a good fit."

“Great,” you said. “Alright.” He looked at you. “Right. Then I’ll be going. Thank you, again. It was nice meeting you,” you mumbled.

“It was nice meeting you too,” he smiled and guided you to the door. You waved goodbye, and exited his house, the cold autumn air surrounding you. Well, now you really have an editor.

Alex didn't expect, well, you. He knew you were younger but god, were you a pretty little thing. His usual clients were a lot older and well, half of them were men.

He tried not to get carried away as his mind swirled with different thoughts about you. He didn't want to be creepy and he never wanted to give you that impression. So he tried his best to be professional.

But you were making it so hard. With your pouty lips and your fumbling hands every time you waited for a response from him. You wore these perfectly fitting tops that hugged your body. Occasionally when you moved around, the fabric would subtly reveal a glimpse of your midriff, making it impossible not to gawk at you. He thought you were simply adorable.

"So, how are your classes going? Anyone giving you trouble?" He asked, genuinely interested. "They're going well," you trailed off, sighing.

"It's one of my professors. I don't think he likes me," you murmured. "Who?" he asked.

"Professor Miller," you slumped a little. "Oh. Well I don't think he likes anyone if that makes you feel any better," you laughed. "No but seriously, what’s the problem?" he asked.

"I have the lowest grade in his class," you said, rolling your eyes, a little embarrassed to admit. "Grades aren't everything (Y/N). I've had my fair share of shitty grades too."

"What if I just suck though?" you asked, finding it unbelievable how comfortable you felt talking to him after knowing him only for a few weeks. "Nah. I would have dropped you by now," he teased you.

You gasped. “I’m only joking. You have a lot of potential,” he said, softly gazing into your eyes.

You smiled, feeling at ease.

"If you want I can help you with your assignments. Give you tips and such. Free of charge," he joked.

Both of you couldn't help but notice that your knees were touching but you felt comfortable staying close.

"Are you sure?" you asked. "Yeah. What else am I gonna do with my time?" he said. "Thanks," you said, feeling like this is beginning to border on inappropriate. But you didn't care.

"How about tomorrow, after your classes, you come by and we can see what we can do."

You nodded. "Okay. Sounds great."

You had entranced him. He knew it was inappropriate. He was your editor, after all. And much older than you. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't stand the idea of any of these college guys having you. You were too good. Too sweet.

He wanted to be the one who owned you. He often imagined what it would be like to graze your delicate skin with his fingers. Make you shiver under his touch. Or how you mouth would feel around his coc-

"I hate writing!" you exclaimed, getting up from his couch and pacing around. You guys had moved from his office to his living room. He wanted you to feel comfortable.

He listened to you intently as you explained what you meant to convey in your latest pages. He could have easily done this over an email, but no, he had to see you. Your low voice, sweet like honey, reached his ears.

You sighed. "I don't know. I feel like I'm losing sight of my story. I have no idea what to do next." You said, biting your lip.

"Maybe you should leave it be," Alex replied.

"Huh?" you questioned.

"Well you've been working really hard at it lately. When was the last time you did something else you were passionate about?"

"I-," you paused, "I don't know," you mumbled, sitting down next to him again.

"See? You need to forget about it for a while. Create some distance."

You mulled over his words. "Is that what you do?"

"Course. Every artist does."

You looked at him like the world hung on his lips.

"Yeah. I can try that," you said, a worried expression on your face.

"No," he laughed. "Don't take this as another assignment. I mean really forget about it. Do something that doesn't make you think about writing."

You thought about it for a while and asked "Like what?"

He hesitated. "Well." Fuck it, he thought. "I have two tickets to the theater tonight," he raised his eyebrows slightly. "One of my friends canceled on me and you can join me if you want.”

His gaze met yours as you registered what he asked you. He looked at you, biting his lip, worrying if he had been too forward.

"What's the play about?" you asked, caving in. He tried to contain his smile and continued "It's ballet. The last swan lake."

"Oh, I've always wanted to see that," you said. "Great. We can meet in front of the theater at 7:30. That alright?" he asked.

"Yeah. Sounds good," you replied, trying to contain your enthusiasm. "I'll see you later then."

As you were getting ready in your small bathroom, you couldn't help but feel nervous about tonight, butterflies swirling in your stomach. We can meet for a drink beforehand, if you want. My treat. He told you a few hours ago, wearing a shy smile.

You had reluctantly agreed. You wanted to spend time with him so badly but you felt like you were doing something wrong. You hadn’t even told Sophie yet.

You got dressed, slipping on your silky tights past your legs. You decided to wear a delicate black dress with long sleeves that exposed your plush thighs. Pairing it with your leather jacket and your red scarf, you slung your small handbag over your shoulder, getting ready to leave.

You decided to take your earphones with you and listen to music to calm your nerves.

When you arrived at the charming bar he had picked, you flung the door open and entered. lThe cozy ambience enveloped you as you stepped inside, a welcoming contrast to the crisp evening air outside.

Alex, already seated at a secluded corner table, looked up from his menu, a genuine smile spreading across his face as he caught sight of you entering.

As you made your way towards him, the gentle flicker of candlelight played on the edges of his features. "You made it," he said, rising from his seat and pulling your chair out for you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your cheeks rosy from the cold. You sat down, not knowing what to do with your hands or where to look. This felt strangely intimate.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked you.

“Uh. What are you getting?” you replied.

“Probably a beer.” He said.

“I guess I’ll get a glass of white wine then,” you replied, feeling somewhat awkward. You didn’t expect in a million years to have drinks with your editor.

“You sure? You can get anything you want. Like I said, it’s my treat.” He smiled.

“Thank you. Yeah I’m good,” you replied bashfully.

After the waiter brought your drinks you started delving into conversation.

"So, um, tell me more about yourself," Alex prompted, his gaze lingering on you.

You giggled, sipping your drink. "Well, there's not much to tell. Just a struggling student trying to make it out alive."

He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "From what I've seen, there's more than meets the eye."

You met his gaze, and the air shifted, charged with an unspoken tension. "You know, I never expected my editor to be someone who could make me forget about writer's block."

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. "Maybe I'm just that good at my job."

The conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving between discussions of literature, shared interests, and personal anecdotes. As the night progressed, the topics ventured into more intimate territories, the subtle dance of words revealing layers beneath the surface.

"You have this way of making the mundane sound interesting," you remarked, now both on your second drink. You could feel your face heat up from the alcohol.

Alex leaned in, his gaze intense yet inviting. "Maybe it's the company that makes it interesting."

The words lingered in the air, a palpable tension settling between you. Unspoken desires sparked beneath the surface.

"Well, I find the company interesting too," you replied.

A hint of a smirk crossed Alex's face as he took a sip of his drink. "Careful now," he said. "Interesting company can be quite... distracting."

A subtle blush crept onto your cheeks. "Distracting can be a good thing." you replied.

"What are you distracting yourself from?" he asked, his gaze lingering on yours.

“I’m not sure. Everyone has problems, I guess,” you looked down at your hands.

“Anything you want to share?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t want to bore you,” you chuckled.

“You could never,” he replied, his tender eyes meeting yours. You stared at each other for a few seconds before you cleared your throat and looked at the time. “Oh, I think we should get going,” you said.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Alex said and he gestured to the waiter for the bill. You thanked him for the drinks and promised you would return the favor next time you saw him. He agreed but knew he wouldn’t let you pay for anything, especially since you were just a student.

You had an amazing time seeing "Black Swan" at the theater. The ballet was captivating, and the music was incredible. You also noticed Alex glancing at you a few times throughout the show.

After the show, Alex walked you to your cab. Under the streetlights, there was a quiet moment filled with something more than words. You exchanged a look that said it all, a shared understanding between you. As you got into the cab, Alex stood on the sidewalk with a thoughtful smile and waved goodbye.

When you arrived at your dorm, your phone vibrated.

Did you get home safely? - Mr Turner.

Your heart fluttered.

Yes.

Great. Good night.

Night.

After washing your face and brushing your teeth, you huddled into your bed and drifted off to sleep, embracing your pillow. The night ushered you into a world of dreams.

#next chapter will be angsty and smutty smut smut i got yall #arctic monkeys #alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner fanfic #alex turner fic #tbhc #tbhc alex turner #alex turner x y/n #idk if there r any mistakes but fuq it i guess ive been looking at it for so long

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