freya’s got nothing on this, baby (oc x reader)
a/n; adrian moorwell is the lovely @love-toxin‘s oc, please go check out them out! as you can see, i’m in love with the new daddy ;) professor, but there’s someone for everyone, and i mean it. love-toxin is so wonderful at making everyone feel included and great if you need a little pick me up.
summary; we love syllabus week. adrian thinks he might love you
Lavender. That’s the first thing you register as you walk into your Nordic Studies class at nine in the morning, cheeks stinging from the crisp autumn air. You take a second to survey the classroom, noting the desks clustered together, and then, noting how few there are.
A soft cough draws your attention back to the front of the room, the source of your lovely lavender hue, and suddenly your cheeks are no longer stinging from just your walk here.
Striking purple eyes, drawn to you from your arrival, long, chestnut hair gleaming under a soft beam of sunlight, a strong jaw clenched as the owner takes in your form- Adonis would be a fitting name for him.
You think you’re really going to like this class.
The soft thud of a book being set on the table jolts you out of your reverie, and you can feel the blood rushing to your face as your professor pushes his chair back and stands. You swing your backpack off your shoulders, setting it by your chair, and then hastily settle into your seat as he approaches.
His cologne reaches you first, a subtly, spicy musk that hints at its hefty price tag, and then, when the man himself finally reaches you, you can’t help but notice how he towers over your smaller frame.
“Hi, I’m Professor Moorwell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand, presumably for you to shake, and his voice is smooth and low, reminding you of plush velvet or a smooth glass of whiskey-
You flush even harder. What are you, a twelve year old girl on Wattpad?
“It’s great to meet you too!” Your voice comes out higher pitched with a tinge of squeakiness, and instantly, you want to die. This is how you introduce yourself to your super hot, very professional professor? Great.
As you slip your hand in his, you can’t help but notice the calloused pads of his fingertips, specifically the edges near his nails. His grip is firm, squeezing tight for a languid bob up and down before releasing your hand in such a way that the tips of his fingers brush along your palm. You do your best not to shiver.
“I-, sorry, do you play the cello?” You cringe a little at how awkward and specific your question is, hurrying along to try and ease the situation.
“It’s just, your fingertips are so calloused and in a very specific place, it just seems like-, like you play a string instrument.” Great, now your professor’s going to think you’re a creep and you’re going to fail this class because you’ll be too busy thinking of how you fucked up to pay attention and you’ll be too ashamed to go to office hours and-
“I do, actually. You have a keen eye for details, I see.” You take a quick break from trying to melt into a puddle of goo to look, caught off guard by the compliment, and immediately blush when you see the soft smile curving at the corner of his lips.
“Oh, thanks.” You can’t help but beam back reflexively, taking advantage of his eyes on your face to wipe the sweat off your palms.
“I don’t think I quite caught your name; it would be a shame not to have a name to put to one of my brightest students.” Surprisingly, your face does not catch on fire, though you feel yourself begin to sweat.
“I’m y/n. Y/n l/n, in case there’s another y/n in here.” You dredge up the last of your wits enough to form a coherent and hopefully, witty sentence, secretly patting yourself on the back for how steady and strong your voice is.
You’re too busy preening over your ability to string together multi-word sentences to notice how your professor’s eyes darken at the sweet little smile of triumph on your face. You do notice the low chuckle he lets out, deep and dark as he rests a large hand on your shoulder.
“Well, in case there are any other Professors called Moorwell, my name is Adrian. Adrian Moorwell.” You find yourself transfixed by the intense look in his eyes as he stares into yours, but jerk out of it when he gives your shoulder a brief squeeze.
“Again, it’s a pleasure to meet you, y/n. I’m sure I’ll see great things from you this semester.” His hand lingers for a beat too long, a pit of uneasiness building in your stomach before he finally lifts it away.
“Yes, thank you so much Professor.” Neither of you miss the way your fists clench, or the way Adrian’s jaw ticks at the sound of you calling him ‘professor’.
“Don’t miss a class; I would hate to have to track you down.” Purple eyes fix you in place, more so than his grip ever could, and you nod your head slowly, almost leaning in as your professor towers over you.
Lavender is the only thing you see, the only colour in your field of vision.
