#perfect for latin class

[elliespectacular]

When I was in middle school I made the useless discovery that "independence-day" could be arrived at in Pig Latin by translating the made-up word Dindependence.

In my US history class we were writing essays on the topic of July 4 and the obvious title for the essay would have just been "Independence Day" so I wrote it at the top of my paper, my stupid little Pig Latin discovery buzzing in my brain all the while.

Later during class the teacher calls me up to the desk. Imagine Wilford Brimley after waiting an hour for a coffee. That was my teacher's appearance and affect at all times. He calls me up, holds my paper upright pointing to the title, and delivers the most perfect, incredulous, deadpan "... Dindependence?"

[rxmye]

" 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — For so long, he found art in his surroundings, nature was his muse . . who would've thought that he'd be able to find another muse, within you.

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy themes / I guess the reader is his 'hater' / perfectionist yandere / kind of egotistic yandere / he has a praise kink frfr / maybe a bit self centered . . / kind of unedited / also might appeal to ppl with a savior complex

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: I feel like Lore takes up a good chunk of this fic, but enjoy . . also might be one of my longest fics . .

He was a calming presence, and a thoughtful friend to all he called his own. Elegance took a human form, in Xavier Wilson—A beautiful work of art indeed . . Born presenting a talent that could rival many others in the industry.

From a young age, Xavier presented himself as a man of the arts, often drawing out vivid tapestries of his dreams or memories. He would often lose himself in the pages of his notebook, scribbling away with intricate drawings and stories, his mind was his own magnum opus.

However—people was never his strong suit. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, surely if he was as magnificent as those around him expressed, he'd most certainly be able to recreate the portraits of those around him?—But no, none of his portraits could compare to his various other works.

As he got a bit older, his mother decided to enroll him in classes that could help expand his talents, which ranged from various music lessons, theater (didn't end well), art history—etc . . .

Xavier let out a breathy sigh, staring at the keys of the grand piano absentmindedly—his gloved fingers gently glide over the keys, tired would be the best way to describe him as of right now—his professor had left an hour ago, yet Xavier couldn't find it in himself to move.

Truth be told, Xavier wasn't a fan of music, he preferred quiet solitude—and though he had long since gotten used to the sound of the piano, violin, and any of the other ridiculous instruments his mother was so keen on getting him to play—he still preferred the silence over all.

Over the course of time, Xavier disinterest towards music dimmed—Alongside his distaste towards instruments . . He figured the reason he disliked it so much was due to his inability to play as perfectly as his professor . . Xavier was a perfectionist, and anything he couldn't perfect was simply 'wrong' in his eyes, and as he reached his teen years, he accepted that fact wholeheartedly.

Xavier stood still, as his mother fixed his tie for him—he could do it himself but he let her enjoy this moment, she always disliked watching her son 'grow up so fast'—"are you nervous?", she asked softly, gently holding his hands, smiling so brightly.

'Am I nervous?—' he thought, clearly not. He felt calm, neutral even. It was his first big show, yet internally he knew that things would end well for him, he could feel it. He's always been lucky, in fact his father's nickname for him as a child was quite literally 'Puer aureus' which translated to 'the golden boy' from Latin.

He clicked his tongue, a common habit of his—especially when he wasn't being exactly truthful—he paused for a moment as if to think, then he smiled at his mother, "Just a bit, but I'll be fine" he spoke calmly, gently squeezing her hand to reassure her. "Don't worry, I've prepared well for this . . Haven't I?"

Praise, he adored praise, and that day he received quite a lot of it—not just from his parents, or acquaintances . . .—but crowds of people. Honestly, it stroked his ego, quite a bit . .

By seventeen years of age, Xavier's talent was known worldwide, his rise to fame quite massive and fast . . He had to attend class, while also hosting live performances and art galleries. (such a struggle, really . . .)

University admissions were coming around, and most of his friends had chosen what schools they plan on applying to—what path they plan on going into—what school they hope to go to the most, the conversation was an eye opener and yet it all felt so bitter.

Xavier tapped his pen on the table, zoning out from the conversation his friends were having . . only to zone back in when Neva spoke, "—so Xavier, have you decided where you'll be applying too . . ? I'm sure you'll get in."

He clicked his tongue in response, closing his eyes absentmindedly as he spoke, "To be honest, not really . . probably something arts related?", Xavier was about to speak up again but stopped himself, starring down at the table, a sigh escaping his lips.

"That seems like a waste of money", he looked up, starring at Oliver with questioning eyes, and Oliver quickly explained himself, "Art school is great and all—But it won't really make much of a difference for you, in fact the rules could restrict your talent . . It could be better for you to just try something new? You're good in school a degree outside of your comfort zone may be something good for you!"

He hated that his friend was right, he hated being wrong. He prided himself for always knowing what was best for himself and his abilities, and in a spur of pettiness he found himself taking art anyway, trying to prove his friend wrong . . even though he was well aware his intentions were pure in all ways.

Xavier had done well in his courses so far, and with his fame, he was breezing through classes—and yet, when the topics of portraits came up . . he found all that floating out the window.

None of the models they had for class, felt right—none of the art he did, felt authentic . . felt like himself, when it came to art, Xavier took everyone to paradise, his art felt like peace . . his art was calm . . his music was soft, lulling almost . .

Yet now, as he stared at his canvas, covered in mixed harsh colours, a vibrant mess of paint, his brushes wrecked, paint dripping from the easel . . It felt like anything but calm.

And that's when he dropped out, a question to his perfection would wreck the fragile image of himself he had created in his mind, a man so perfect and lucky in his own right a humbling experience like that was to never see the light of day.

Xavier found himself turning to something different, just like Oliver suggested, his alternatives were selective, yet he kept many paths open, Photography, fashion, and business were his top picks and things he found himself surprisingly enjoying . . Surely if he could paint and create melodies of such wonders, then he can stitch some fabric together, solve a few equations, and take a few photo's here and there just fine . . right?

A few years had past, and Xavier was now running his very own Luxury fashion line, he still hosted art galleries here and there, and composed music on the side, but his business took up most of his time.

But on his free days he'd turn to photography, taking pictures of things he sought comfort in . . and people, he'd often take pictures of unsuspecting people, pretty ones . . people not so pretty as well, just to try and recreate the life they had on a canvas . . yet somehow always failing to do so.

The moment Xavier found himself close, he'd reach a dead end . . and that destroyed him, internally.

Over the years, he accepted the small flaws in his behavior, and tried his best to reform them, presenting himself as the perfect public figure. He did go to therapy in the past, but when things started rising up, he quit entirely.

Xavier laid back on his office chair, and scrolled through his recent posts comment section, and as expected almost all of it was praise . . some of envy, but that only fueled his ego more . . Until he found a comment that set him off, "His art is so melancholy, it feels a bit sad . . His previous works were brighter, like more happy but now it kind of feels sad . . Like the life in his work isn't there anymore."

Xavier stared at the comment dumbfounded, never had he received that kind of feedback . . portraits he drew were indeed lifeless, but his other art was always regarded as lively, and that was what he always strived for . . Curious, and in a fit of rage . . he clicked on the commenters profile, and saw you.

You, you . . You were what he was looking for, his muse. So, full of life . . He scrolled through your page, and couldn't help but feel the urge to draw you, and paint you . . and paint you he did. . Because soon his entire studio was filled with pieces inspired by you . . so full of 'life' . . .

Yet at some point, he had reached the end of your posts, and it just wasn't enough . . he needed you . . He wanted your feedback, he craved your praise . . like no other, he wanted input . . he wanted to know if his work was truly still lifeless . . he wanted you.

After all, a artist isn't complete without his muse.

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[a-passing-storm]

Tfw you make a joke and then you accidentally commit to writing an essay about why Anakin and Padme’s relationship fell apart for a grade in Latin. 

[ariestrxsh]

⚠️ content warning: ⚠️ smut, corruption of innocence, humiliation, punishment, light elements of BDSM, use of paddle, crying, oral, loss of virginity, light mention of blood, desecration of religious imagery, blasphemy, teacher!matt, manipulative!matt, innocent!reader

📝 author's note: 📝 please don't read this if you're religious or will get offended by the sexualization of catholic imagery. 💖 i don't want to offend anyone. being raised with religious values that i no longer resonate with anymore just gave me weird religious-themed kinks lmao.

✍️ Summary: ✍️ Your teacher at your Catholic high school, Mr. Sturniolo (Matt Sturniolo) catches you doing something you shouldn't be doing, so he keeps you after class to teach you a lesson about being a temptress, and he performs an unconventional exorcism on you.

this smut was requested/inspired by this ask. 💖

It was senior year, and it was getting down to the last couple of months before you graduated from Saint Mary's Catholic High School. You were on your way to becoming a nun and fully devoting yourself to God and His will. You'd spent your whole scholastic career working towards that goal, maintaining good grades, staying in good standing with God, and turning down the world of earthly pleasures for the sake of your afterlife.

You strolled through the prayer garden to get to your final class of the day, admiring the spring flowers that were budding and blossoming. The sun felt warm on your face, and the spring breeze carried a sweet scent of maple through the air.

Your last period of the day was your favorite. It was Latin taught by Mr. Sturniolo. He was a very handsome man. He had dark brown hair, lovely blue eyes, and gorgeous, straight, white teeth. He had a way of making such an ancient and nearly dead language seem beautiful and intriguing, and you admired that about him. You could listen to him talk about biblical literature for days on end and never lose interest.

Before you stepped into his class, you smoothed out your skirt and tucked your hair behind your ears. There was something about Mr. Sturniolo, that always made you strive to look your best when in his presence.

You waltzed into his class and took your seat at the front. He greeted you, smiling with a pencil pinched between his perfect teeth, and your eyes immediately traveled to his veiny hands and the way they tightly gripped his Bible.

You knew the way your mind would often wander when you thought about Mr. Sturniolo wasn't exactly the purest, and you knew it wasn't the way God intended for you to think about your teachers. But you still allowed yourself to entertain the thought, follow it down the rabbit hole, and see where it would go..

You tightly squeezed your legs together. Oh wait, that felt kind of good, you thought to yourself. You released the tension in your legs and then pressed them together once more. There was a wet, tingly feeling between your thighs, and you knew it couldn't be right, but it wasn't as bad as downright masturbation, right?

You watched Mr. Sturniolo speak, the way he gestured with his hands, the way he'd lick his lip between his sentences, the way his eyes would scan the classroom, and stop on you every few minutes. But you couldn't focus on anything he said. You continued this motion, discretely clenching your thighs together while you started to let yourself become swept away by the stream of naughty thoughts you were having about your teacher.

You were broken out of your fantasy by Mr. Sturniolo approaching your desk and leaning down to whisper in your ear. "See me after class, young lady," his voice was stern and almost sounded frustrated or disappointed.

Your face immediately turned red, and you swallowed hard as you lifted your eyes to meet his. He didn't look happy, and you couldn't help but wonder, did he know what you were doing? Did he know what you were thinking? You unclenched your thighs for the rest of class, embarrassed by having possibly been caught.

And when the bell rang, Mr. Sturniolo dismissed everyone, but you knew that didn't include you, so you sat tight and didn't dare look up from your desk until he approached you. "Do you know why I asked you to stay after class?" He inquired.

This was your chance to come clean and be honest before the punishment became worse for lying too, but if there were any other chance you were asked to stay after class for any other reason, you would be absolutely mortified to admit to Mr. Sturniolo, what you were doing with your legs under my desk. You nibbled on your bottom lip and gave him your most innocent looking eyes, and shook your head from side to side.

"You know it's a sin to lust, don't you?" He narrowed his eyes at you. "And it's even worse to entertain those lustful thoughts and pleasure yourself to them," he circled the desk like a vulture hunting his prey. "I wasn't!" You protested, your face turning bright red.

"Did you just lie to me, young lady?" He asked you in a deeper voice. You knew you were in big trouble now. "There's only one way for me to find out the truth. To your feet," he demanded.

Immediately jumping up, a mix of fear and excitement welled within you. "Walk to the front of my classroom. Sit at the edge of my desk and spread open your legs," he directed. You did what he asked, but when you went to spread your legs open for him, an overwhelming sense of shame came over you, and you put your head down. You couldn't do it.

"I said, spread them!" Mr. Sturniolo yelled, approaching you and forcing your knees open with his strong hands. Your pussy betrayed you by becoming even more wet as he berated you and put his hands on you. You felt a knot in your stomach, your cheeks started to feel hot, and tears formed in your eyes.

Mr. Sturniolo tilted your chin up towards him with your ruler. "This is your last chance to repent on your own accord. Before I make you," he threatened you. You stayed silent. You were afraid of him, and you were also riveted by him. You wanted to see what he was going to do next.

"Alright. Well, you've left me no choice," he responded in a defeated tone. He fixated his attention between your thighs, and his fingers traveled down to your white cotton panties, pushing them to the side. "Wow, well, would you look at that?" He muttered under his breath. He looked into your teary eyes as he started running his long, veiny digits along your wet folds. You bit your lip to contain your whines.

"I knew it. You're soaked," Mr. Sturniolo grinned up with you with a glint in his eye. "You've been a naughty girl, haven't you? Pleasuring yourself in my class. What were you thinking about, hmm?" He asked softly, waiting for a response.

After you sat there in silence for a moment, you could tell he was growing impatient. "What were you thinking about? You were teasing me in my class. I deserve to know what you were thinking about. Tell me now," he asked through clenched teeth. "You, sir," you admitted.

"Yeah? It's one thing for you to stray from the path yourself. But trying to take me with you? You're a devil of a woman. I must exorcise these demons from you at once," he whispered. You swallowed hard. "How?" You softly responded. "Get on your hands and knees," he commanded.

You maneuvered yourself on top of his desk, so you were on your hands and knees like he asked. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he reached into his drawer and pulled out a leather paddle. He started gently slapping it against his hand as he slowly walked in a circle around the desk until he was behind you. He pushed up your black and red plaid skirt and gently set the paddle on your left cheek.

He moved it in a few slow circles before lifting it and coming down with a hard thwack. You yelped in pain. You felt the cool leather wander to your other cheek, doing that same circular movement before delivering another harsh smack.

This time, the pain morphed into something else that you couldn't quite put your finger on. Mr. Sturniolo spanked you a third time with the paddle, and you let out a sound that surprised you, and it didn't sound like you were in pain.

"What was that?" Mr. Sturniolo barked at the noise that came out of you. "I-I don't know," you stammered. "Do you like this?" He asked, hitting your bottom once again, and you let out another delighted whimper.

"Oh, you're a very bad girl. It's worse than I thought. You're not supposed to be enjoying this," he whispered, but he smiled while he stood behind you, secretly loving the sounds you made. He couldn't wait to corrupt you.

While you were bent over on his desk, he worked his fingers into the waistband of your cotton panties and started to pull them down your thighs. You felt shame and arousal simultaneously as your teacher studied your glistening pussy. You felt as he leaned in and planted a kiss on it. His mouth made its way to your clit, and he gently flicked his tongue across it. You let out a cry of satisfaction. Nobody had ever done that to you before.

"You're not supposed to be liking this, you little whore. I'm punishing you," he smirked, but he moaned with your sensitive bud between his lips, and it sent a vibration through you, indicating how much he was enjoying it, too. How could this possibly be a punishment? Were you really that unholy?

You tried to hide the fact that you loved it, but Mr. Sturniolo's tongue slithered into places that even you hadn't touched yourself before, and you were engulfed by pure enjoyment, whimpering and trembling under his control. He abruptly stopped and delivered another hard thwack against your ass, but this time, it was with his hand, and it made you jump. "I want you to sit on the edge of my desk again," he told you, helping you out of your panties all the way.

You turned yourself over, so you were perched at the edge of Mr. Sturniolo's desk, and you clamped your legs shut again, humiliated by how wet you were getting. "Ah ah ah," Mr. Sturniolo shook his head and waved his finger at you. He pried your legs apart again, forcing your knees to open, biting his lip as he got a better view. "Look at how wet my punishment has you. You're a very naughty girl," he whispered, burying his face back down into your pussy.

You couldn't help but watch as his tongue moved in small, fast circles over your most sensitive spot. It felt amazing.

"Mmm, oh my god. Yes, right there," you moaned while you rolled your hips forward. He looked up at you with his seductive eyes, and you could tell he was secretly enjoying your taste while you let out a slew of unintelligible sounds.

"You're so good with your mouth that you're making me speak in tongues, Mr. Sturniolo," You giggled, running your fingers through his hair. "You think you're clever, huh?" He whispered in between licks, looking up at you with his dark stare.

You let your head fall limp, let your eyes roll back, and lost yourself in the feeling of your favorite teacher's soft velvety tongue bringing you the most pleasure you'd ever felt in your life. Your stomach felt like it was dropping and caving in, and your legs began to tremble while Mr. Sturniolo called you a naughty little girl and ate you like you were his first meal in years.

Your orgasm reached a crescendo, breaking over you like a force you couldn't control. "Yes, Mr. Sturniolo!" You called out while you grabbed onto his brunette locks and held him against your pussy while you bucked your hips wildly. You knew it was probably wrong, but it felt so right.

You immediately became sensitive, and your teacher looked up at you with his ocean blue eyes. "You feel that? Feel that evil energy your body? You did such a good job for me," he told you, leaving a trail of kisses up your thighs while he praised you. You stared down at him wide-eyed while you called your breath back to you.

He started fiddling with his belt buckle and then his zipper, telling you, "There's one more demonic force we need to take care of.." You watched as he unleashed a beast from his pants. It stood erect in front of you, big and veiny, and he placed his mushroom tip against your hole before you had much time to react.

All your hard work to become a nun, all these years you'd spent warding off temptation, it was all gone with a single thrust from your gorgeous teacher. It was all ruined just like you were about to be.

"Ah!" You gasped as he entered you, breaking your virginity, and as he gently moved his hips back and forth, hushing you and telling you the pain would be all over soon, he noticed a bit of blood emitting from you while he stretched you out. He delighted at the sight of it and relished in the way it made it even easier for him to slide in and out of you.

He pulled you into a passionate kiss, holding either side of your face while his tongue swirled around against yours. You could have sworn he tasted the way whiskey smelled, and you didn't want to assume Mr. Sturniolo was disobeying God by not treating his body as a temple, but at this point, you'd started to heavily question his ethics and moral standing with the divine creator.

But nonetheless, you loved it. You adored his sweet saliva, his smooth lips, and his demanding kiss. The suffering you were experiencing from losing your virginity soon transformed into ecstasy. You loved the way Mr. Sturniolo felt inside of you, the way he looked at you, and the way he had you desperately pinned beneath him. He cupped your face while his piercing blue eyes burned through you. You hooked your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he filled you, hitting a delicious-feeling spot every time.

"Such a bad girl. Pleasuring yourself in my class, hmm?" He cooed, his words swimming around inside your mind and satisfying a craving you had to be talked to in such a way that you didn't know you had until this experience. "Yes, sir. I'm a bad girl," you whined. While he delivered a few more compelling thrusts and groaned into your ear, "Come on, be a naughty girl and come all over my cock," you felt yourself begin to give into the feeling.

In your mind's eye, you were innocent Eve in the garden of Eden, and Mr. Sturniolo was both the serpent and the apple, leading you back to original sin, tempting you with the desires of the flesh, and introducing you to a world of hedonistic pleasure. The impurity of it all, the forbidden nature of what you were doing, and the adulterated thoughts that filled your mind tipped you over the edge.

Your orgasm hit you powerfully, and your no longer virgin pussy spasmed around Mr. Sturniolo's cock and coated it in your juices that slowly leaked onto his length. "That's it," he smirked, and then he began to moan loudly as he rhythmically pumped his seed into you. You could feel its warmth fill you, and he stared down at your hole while some of his milky liquid dribbled out.

"Don't tell anyone about this exorcism. They wouldn't understand the desperate measures it took to cast those demonic forces from you. It's best off if it stays between the two of us. I hope you learned your lesson. You're dismissed," Mr. Sturniolo huffed, sneering at you and fastening his pants.

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[timmydraker]

Tim Drakes parents were very traditional and overly proud of the fact that they came from old money.

They boasted about this in many ways for several years, but once their son was born they decided they would use him as a prime example of how they would continue the old ways they learnt.

Tim learnt things like piano and proper dinner etiquette before he was four, and learnt old Latin and French as a means to showcase his wealth and knowledge. They made him learn many things and luckily he enjoyed most of them, especially when it came to STEM and reading.

They also valued the arts and wanted him to learn as much as he could about architecture and literature.

When he showcased some knowledge for waltz and ballroom dancing, they decided he should do dance lessons.

This is where Tim discovered Ballet and fell deeply in love with the artistic and passionate form of dance. He began to study it around the same time he grew an interest in Batman, though he had yet to try get photos of the man.

Tim talked to his instructor and asked the older man about male dancers in Ballet and Mr Volkov was more that happy to help. Tim’s parents weren’t very in tuned with their son by that point and only cared that he was attending classes that were traditional, so they payed no mind to him learning ballet.

The skills he learnt regarding balance and core strength was greatly appreciated when he began to stalk Batman and Robin. He would do his warm up stretches while thinking about what patrol route the two would make that night, considering why Bruce Wayne chose to become The Bat while he counted each step 1, 2, 3, 4 with the music. He wondered to himself why Jason Todd became Robin when Dick Graysons motivations were much more obvious as he practiced and perfected sauté and focused on how his hands were placed, something he often forget was important.

By the time he became Robin he had been allowed to do several permanences, and was practicing for his role as Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake in just a few months.

It was one of his biggest dreams to play as the Prince in such an iconic performance, especially when he got along well with both Odettes dancer and Odile’s.

Bruce and Dick are excited for him, though Dick shows it better, and Tim is overjoyed to know that his parents will be in town when the opening night is. They say they’ll come and are proud of him for being in such a well known play and doing so in the traditional manner that the play was once made in.

Tim does wonderfully and Alfred organises for it to be recorded for them all to watch later.

Tim is greeted by them back stage after it ends and excitedly runs up to Dick to receive a huge hug. Dick is loudly saying how proud he is and that he’s so impressed his brother can do such an amazing dance. It’s the first time they’ve seen him perform and they were enamoured.

But Bruce looks tense.

“Bruce? Did… did you not like-“

Bruce cuts him off with a hug, “Of course I like it. Loved it even. It’s just…”

It’s then that Tim looks around and notices his parents aren’t there. They could have just gone home, but they wouldn’t give up a chance to boast about their money and successful heir.

Unless…

Tim looks down and tries to hold back his tears, “they didn’t show, huh?”

Tim can’t help but break down once Dick moves in to hug him, yet as Mr Volkov and some of his costars who are his friends come up and join them, he feels okay.

It’s not Janet and Jack, but it’s nice. It’s warm and kind and maybe that’s all that matters.

[rollingsins]

trust me

summary: Reader learns a new spell and decides to test it on Wednesday.  Specifically: Wednesday's strap-on.

pairing: wednesday x witch!reader

warnings: (+18), smut, magic!strap, strap-sucking, strap riding.

word count: 1.8k

a/n: for those who requested more Wednesday. let me know your thoughts and what you want to see next!

“Baby,” You murmur, against Wednesday’s lips, “Stop for a sec. I want to try something.” 

Wednesday pulls back slightly. Her face is framed by her pretty, dark bangs. Usually, they’re perfect. Not a hair out of place. But right now? They’re wild. Strands a mess, jutted slightly to the side and sticking to her forehead. Sweat keeping them in place. 

You’re on your back, Wednesday nestled between your legs. Silicone appendage around her waist, she’s pressed deep inside you. 

The thought hadn’t occurred to you until just now. 

But now it’s all you can think about. 

Wednesday raises herself with her elbows and stops her slow assault of your neck, an eyebrow quirked. 

“Try what?” She asks, only a hint of hesitance in her voice. 

You did this often. 

Bedroom ideas sprung only upon Wednesday in the heat of the moment. You didn’t do it intentionally, but she never seemed to mind that much. 

Last week it had been whipped cream. The week before it’d been a pair of fluffy, pink handcuffs. 

Your girlfriend is a little kinky, though that shouldn’t surprise you by now. 

“I learned something today in class,” You say, a little excited, “Something that I think will make you feel really good.” 

“You learned something about coitus in class?” Wednesday says, sounding concerned. 

You shake your head. 

“Please don’t call our lovemaking ‘coitus’,” You say, wrinkling your nose. Wednesday’s nose also wrinkles, but perhaps from the opposite word, “But you’re going to like this, babe. I promise.” 

You bite your lip. She’s looking at you, a little reluctant. 

You lean up and press a gentle kiss to her lips. 

“Do you trust me?” 

Wednesday appraises you. Infamously, she doesn’t trust easily. It had been an ordeal to even kiss her for the first time, let alone do this with you. 

But as time had gone on and you’d slowly chipped away at the black coal around her heart, she’d learned to trust you more than anyone else. 

Her eyes soften. 

“Of course,” She says. 

You shoot her a wry smile, and then squeeze her hips. 

“Lay back.” 

Wednesday frowns, but obliges. She pulls out of you, carefully, looking a little aggrieved at the very fact she has to. And then she settles herself on her back, watching as you grip the dildo with your hand. 

You close your eyes. Think hard to summon the words. They’re latin, as most of the spells at Nevermore are. You mumble them quietly, trying to be careful with your pronunciation. 

The last thing you want to do is say the wrong word and turn Wednesday into a table lamp, or something much worse. 

You open your eyes, just in time to release your grip on the dildo. 

It illuminates with light, then, it fades, turning back to its original shade - a deep, royal purple. The only color other than black Wednesday had agreed to buying. 

Wednesday blinks, looking startled. 

“What was that?” She asks. 

You bite your lip. 

“A little spell I learned in class. To make inanimate objects feel.” 

Wednesday’s no fool. She looks up at you owlishly, tilting her head slightly. Her lips purse, but the concern in her eyes melts into a longing arousal. 

She clocks it as you lick your lips, looking down hungrily to appreciate your new toy. She swallows, body tensed as you reach out and touch her, like she’s ready for what’s about to come. 

Still, the moment your fingers brush the head of the shaft, she gasps. 

“I don’t think Principal Weems’ intention was for you to use her lessons in this fashion.” Wednesday says, trying - and failing to sound logical. Her eyes are dark, her red lips firmly clenched between her teeth. 

You grip a little harder and watch as her eyes jerk closed. 

“Does that feel good?” You ask. You stroke down, gently, arousal flooding through you at the look on her face. Her eyebrows are drawn, her mouth open. You know she can feel everything. Every touch of your fingertips. Every slight stroke. 

As if the dildo is now a part of her. 

“Yes.” She pants. She sits up on her elbows, all faux concern gone, now firmly off her high horse, “Don’t stop.” 

You lean down and press a kiss to her hip. 

“You know what’ll feel even better?” You ask, voice coy, but you don’t give her time to respond. 

And then you dip down and take the head of the dildo into your mouth. 

She draws a sharp breath, head tilting back onto the pillow. 

You taste your own arousal, tinged with a little of that sharp silicone taste. 

Usually, this isn’t something the two of you did. Blowing silicone seemed pointless, most of the time. But now? With Wednesday writhing and moaning under your mouth, maybe it’s something you’ll do more often. 

You suck gently, rubbing your hands along the inside of her thighs. 

She groans, as a fresh trickle of wetness elicits from between her thighs, coating your fingers. You suck down a little harder, wanting more. You miss her taste, and quickly release the dildo with a gentle pop, leaning down to clean up the mess of her thighs, mouth watering at her salty wetness. 

She makes a noise of disapproval. 

“Be patient,” You chide, nipping her inner thigh with your teeth, “Enid won’t be back for hours, I’m going to play with you all afternoon.” 

Wednesday moans as you press a kiss to the base of the dildo, where it meets the straps, and then trail your tongue up to take her once more into your mouth. 

You suck a little more forcefully, now, wanting to hear the sweet harmony of moans and sighs and gasps only going down on her elicited. 

She doesn’t disappoint. Her hips press up, trying to feel as much of the wet heat your mouth provides as possible. Her hands use your hair like reins, like she’s a jockey trying to ride you as fast as she can. 

The noises she makes are glorious. Breathy moans, short, quiet gasps. 

And then a low groan when you pull your mouth away, sliding up her body to meet her lips. 

“Darling,” She says, sounding much more composed than she looks. Eyes wild, hair messy. Her lips, stained deep red with your lipstick, “Please don’t stop.” 

You smile and kiss her. 

Affectionate names aren’t her forte. In fact, the only time you get a ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darling’ or ‘baby’ is when she’s like this. Naked, wet, begging for more. 

“This is going to feel much better,” You say as you climb atop her body, positioning the head of her cock at your entrance, “I promise.” 

Her hands find your hips. 

You’re wet, comically so, and so the dildo slides in with ease. Your belly coils. The stretch of her filling you up feels insanely good. 

But the way Wednesday gasps out feels better. 

Her eyebrows knit, her grip on your hips tightens. She pants as you take her to the hilt, as deep as you can take her. She lets out a shaky breath as you lean down and press your lips to her jaw. 

“You’re not going to cum in thirty seconds are you?” You tease. 

She looks up, eyes locked in furious concentration, “Be quiet,” She orders, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s strangled, although if she doesn’t use every braincell in her body to focus, she’ll do exactly that. 

You ignore her, and rise up, slamming back down against her hips. The movement sends shockwaves through your body. 

Wednesday curses, a fresh bead of sweat forming at her forehead. She sinks back into the mattress, gasping slightly as you gyrate your hips against hers. 

“It’s a dildo, baby, not a real cock,” You tease, slamming down into her once more, “You can cum if you want, it won’t get soft. I’m going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.” 

Wednesday closes her eyes, her grip on your hips lessening. You lean down and press your lips to her neck, licking and biting and enjoying the salt of her skin as you fuck yourself down onto her. 

You’re going too fast now, you realize all at once. In your effort to make Wednesday cum in under a minute you’d forgotten exactly how good this feels for you. This time, it’s you who moans out as the tip of the dildo brushes your g-spot. 

Wednesday doesn’t miss it. 

Her eyes open slightly, sparking with opportunity. You slow your pace, only slightly, trying to be subtle but her hands grab at your waist, a little rough. 

The arousal in her eyes is suddenly tinged with mischief as she takes control. 

Her hips drive up at a furious pace. You cry out, almost losing your balance, but Wednesday's grip on you steadies you. The bed squeaks, debauched sounds of her bare skin hitting yours rings out. 

She grins as you lose your composure. 

“Seems like you’ll be the one cumming in thirty seconds.” She murmurs. 

You moan, dropping down to bury your head in her neck. Her hands reach down to grip your thighs, prying you open to her. 

You gasp as she pounds into you, and through your blurry, lust filled haze, you can’t help but have the last word. 

“Two minutes,” You moan into her ear, “But nice try. For a beginner.” 

That does it. 

If Wednesday’s assault was hard before, it’s positively ruthless now. She doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. Hard, calculated thrusts as she fucks you, using your hips to bounce you up and down her cock, each thrust making you cry out in pleasure.  

She reaches down between your bodies to rub your clit and slams her hips up into you furiously. 

You cum with a final, relentless thrust, and a long, loud moan into her ear. 

Your entire body flashes white, orgasm ripping through you. The tips of your ears redden, your nipples painfully hard, your clit throbbing. And as you squeeze around her, you feel Wednesday’s body tighten and then a quiet, low gasp as she cums hard against you. 

Her entire body shakes, her movements against you still. 

You’re breathing a little heavily as your body thrums with the quiet satisfaction of your orgasm. Wednesday’s eyes are locked shut, her grip on your hips unrelenting. 

You wait a moment, enjoying the sharp beat of her pulse and the way she nestles herself into you, arms moving to lock around your waist. You press a gentle kiss to her chest and grin up at her. 

“Told you that would feel good.” You say, nuzzling your head into her neck. 

“It was an enjoyable sensation.” Wednesday admits, and you beam. 

“Does that mean you want to do it again?” You ask, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. You’re not sure it works. 

Wednesday peers down at you, introspection on her face. 

Then, you let out a quiet squeal as she takes you by your hips and flips you onto your back. 

[10yrratiolover]

Some of my, oh so many, Ratio Headcannons

he knows a bunch of languages, all of which he can speak fluently

^ this includes Latin

cleans his rubber ducks VERY thoroughly to make sure they don't mold

he HATES getting sweaty, it's the only thing he doesn't like about hot baths and working out

has very strict morning and nightly routines, gets genuinely upset if they're disrupted

I think he and Argenti would have great philosophical debates about beauty (please hoyoverse please see my vision)

just straight up hates bright lights

^ prefers warm lighting over cold

I think his skin is naturally clear but he's definitely got some kind of skincare routine anyway

missed out on a lot of social opportunities during his teenage years due to his studies and such, don't think he would have had many friends (at least not his age)

big fan of parallel play, mostly because he gets caught up in his head so often, he's completely content doing different things in the same vicinity

he also uses Aventurine (or others) as a canvas of sorts to throw ideas and thoughts on, he'll start explaining something, and mid explanation he'll run into the answer, thank whoever he's talking to even though they didn't do anything, and hurry off to write it down

frequent bruises around his collar/bottom of his neck from his alabaster

migraine sufferer, me too stay strong king (actually I think this is canon?)

he VERY rarely cancels his classes, it could be flooded up to his doorknob and he'd send out an email to his students like "Today's lecture is still on."

^ this includes when he's sick or otherwise unwell, he could be barely standing upright and he'd still give his lecture

he can't listen to music with lyrics when doing anything because it distracts him (he'll start zoning in on the words and stop doing whatever else he was doing (did I word this right? idk it happens to me all the time))

he sometimes wears the alabaster at home if sensory issues are really bad that day

^ he verbally shuts down sometimes, which sucks bc he's got a lot to say but he typically just writes things down instead

does actually throw chalk at his students, not as hard as his in-battle attack obviously but his aim is always on point

^ his perfect aim also applies to literally anything he throws, his keys, his phone, if he wants to throw something somewhere it's getting there

sometimes completely submerges himself in the bath and just holds his breath for a bit to fully clear his head

^ he can hold his breath pretty long so he sits under there for a bit (freaked Aventurine out the first time he walked in on him doing it tho)

call me crazy but I think he'd be good with kids

[lilacs-stars]

shattered reflections

pairing: morgie le fay x fem!reader (requested) (note: reader is merlin's daughter) SUMMARY: you, the perfect child and student, have always been the epitome of righteousness. but what happens when you encounter a particularly annoying VK one night, when you're out doing something you're not supposed to? GENRE: pure, unbridled, heart-wrenching angst (I recommend a box of tissues), action scenes, some light humor, a bit of comfort, flirty banter CW: absent mother, neglectful father, family troubles, cursing, magical fighting, a bit of blood, threats, mentions of violence and stealing, heavy emotions WC: 15.2k (to those of you hungry for morgie fics…you have been fed) BACKGROUND: the mirror of ytirev is pronounced yih-tur-ev, the spells are all in latin (for anyone wondering)

A/N: this got a loooot longer and deeper than I thought it would...seriously how did we get here. I had fun adding some touches of light humor to offset the angst, and experimenting with different pov's was nice too. sooo go get comfy and settle down, and have fun reading this! (the ending is worth it I swear). thank you to the anon who requested this for all the details, I hope you enjoy! all feedback is highly appreciated, I'd love to know your thoughts and reactions!

A piercing clatter sounds from somewhere behind you. You whip around, eyes locking with snake-like slits glowing in the dark.

Shit, you think. 

They finally discovered my secret.

“…can anyone explain to me the properties of goblin mucus?” the teacher of your Magical Artifacts and Antiquities class asks.

A hand shoots up, causing a smile to spread on her face as she calls on the student—only to be met with the reply, “Miss, it says in our textbook that there’s a highly powerful and dangerous artifact stored here, in Merlin Academy. What’s that all about?”

The teacher’s smile falters for a brief second, but she answers the question regardless. “Yes, every class today has asked me about that. It seems like it’s only the dangerous objects that attract students’ attention. Class, turn to page two hundred seventy-five, where there is a more detailed explanation.”

Everyone flips through the pages of their books, more eager to learn than they’ve been for the entire lesson. Your teacher waits a moment before continuing.

“As it says in your textbooks, the Mirror of Ytirev is indeed kept in this school, although it is locked away in a very safe and secure place. For everyone’s safety, and the Mirror’s security. Now, can anyone tell me how it was created?”

You raise your hand swiftly, already knowing the answer from having read this chapter before it was even covered in class, along with the next three chapters. “After the creator of the Evil Queen’s magic mirror originally made it, he accidentally dropped it on the floor, causing it to shatter. He reconstructed the mirror using the larger shards, which became the famed mirror that eventually ended up in the hands of the Evil Queen. But there were still many miniscule fragments left from the first mirror, so he melted them again and made a smaller, weaker version of the Evil Queen's mirror. The small mirror is known today as the Mirror of Ytirev.” 

Your teacher beams again at your perfect recitation. “That is precisely correct, Y/N. Although I don’t expect anything less from the headmaster’s daughter, of course.

“This mirror has the ability to show its user exactly one truth, an answer to any question. But since its original form was shattered, its magic is no longer stable. That’s why it is covered in this chapter,” she continues to the class. “As you can see in the image in your textbook, it is a portable artifact, putting it in Category D, Type Three.”

You look down at your textbook, studying the picture of the mirror, despite having looked at it before. It depicts a vintage handheld mirror, encased in a detailed and ornate silver frame that surrounds the glass itself. The intricate carvings of the metal create symmetrical twin arches at the top of the mirror, ending in fancy loops. In these arches two bright red gemstones are set, their edges cleanly cut and shining brilliantly. The glass of the mirror looks almost cracked, although you know it isn't really.

Just as the thought passes through your mind, someone calls out, “Why is the mirror cracked? I thought the creator fixed it.”

The answer pops up in your brain before the teacher even opens her mouth, but you still patiently listen to her as she explains to the rest of the class. “It’s not really cracked, it just appears that way to anyone who looks at it. The only time someone can see the mirror’s smooth surface is if they’re staring directly in the eyes of their own reflection. When someone does this, it is rumored they will see the truest form of themselves, the truth they desire the most.”

Someone else raises their hand, and the teacher calls on them this time. “So,” they ask, “you can get the answer to anything from that? Like how to become rich or live forever?”

The teacher masks what you can tell is a rather displeased look with yet another—fake—smile. She turns to face the entire class, a telltale sign that the student said something wrong. “Now, as we all know, there’s always a price to magic. When it comes to this mirror, due to its unstable powers, there are many prices.”

She continues her lecture, one that provides you with absolutely no new information, but being the ever-diligent student you are, you continue to listen intently. “If you look at the next page, it explains that anyone who wishes to use the Mirror must first present an offering that is very dear to them. If the Mirror accepts the offering, it allows the person to ask their question.” “And if it doesn’t?” your classmate asked.

“Does anyone know the answer to that?” The teacher looks around the class, before her eyes land on you. “Y/N?”

You brighten up at being called on, before rattling off the information as if it was common knowledge. “If the Mirror doesn’t accept the offering, or if it becomes displeased for any other reason, it will drag the person’s soul not to enlightenment, but to eternal torment. They will end up losing their mind and going crazy, with any form of intelligent life getting absorbed by the Mirror.”

“Correct again,” your teacher praises, and you beam. “And if that's not enough to ward any of you off, keep in mind that everyone who has ever used the Mirror has gone completely mad. No one has ever obtained the answer they sought; instead, they were all lost to its evil spirit. And let me assure you, many people throughout history have attempted to use the Mirror, only to fail. Therefore, it was voted as too dangerous for any beneficial uses by the Department of Magical Security. That is why it is contained here, under the watchful eye of our very own Headmaster Merlin.” 

At the mention of your father, everyone turns to stare at you, as if you’re somehow the reason the Mirror is locked up. Despite the stifling moment of silence, you shrug off the unwanted attention. After all, you’re used to this. Used to the looks that other kids give you when you receive special attention from teachers for being the smartest one, for always raising your hand, for answering questions perfectly, for acing every test and having every homework assignment completed—yet refusing to share your answers (“But if I tell you the answers, how will you ever learn?”). 

Used to the whispers that follow you everywhere you go, rumors of your family life; how your mother must have left because of your father’s bad habits, or neglect, or because she was having an affair with another man. Constant reminders of the past.

Used to how everyone walks on eggshells around you, how they all put you on a ledge far away from them. How people’s conversations quiet as you pass by, afraid you’ll go and report them to your father at the slightest whiff of mischief. How they always eye you when they pass notes in class or plan a prank—as if you weren't already aware of what they were doing—sometimes even begging you not to tell on them.

Used to how teachers and adults in your life expect the absolute best of you. Even when there’s no more left of yourself to give. 

How they expect you to be the absolute best, a paragon of righteousness. You always have to determine the right decision, make the right call, be the epitome of morality and virtue. This is your burden to bear, all by yourself; instead of worries over bad grades or boys, you suffer under the crushing weight of the expectations of everyone around you. The expectations of society.

Briiiiiiingg! The sound of the bell marking the end of class snaps you out of your musings. “Um, Miss?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the sounds of everyone packing their bags.

“You didn’t tell us what our homework assignment is for tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right! Thank you for reminding me, Y/N,” the teacher exclaims amidst a chorus of groans, along with a few colorful words directed your way. “Everyone, please finish up chapter three and be prepared to turn in your report on seventh century runes by the start of tomorrow’s class.”

After all, you’re used to how right they are about you.

…Or so they think.

“Oh good, Y/N! I was looking for you all over, you know,” a panting, all-too familiar voice calls out from behind you. You freeze in your tracks, grimacing. After a deep breath, you paint a smile on your face, before turning around.

A tall man, although much shorter due to his slouched posture, hurries towards you animatedly. His short, dark brown hair is matted against the top of his head, and a thick, bushy beard trails down from his chin, rounding above his mouth in a matching mustache. He dons a pair of thin spectacles that hang low on his large nose, dressed in a dark blue robe with faint golden embroidery and a waistcoat to match. A little brown stick juts out from a hidden pocket inside his robe, an object you can only assume to be his wand—which you are quite shocked he hadn’t lost today yet.

“Dad!” you say as enthusiastically as you can muster, but if anyone had been looking closely, they would have seen the way you ever so slightly cringe as he stumbles towards you. You silently thank the heavens that this man doesn’t pay much attention to anything. Not even to his own family.

Merlin clambers towards you, gripping one of your shoulders once you’re within arm’s length. He pants, leaning his weight on you as he catches his breath.

“Dad, what is it?” you ask him, trying your best not to fall over from supporting him.

“I-I…k-keys,” he wheezes.

“You lost your keys?” This certainly isn't the first time he’s come to you with this problem, and you definitely won't bet it'll be his last.

He nods, clutching his chest as his breathing finally evens out. “Phew,” he says, letting go of your shoulder. “My spare keys to my office…I can’t seem to find where I’ve put them.”

“You mean that big ring that has a copy of about every single key needed to unlock absolutely anything in this school?” you ask, incredulous at the way he nods feverishly. Honestly, how he doesn’t see the issue with what you just plainly pointed out is beyond you.

“Nope, haven’t seen them,” you reply. “Have you checked under the counter? Inside your desk drawers? In the little pockets sewn in the other pockets in all of your robes? On top of a clothing rack? Under the vase of orchids? In the fish bowl? In the left sock from your pair that has those reindeers on them?”

He nods at each one, sometimes hesitating as if recalling something deep in his memory , but then continuing to fervently nod nonetheless. You sigh again. “Well, I don’t know then. I suppose you’ve found someplace new to hide them this time.”

“Hmm…” he mutters, scratching his beard.

“Well, Dad, I don’t know if you heard, but I, uh, I made top student of my year last quarter. For the fifth consecutive time,” you mention, trying to ease into the conversation, albeit very tentatively and with great unease. Most people’s parents would applaud them and give them a prize for merely getting an A. Yours, on the other hand, barely remembers which grade you’re in.

Your father snaps his head up, staring at you with an eccentric haze in his eyes. You feel a small glimmer of hope; maybe he’s going to give you a pat on the back this time, or perhaps offer to take you out for a celebratory dinner. You wait for his response, completely still as if frozen in time, anticipation buzzing throughout every nerve.

“Wait…I believe I put it in the mouth of that owl statue…” He freezes erratically, brow furrowed in deep concentration, before releasing the tension in his body and going back to slumping. “No, I think I already checked there.”

You take a nice, long, deep breath, using up every last ounce of your carefully practiced self-control, which you had perfected through years of deploying in stifling social situations that made you want to crawl out of your own skin, to remain calm in this moment. “Well, I hope you find it.” Giving him one last attempt at even a semblance of a smile, you sharply turn back around on your heel, continuing down the hall to your first class of the day.

Watching the early morning rays of sunshine through the tall windows of the corridor, you think back to the discussion you had yesterday in your Artifacts class. You had answered every question correctly, every fact written in ink not only committed to memory but etched into the very foundation of your brain. 

You wonder if he knows of all the hard work you put into school. All the grueling hours you spend studying, all the sleepless nights you spend fighting against your body’s very nature to stay awake and keep your eyes open just enough to read the page. Heck, you wonder if he even remembers that your birthday is coming up next month—or that you gave him your wish list ages ago to ensure that he gets at least one present you asked for, unlike other years.

No, of course he doesn’t remember, you remind yourself. He doesn’t care about me. He never did.

Just like he didn’t care about Mom when she disappeared.

“Ugh, my nail chipped again. I should find the girl who did these and squeeze her to death.”

A tentacle floating in midair tightens and coils around nothingness, miming the strangulation of an innocent soul with a disturbing nonchalance. A girl with dark skin and long locks in colors such as blue, teal, and yellow, done up in a small bunch on top of her head, checks the painted nails on her left hand with a scowl on her face. 

“Come on, Uli, you’re getting your nails done like, every week,” the god of the Underworld replies, indifference practically seeping through his spiked leather jacket as he chews gum and gives the sea witch a look. “At least find yourself someone better.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Uliana snaps, dropping her hand exasperatedly as she huffs.

A sorceress with purple eyeshadow and two sleek, black horns protruding from the sides of her head rolls her eyes as she complains, “This is so boring.” 

“Well, what do you suggest we do then, love?” a crisply accented voice asks, sounding from a boy with neatly parted brown hair and a golden hook that ends in a sharp, gleaming point.

“Did you hear that there’s a, like, super dangerous magical object being kept here?” Maleficent asks, somehow keeping her voice incredibly monotonous and deathly uninterested, even as her words themselves convey enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, apparently it can tell anyone anything they want to know,” Hades replies. “I don’t know why they’re keeping it here, though.”

Uliana turns back to the group, a malicious glint in her eye. Even before she opens her mouth, the boy with powers rather similar to those of a snake can already guess what she’s going to say.

“How about we go steal it?” she asks, a wicked grin already twisting onto her features.

“You do realize that everyone who’s ever used it has gone mad, right?” Hook asks, raising his eyebrows incredulously as he gives Uliana a look of disbelief.

“We won’t use it ourselves, idiot,” she snaps. “But it’ll be fun to steal it and cause a panic. Right, Morgie?”

Morgie swallows, looking up at Uliana with wide eyes. “Of course! C’mon, you guys. Think of the mischief we can cause with it! We can make people think some kids used it and went crazy”—he leans in, excitement growing as he speaks, making wide gestures with his hands—“and everyone would be so scared! They’d probably cancel school, too!”

Uliana grins diabolically again. “Morgie, honey,” she starts, slipping one of her tentacles under his chin, lifting his face up towards her. “How about you do this one?”

“I-I, uh…” he stammers, uncertainty laced in his voice. He definitely wasn't expecting this turn of events.

“Come on, please,” Uliana pouts. “Do it for me? After all, you’re only stealing a little mirror. How hard can that be?”

Morgie glances up at her again, before tugging uncomfortably on the black scarf wrapped around his neck. “But…it’s super dangerous…”

“Don’t you want to be evil? Don't you want to wreak havoc and cause pain?” Uliana taunts. “Or, are you”—she lets out a faux gasp—“afraid?”

“N-no, not at all!" Morgie exclaims, trying to sound more courageous than he feels. “I’ll do it!”

“Perfect,” the sea witch coos, removing her tentacle arm. “You’ll do it tonight.” She turns back to the group, adding, “I hear that old troll keeps the most dangerous and evil artifacts locked up in a room off the east wing, on the third level.”

Morgie gulps, already trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d be doing the heist tonight. Hook, jumping off a ledge, asks, “You mean the one guarded by different spells and magical alarms?”

Uliana grins wickedly. “Nothing a little bit of Kraken Powder can’t fix.” She holds up a small vial hanging from a string around her neck like a necklace. It's common knowledge how incredibly rare Kraken Powder is, which makes sense, given how potent its anti-magic properties are.

Everyone catches on to what Uliana's implying, causing the group to all laugh together at their evil plan. Morgie tries his best to join along, but he can’t quite seem to get rid of the uneasy knot already forming in the pit of his stomach.

“You remember the plan?”

Uliana’s slippery tentacles glisten under the moonlight, flailing around behind her in midair. Morgie nods, attempting to still his quivering hands before Uliana notices them. He tries, with a miserable sense of impending doom, to swallow the lump in his throat, but to no avail.

“Here, I stole these from Merlin’s office,” Uliana explains as one of her tentacles drops a large ring filled with probably around two dozen keys, each in various shapes and colors, straight into Morgie's open palm. “One of these has to fit the door. You didn’t forget what you need to do, right?”

Morgie clears his throat, choking out a meager, “Yep.” He pockets the keys, seriously hoping they don’t clink together and make too much noise while he moves. As Uliana already repeated a hundred times, “It’s crucial you don’t get caught.”

Morgie reaches up to touch the vial hanging from his neck yet again, making sure it’s still there—after all, better safe than sorry. Once more, he glances at the large grandfather clock in the common area where he and Uliana lurk in the shadows, waiting. Finally, its bells chime midnight, and Uliana turns back to him as the ringing reverberates around them.

“Go, hurry!” the sea witch urges, pushing him toward the door with a tentacle. 

Morgie nods, hurriedly rushing to the exit. The first part of the plan—a plan he so diligently committed to memory—is for him to sneak out while the bells are still ringing, to mask the sound of the door opening and closing. Thankfully, he makes it out by the tenth chime, carefully closing the door to make sure the latch doesn’t sound by the eleventh.

Okay, I’m really doing this, Morgie thinks as he stares into the deserted corridor. He tiptoes around silently, but still as quickly as possible. Time is, obviously, of utmost importance in missions like this.

At last, he reaches his destination. The unassuming—and misleadingly so—wooden door looms over him, ominous through the lens of his knowledge of what lies beyond it. 

An amateur villain would simply pick the lock and open the door, but Morgie is too experienced in such endeavors to make a rookie mistake like that (Uliana told him what to do, step-by-step).

He hovers his hand above the lock, taking a steadying breath as he summons the powers that reside within him. His pupils shrink into the tiniest slivers of blackness as a dark, magical smoke emits from his palm. He makes a faint hissing noise, reciting an old incantation in a tongue far different from what normal humans use, and the lock softly clicks as the door creaks open. Practically inviting him inside.

Morgie pushes it open the rest of the way, making sure to shut it behind him so as to not raise the suspicion of any night guards roaming the halls.

He turns back around, now faced with a dark, menacing hallway. Walking slowly down it, he looks around with a chilling captivation. Old suits of armor leer down at him, rustic and each coated with a thick layer of dust. Large spiderwebs cover every visible nook and cranny, which makes Morgie exceedingly grateful that the actual spiders aren't in his line of sight.

At the end of the corridor stands yet another large door, matching the first. This one, according to Uliana, has even more security than the other. Time to use my secret weapon, Morgie thinks, reaching to pull the vial of Kraken Powder out from under his shirt. He opens the cap and sprinkles a little of the finely grained dust into his palm, then blows it over the lock of the door.

At first glance, it appears the powder didn’t work, as nothing seem to change. But anyone with an affinity for magical energy can feel the spells placed on the lock of the door melt away without a trace. After the door is unarmed, Morgie fishes in his pocket for the keys. They clang horribly as he pulls them out, echoing up into the tall ceiling of the hallway. He freezes, listening intently for footsteps somewhere outside. When he hears none, Morgie begins the task of figuring out which key fits the lock.

He goes through nearly half the ring (Seriously, who keeps all their keys in one place?) before finding the one that fits perfectly. Twisting it with a swift movement, the door unlocks, and he creeps inside. 

To his immense shock, there isn't a room behind the door filled with evil objects or piled with gold coins. Instead, there’s a…

…library?

Morgie walks inside, utterly confused. Had Uliana gotten the location wrong? No, there's no way. The doors were too guarded for a normal library.

He continues down one of the aisles, wondering why he's never seen this place before. It is extremely large, with arched ceilings meters and meters above his head. Tall bookshelves tower over him, so tall that he can barely see the highest shelves.

Lined against the walls and placed on the shelves are also glass jars and containers filled with seemingly normal items: a seashell necklace, a deck of playing cards, a cane with the head of a snake. But there's something sinister about them; some strange aura that hovers above each object. In fact, it fills the entire expanse of the library. 

Morgie stops by one of the shelves, reading the titles. He brushes his fingers along one of the spines—and that’s when he feels it. An ominous energy rushes through his fingertips, electrifying his every nerve at it travels through him, causing him to realize that this is no normal book. It’s a book of dark magic.

He spins around in a circle, eyeing the entirety of the library. Now that he thinks about it, the whole place has the heavy atmosphere of dark magic. And that’s when it hits him: this is no normal library, and neither are the books. This is the room of forbidden artifacts. It just so happens that most of those artifacts are books, probably containing content deemed too dangerous for normal people to learn.

Morgie briefly considers taking a few of the books off the shelves and perusing through them, or maybe even slipping a couple in his jacket and taking them back with him. After all, all these forbidden books must have countless evil spells and potions. If he and the rest of his group got their hands on these…

However, after a moment of serious consideration, he decides the better of it. He's here for another purpose, and Uliana would be outraged if he only came back with a few meager books, no matter the contents.

Continuing through the labyrinth of shelves, Morgie looks around meticulously, trying to figure out a rhyme or reason to the order of things. No student has ever been in here, and he doubts many of the teachers have, either. Therefore, there were no references or guides to help him and his friends figure out where in the room the Mirror is located. Plus, he doesn’t think any of them had expected the place to be so colossal—he surely hadn't.

After a few minutes of stumbling around in the near darkness, he finally comes across a ladder leaning against one of the shelves. It’s so tall he can’t see the top of it, but deciding it’s his best chance at finding his bearings, Morgie begins the long climb up.

He isn’t really afraid of heights. Not in the way that some people refuse to go on anything more than a few feet off the ground. But he honestly doesn’t see how anyone couldn’t feel at least a little queasy at the high altitude. I must be a dozen meters off the ground, Morgie realizes as he glances down. I wonder what would happen if I fell—

He cuts the thought off before he can imagine the gruesome details. Instead, he looks back up and around the library. From all the way up here, he can see the top of the shelves, and he really was right: this place was designed to be a maze.

On the far side of the area, his eyes spot lots of glass cases reflecting the soft moonlight and flames of enchanted candles. That must be where most of the objects are kept. Chances are, the Mirror’s there too.

He mentally charts out a course through the labyrinth, trying to remember the directions for more than two seconds. Right, left, left again, forward, right, right again, left, forward—or wait, was it right? After a few minutes, he climbs back down the ladder, praying to the demons of the Underworld that he remembers the path correctly and doesn’t get lost.

Morgie makes his way through the maze, growing more and more fascinated by the creepy and wonderful objects around him. He can’t stop thinking about how nice—and useful—it would be to pocket some of them, or maybe come back here and spend more time studying them. Every time he passes by something that intrigues him, his mind immediately wonders if it would fit inside his clothes.

Despite this, he resists the urge to steal things, as he can’t have anything weighing him down in case there are more challenges or enchantments he has to disarm before getting the Mirror. But perhaps on the way back…

His train of thought drifts away as he finally reaches a large area that is surrounded by glass cases, on tables and lining the shelves set into the walls. He never imagined there would be so many forbidden artifacts in total, much less in one place, although maybe that's because he's never really paid attention in class.

From the top of a shelf a few meters away, something catches his eye. A mysterious, eerie white fog pours from one of the highest shelves, dissipating as it cascades down the front of the bookcase. He remembers hearing something about mist related to the Mirror, and deciding it’s worth a shot, he moves closer to check it out.

And that’s when he sees it.

A dark flurry of movement from another one of the top shelves catches his attention. Morgie snaps his head up, brows furrowing as he squints, eyes trailing the structures above him. But he can’t quite make out anything, at least not in the faint light, so he hesitantly shrugs it off and continues towards the mysterious fog—albeit not being able to shake off the strange feeling he has that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He takes a few more steps, and just as he's nearly convinced himself he’s only being paranoid, it happens again. Now that he’s closer, he can see there’s another tall ladder reaching up to around where the movement is happening, close to the Mirror. This time, his eyes register the shape. 

A dark, human figure moves up the ladder, blending in and out of the shadows. 

Morgie’s eyes grow wide, pupils shrinking back into snake-like slits as a reptilian hiss escapes his mouth. There shouldn't be anyone else here.

The figure freezes in place before turning around to face him, hanging halfway up the ladder. Although Morgie can’t see their face, concealed by a thick black hood, he can tell they saw him. 

He stretches out his arms, summoning black magic that swirls around his hands and up to his elbows again. After but a second of him and the hooded figure staring at each other—which somehow felt like an hour—Morgie throws his arm forward, aimed for the figure.

A ball of twisting dark energy shoots from his hand and towards the hooded face. The figure ducks down, dodging the attack. Undeterred, Morgie hurls more swirls of dark magic. The figure dodges the first few of them, but they must have realized that merely ducking down won't be enough to win this fight, because they summon a shield of buzzing yellow electricity to block the next few attacks.

Morgie quickly becomes aware that he isn’t winning the fight like this; he needs a new strategy. And that’s when he spots it.

He puts his hands close together in front of his chest, gathering a potent sphere of black magic between his palms. The figure stands there, motionless, still hanging onto the ladder.

If you can’t knock them down, pull the carpet out from under their feet.

He thrusts both of his hands forward, sending the ball of magic not at the figure, but at the base of the ladder instead. By the time they realize what he's doing, it’s too late.

Morgie’s magic collides with the bottom rungs, exploding the material and sending wooden splinters flying everywhere. He watches as the figure falls, swiftly summoning a flash of lightning below them as they plummet, easing the crash as they hit the ground. 

The aftermath of the explosion has Morgie ducking down and covering his face with his arm, barely being able to make out what happened to the hooded person. As the dust finally settles, Morgie spots the figure get up, gripping their head as if in pain. They stumble a little, then bush off their black robe as they check for other injuries.

As if abruptly remembering why they had fallen, they spin around to face Morgie. He stares, wide-eyed in pure disbelief, as the figure comes face-to-face with him. Even though they don’t seem to be too hurt, and definitely still alive, the force of the impact caused their hood to be knocked off their head.

Morgie’s mouth drops open as he registers the figure’s face.

There, in front of him, in the forbidden archive harboring some of the world's most dangerously powerful magical objects during the dead of night, stands the headmaster’s daughter.

Your grimace grows as you lock eyes with a boy with light brown hair, hazel eyes shrunk into slits resembling a snake’s, causing your head to throb even worse.

You watch as the realization dawns upon the boy’s face, cursing the skies for this little issue that you now have to deal with.

He knows your secret.

“Y-you, you, you’re the headmaster’s daughter,” he sputters out, disbelief still painted on his face, as clear as day. Seriously, if he keeps his jaw open like that, it’ll fall off.

“Yeah, no shit,” you spit back, not paying much attention to his stunned little face. Your mind is overwhelmed with a swirling whirlwind of thoughts and ideas on how to get rid of this new liability, each plan vying for your attention, each one crueler than the last.

After all, now that he knows who you really are, how you're not a rule-abiding goody-goody, there’s no point in keeping up your sweet, innocent facade. You finally let your mask slip off, the mask that you wear constantly in the presence of others. The mask that you only relieve yourself of when you’re all alone, with no one to see your callous, vindictive, cynical side. Your true side.

Ever since that day, at least. The day that forever changed your life.

“What are you doing here?” the boy stammers, as if it isn't already dreadfully obvious.

“The same thing you’re doing here.” “How do you know what I’m doing here?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. Honestly, this kid could not be more of a dunderhead. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Either get out of my way, or I’ll make you get out of my way.”

At your threat, the boy, whose name you happen to remember from a class you took with him last year, changes his stance. Morgie widens his legs, arms fanned out besides him whilst summoning dark energy that clings to his skin, alive and breathing, yet submissive to its master’s will.

“Aren’t you like, a goody-goody?” he asks, face still scrunched in confusion. “I’ve heard teachers go on and on about how good your grades are, how polite you are, how you’re the perfect student.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed at his relentless questions. It 's already bad enough that he knows this much. You don't need him finding out more.

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” you respond as vaguely as possible, hoping that it’ll shut him up. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, shooting back, “I don’t really think so.”

You try your best to not encourage him and his irritating questions, but you can’t help but begrudgingly ask, “How so?”

Morgie looks at you for a beat with an intent gaze, before replying, “I always thought you were too pretty for a hero.”

Uh, excuse me, what? you think. Now it’s your turn to be shocked. “You don’t find me scary?” You had always assumed that people would be terrified if they saw your real, unfiltered side.

“No, not really. I mean, I’m evil too. If anything, I find you even hotter now that I know you’re not a goody-goody.”

Blinking hard, your eyebrows shoot into the air. There is no way he just said that. Your mind is uncontrollably reeling at his words, but only for a brief moment. Before you can read too deeply into it, your attention is quickly snapped back to the black magic still swirling around him, growing by the second. Ah, a ploy to distract me. Maybe he is more clever than he lets on.

“Listen, Morgie,” you snarl threateningly. “That mirror is mine.”

“Wait, you’re here for the Mirror too?” he asks, with far too light a tone for a situation such as this.

“Th-that was obvious the whole time!” you exclaim, unbelievably irritated. “What did you think I was here for?” “I dunno, a book or something.” He shrugs casually, before narrowing his eyes. “Wait, what do you want the Mirror for?”

“That’s none of your business,” you snap back, fingers thrumming with the rush of energy as you summon your own magic. Letting your curiosity get the better of you yet again, you add, “Why do you want it?”

“I’m a villain. I steal things for fun,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What does a goody-two-shoes hero want to do with a forbidden artifact?”

Barely listening to his words, you study him carefully, needing to know the extent of his powers if you’re going to win the inevitable fight that you can sense coming. You see how his ever-growing dark magic stalls temporarily as he talks, probably from getting distracted while speaking. That’s it. Deciding to buy yourself some time, you use this little weakness to your advantage.

“I want the Mirror because I want to use it.” Even though you’re planning on entertaining his pointless questions, you definitely aren’t going to give him information for free.

“Use it? To get an answer?” His magic hesitates again.

“No, to look at myself.” You see the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to implode. “Of course to get an answer, you dumbass! Unlike you, I don’t go risking my life ‘for fun.’”

“What are you even going to use as an offering? You have to give it something, you know.”

You sigh, reaching underneath your shirt to pull out a small silver locket, its chain blackened from the trials of time. Dangling it from your fingers, you show it to Morgie.

“A locket?” he asks incredulously. “The offering's supposed to be something really special or precious.”

“It is really precious,” you hiss, tucking it back into your shirt. “It’s the most precious thing I own. If anything’s going to make the Mirror work, it’s this.”

“Well, you’re not going to get the Mirror anyways. It’s mine.” He widens his stance again, his magic continuing to grow around him. No, I need a little more time, you think, masking your growing panic with an insouciant eye roll.

“Why?” you question. “You’re not even going to use it.”

“I still need it.” “But why?”

“I won’t tell you if you won’t tell me!” he exclaims. Despite his little outburst, you can tell there’s something he’s hiding. After all, you are a master of concealing the truth yourself. “Plus, you know that everyone who's ever used the mirror has gone crazy, right? You’re literally sentencing yourself to a life of madness.” You give him an unamused look. “I’m the top of our year. Obviously I know everything there is to know about the Mirror of Ytirev.”

He gazes at you in a way you can’t decipher, but it’s softer, more sympathetic than his former glare. You notice that his snake eyes have disappeared as well, despite the magical energy still surrounding him. “Then why are you still doing this, despite the risks?”

You falter, for just a second, letting a sliver of emotion slip through. But as quickly as it happened, you patch it back up, returning to your cold, glowering face. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay.” You expect him to drop it after that, but he continues to press you. “You’re prepared to give up your morals? Your status as a hero? You’re willing to lose all your integrity for one answer?”

God, he talks too much. With a sniff, you throw your hands out in front of you, releasing a bright flash of crackling electricity that had been building up as you cry out, “I don’t care how evil I have to become, I will find the truth, one way or another!”

The lightning shoots forward without warning, hot as an inferno, piercing straight through his chest and flinging him backwards into a shelf like a ragdoll. He falls down to his knees, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to get up again. Clutching his chest, he wheezes yet still manages to stand up, summoning wispy black tendrils that shoot at you like arrows.

You tuck and roll, dodging them, whilst building up more crackling lightning between your fingers. The last tendril hits far too close to you for comfort, burning a hole in your robe. That would have been my flesh, had it hit me, you realize in sudden horror.

Seeing as how your opponent is summoning even more dark magic to hit you with, now engulfing his entire body, you break into a sprint. Black spears collide with the shelves behind you one after another, barely missing you, as you run past glass cases, each containing a different artifact that glistens in the silver moonlight. Something across the arena seizes your attention, and a plan begins to piece itself together in your head. You continue your dash towards the shelves behind Morgie. Once you reach a section with books instead of random magical objects, you slow your pace. Amidst Morgie's unrelenting attacks, you create a golden shield of electricity that sparks and crackles, almost alive, and which reaches as tall as you. You jog past the shelves, head craned as you scan the book titles as quickly as possible.

Morgie persists in launching balls of dark magic directly at you, smashing into your shield. Your panic rises as cracks begin to form, at first only small fissures, but growing larger and larger with each sphere that pummels your way.

You run parallel to the shelf, which boxes in the rest of the area in a rectangular shape, eyes frantically darting over words with barely enough time for your brain to comprehend them.

Glancing up as a whorl of blackness blasts the books resting directly in front of you, you duck down, yet continue to run. That’s when you see a thick tome, larger than the others and bearing a dark red cover, jutting out from a shelf a few meters in front of you. With your magical shield barely staying intact, you lunge towards it, snatching the book as you fall towards the ground and somersault behind a desk-sized wooden stand to hide. On top of it stands a glass display case, with faint candlelight illuminating the rustic, yet enchanted, metal shield contained inside it.

You crouch down, flipping through the pages of the book desperately, trying to find the incantation you know has to be in there. One time, on one of your random visits to the library—the normal one, not this hell of the most cursed items in the land—you had picked up a text that talked about the history of spellcasting. Detailed inside was a description of one of the first books of curses ever written, which had been banned from production shortly after its release due to the nature of its contents. There had been a small sketch next to the explanation, which just so happens to match the tome now weighing in your hands.

Morgie’s blasts of magic don’t stop, pounding the wooden stand and the glass case alike. You think he yells something, but you can’t tell; you’re too focused on squinting at the fine print on the page, eyes wildly scanning the names of the spells. The desk quakes with every attack, causing your hands to tremble as you rifle through the pages hastily, pointer finger trailing down the lists of incantations. 

Finally, your eyes lock onto the one you want. “Obiectum impedit semitam,” you recite, gaze darting between the page and the glass case above you. It quivers vigorously, yet remains unscathed due to its magic-bulletproof nature.

“Evanescet a lumine irae meae!” As soon as the last syllable leaves your tongue, the glass case dissipates into thin air. Your hand darts up, clutching the shield and shoving it in front of you. Just in time, as the wooden stand protecting you explodes from the force of Morgie’s dark magic, blasting into a shower of mere splinters that rain down around you. The shockwave causes you to recoil, even as the shield absorbs the brunt of the impact.

Quickly regaining your bearings, you crouch even lower behind the metal. Thumbing through the book pages briskly, your eyes skim the ink, trying to find the first spell that can help you now. 

“Inimicus meus, caveto tibi,” you mutter the incantation rapidly, trying your best not to stumble over the archaic words—who knows what sort of havoc that would make. “Transi me et in carcere gelido capieris.”

You peek your head over the shield as you say the last line, locking in on your target. He stands there, panting, worn from his latest, potent attack. Morgie barely has enough time to widen his eyes as the final word escapes your mouth, instantly creating ice stalagmites that burst forth from the ground, crisscrossing as they trap him in a prison of ice. They tower high all around while entrapping him in a circle, frost coating their sleek outsides, which narrow into dangerously sharp tips.

The air turns frigid, and you can see flurries of movement as Morgie thrashes within his glacial cell. Already, he’s trying to break out. Through the cracks between the icicles, you can see a swirling vortex of black magic fighting the freezingly cold charm. Even though it is a strong spell, you know it won’t last for long. Especially not with the dark energy that is slowly, yet surely, thawing out the ice.

Springing up again, you bolt to the shelves on the other side, jumping over small puddles forming on the floor. The book is still open in your hands as you wildly tear through one page after another, the minuscule words shaking and blurring together as you run. Honestly, what kind of asshole decides to print in such a tiny font? you internally rage. Flipping through the large sheets of paper filled with small text reminds you of reading a dictionary. In a way, the spellbook is a dictionary of sorts, with the way every curse is listed alphabetically, in a neat and orderly manner—much unlike your current frenzied state, with how your heart pounds against your chest as if trying to break free, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins cuts off any semblance of a coherent thought forming in your brain.

Twisting sharply to your right, you dart towards the shelf that the Mirror stands on. You stare up at it as you continue to run, eyes practically sending a silent plea while it sits on its throne undisturbed, watching the scenes before it unfold as if viewing a play from the highest seat in the opera house; somehow mildly amused, yet still condescendingly blasé at the same time.

Flipping to the L section of the spellbook, you scan the page for a spell that can help you reach it at last. Finally finish the last stretch of your journey. 

The icicle prison behind you makes a dreadfully loud crack. Your heart only races even faster with a jolt, your breathing coming out only in sharp, erratic gulps that make you feel light-headed, as if you’re not getting enough oxygen no matter how much you gasp for air. 

As you scan the page, this time with a renewed fervor that has your eyes darting across the words, too panicked to even finish a sentence before leaping to the next, you make a very interesting revelation indeed. For whatever reason, the genius who wrote this book decided not to add levitation to the list of spells, but instead included lignum pullelare, which roughly translates to “sprouting a tree”.

Another thunderous boom sounds again from the constantly fracturing icicles, a violent reminder of the ticking clock. You decide that this spell, no matter how absurd, is the best shot you have. Inhaling another sharp breath that burns your lungs, you cry, “Surge, virens gigas, de terra immunda,” your eyes glued to the page. “Ascendunt ad lunam et super caelos!”

A branch smashes into your chest, knocking the wind out of you—you really need to get used to how quickly these spells take effect—lifting you up as a colossal tree ascends from the ground, growing much more rapidly than even a beanstalk, much less a normal tree. The metal shield slips out of your grasp from the impact, your fingers desperately flailing in its direction futile as it falls and hits the floor with a dull thud.  

Your get snapped back to the present from the momentary distraction as your body starts slipping off the branch, with how it's quickly growing into a thick, strong limb with no end in sight. You slide off the ever-stretching wood, scratches cutting into your arms as you frantically try to wrap them around the branch, until only your hands are still hanging on. Using the book, which remains gripped firmly in one hand, you fling it open and cling to each cover. The book's pages spread wide around the wood as you hold on for dear life.

You continue shooting upwards along with the tree, the bookcase racing past you, when a realization hits you like a strike of lightning. This tree won’t stop growing anytime soon, and when it does, you’ll be too high up—if you're still alive, that is.

Glancing above you, you spot the Mirror and the shelf it sits on getting closer, and getting closer fast. Making up your mind, or rather, making a brash decision fueled by your skyrocketing panic, you wait until the shelf you need to reach comes into view. Then, you jump off. 

Flinging yourself towards the bookcase, you manage to latch on to a shelf, fingers wrapping around the ledge while your feet find purchase on another ridge a few feet below. The book remains clutched in one hand, your iron grip refusing to let it go. Realizing you can't do anything while holding it, you risk letting go with one hand. Gripping onto the shelf with your other hand, you tuck the book under your chin, angling your head down as you struggle to hold it between your neck and body. 

You peer up at your grasp on the shelf, the unforgiving ridges digging into your skin, carving painful lines into your fingers. Your feet barely remain balanced, the ledge not jutting out as far as you’d like it to. Turning your heels in to stay on the little shelf space there is in front of the books, you wince as the ridges between your arms and legs bite into your body. The sweat coating your palms causes your grip to start slipping off, your eyes wide in sheer terror as you let go for a brief second, thrusting your hands further back and hooking onto the edge again.

Glimpsing back down, you see the Mirror resting in its glass cage a few shelves below you, the strange white mist slithering underneath the glass and pouring out over the bookcase like a waterfall. With your chin still uncomfortably positioned as to not lose the book, you release on hand and leg from the shelf, leaving you hanging in between life and death itself.

You move your free hand down one ledge below, then the corresponding foot, haltingly scaling your way down the bookcase. Each time precariously letting go of your grip or footing to blindly feel below yourself for another ledge to stay on. After a few iterations, your feet finally stand on the same shelf as the Mirror, right next to the glass case.

Another piercing boom echoes behind you, making you squeeze your eyes shut as you flinch against the bookcase, quivering breaths sending your heartbeat shooting through the roof. Your eyes dart down to the book you squeeze with your neck, then to where your hands are barely clinging on to the shelf. There’s no chance of using the book to make the glass disappear again. Cursing yourself for not memorizing the incantation earlier, your mind swarms with thoughts, each one so loud they drown out each other.

An idea forms in your head—or rather, slams itself into the sides of your brain like a wave crashing in a bottle while it screams for attention—as you warily lift one foot on top of the heel of the other shoe, maneuvering it off your foot.

Now with only a sock left, you press your toes against the glass container. Inhaling a sharp breath, causing your lungs to ache as they scream for more, you muster enough energy to summon a bolt of lightning, focusing all your attention on passing electrical current through your body and to your foot.

The hotness of the electricity heats up the glass, melting it until there’s a decent-sized hole the size of your foot there. Shuffling to the side and raising your shoeless foot to the ledge above, you draw back your other leg and smash it into the glass, causing the compromised structure to shatter everywhere.

Climbing down the bookcase farther, you come face-to-face with the Mirror of Yteriv at last. It looks exactly like it was depicted in that textbook, sporting an elegant silver frame and seemingly shattered surface, with the two rubies staring at you like glowing eyes. 

A loud explosion rings behind you, resounding throughout the entire library. You snatch the Mirror with one hand, turning your head to the side as far as you can without letting the book slip, just in time to see Morgie demolish the ice prison as he breaks free.

It's clear that since now he's no longer bound by frozen spikes of ice, you’re his next target. Taking in an abrupt gasp of air—the only preparation you have—you let go of the shelf.

You plummet towards the ground for only a second before creating small thunderbolts beneath each of your feet, suspending you in midair. Already, you can see Morgie charging up another attack, aiming it straight at you. Book in one hand, Mirror in the other, you take off into a run through the air. Small platforms of electricity form beneath your feet with every step, dissipating again as soon as your foot lifts.

Balls of dark magic hurl towards you, and you already know you have no chance of winning this fight—not like this. But you don’t need to win. Glancing down at the Mirror clutched in your palm as you jump off a thunderbolt, right as it gets blasted by a black orb, you realize that you’ve already completed your mission. Now, all that’s left is to get out of here.

Your mind scrambles for a way out that doesn’t involve getting blasted into smithereens, eyes still fixed on the Mirror as you continue to dash around in midair. Watching the wispy tendrils of white smoke pour out of the artifact, a previous memory from something you read in a book hits you like a flash.

As the Mirror of Ytirev connects to its wielder’s soul, so do its properties, the book had said. The mist emitted by the Mirror fluctuates with the wielder’s emotions; the more powerfully one feels their emotions, negative ones in particular, the more smoke it produces.

A room filled with smoke? You can’t think of a more perfect cover to help you escape.

Grip tightening even further around the Mirror as you leap to another lightning platform, dodging a new attack, you rack your brain for every negative emotion you have—which turns out to be a lot. The adrenaline pumping through your veins as your life flashes before your very eyes from every near-death experience. The way your heart shatters a little more every time your father overlooks your accomplishments, not paying any mind to how hard you strive to please him. Just to get a single smile, a pat on the back, a meager look of pride in your direction. One simple “That’s my daughter!” sent your way.

The anger deep inside you starts to bubble, pure rage sizzling and growing hotter every second you spend lost in your emotions. A fury that is always there, making every breath a little shorter, every happy moment a little duller. A dormant feeling that is usually left undisturbed, except for when it's triggered. Then it becomes a fire that burns hotter than any flame in the depths of hell.

The emotions and thoughts and memories that you keep suppressed in a corner of your heart all coming flooding out, like a dam finally bursting free. How could everyone strand you like that? Leave you all alone to suffer through your grief, while always expecting you to be kind and cheerful. They know what happened, and they have to know how badly it hurts. Yet not a single one cares. Not your dad, not your teachers, not your friends. No one in the entire world ever so much as offered a shoulder for you to cry on or gave you a comforting smile. Not one “I’m here for you” or “It’s all right, take your time.” No, all they did was raise their expectations, setting the bar so high until you’re barely clinging to it, trying to pull yourself up despite your weary arms. Lifting it to such heights that losing your grip and falling would mean certain death.

You think of the snarling, twisted animal that resides deep inside you, embedded into your very being, clawing at the aching hole in your heart left by the absence of your mother. Finally letting it break free after being caged for so long, you feel, oh-so agonizingly, how it scratches its way up your throat and escapes you in a wretched sob.

Why did she leave me? How could she leave me? I’m her daughter, for fuck’s sake. Who can abandon their child like that? Does she not care about me? 

Did she ever even love me?

Painful thoughts consume your head as a few stray tears run down your cheek. You grit your teeth, sucking in shaky gasps of breaths. Smothered by your anguish, submerged in emotion.

Yet, despite all this, it works. Remembering the entire point of your self-inflicted despair, your head snaps down to the Mirror. Although your legs burn and throb from all the incessant running, you can’t stop. At least not yet.

Thick fog exudes from the Mirror, rapidly engulfing the whole of the arena. Within a few moments, everything is covered in the dense whiteness, so heavy you can barely see your hand, even if you hold it directly in front of your face.

Morgie disappears in the fog as well, to the point where you can no longer see nor hear him. Assuming that he’s no longer a threat for now—if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, and if he can’t see you, he can’t attack you—you summon a staircase of thunderbolts and walk down it until you safely step onto solid ground.

Your legs practically give way at the first touch of hard floor, the urge to collapse and lie on the ground excruciatingly strong. Mustering up the last of your strength and willpower, you force your feet to step one after another, desperately trying to distract yourself from the fire burning in your muscles at even the strain of supporting your own weight. 

Almost done. Almost.

Practically rendered blind by the all-encompassing mist, you keep one hand outstretched, making sure you won’t collide with anything—especially Morgie. Pocketing the Mirror, you continue through the fog. You had made sure to note your direction in relation to the exit before everything became completely invisible as to help you easily find your way out without getting lost. But after a few minutes in the overwhelming whiteness, you start to doubt yourself. 

What’s even worse is that there’s no sign of Morgie. You’re not foolish enough to expect him to pop up right in front of you, but you don’t hear him making any sounds either. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing. Your strides are far more muffled as you take your other shoe off too, annoyed at the limping effect the difference in heights causes. But nothing from him.

Your mind starts wandering to what happened to him, refusing to admit that the smallest part of you feels the tiniest bit concerned. Does he need help? Is he still alive? Your intentions were to steal the Mirror and disarm him, not kill him. You’re not evil enough for that.

Not yet, anyway.

After stumbling through the murky fog for a bit longer, you start to notice that now, you can see your hand extended in front of you. The fog is thinning, you think, which means I must be nearing the edge of this area and heading towards the bookcases.

A little bit further, and the fog disperses to all but a thin mist. The bookshelves in front of you come into view, the rows and rows of them finally visible as they expand into the distance. Follow those, and you’ll find the door you came in through. 

So, so close…

You take a few more steps, the heavy spellbook still in hand as you reach into your pocket with an unusual, yet profound, sense of paranoia, ensuring the Mirror is still there. Out of nowhere, you feel a strange sort of chill cover your feet. You chalk it up to your lack of shoes, but, not being able to resist the urge, you glance down.

That’s when you see strange feathery tendrils of black smoke on the floor, in stark contrast to the thin mist that hangs in the air. They slither and wrap around your feet as they move, condensing together in front of you and rising up a meter off the ground in the shape of a hissing black cobra.

The cobra flares out its hood whilst flicking its tongue at you, swaying side to side as it stretches to its full height. You stumble backwards, hesitating for only a second too long before it dawns on you where the snake came from.

Behind you, a brooding voice sounds. “Going somewhere?” Morgie asks.

You spin around sharply, dismay and a special breed of horror painted on your face as you turn to face him. “I don’t care what you do, the Mirror is mine,” you growl, shooting him a lethal glare that truly could kill.

“I don’t think so.” He gathers more black magic around his palm, creating an orb that whirls around like a dark, spherical tornado. You both stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, a fracture in time, trying to decide your next move—when he suddenly throws his hand forward.

You flinch away, yanking the book in front of your face as a shield. After a second, when you don’t feel anything, you open your eyes, turning back in his direction in confusion.

And that’s when you see that you weren't the target of his attack.

The book in front of you was.

The dark magic gnaws at it from the back cover, where it hit on impact, eating away at the pages. “No!” you scream, desperately flipping through the paper as the magic destroys it. Your own magic may be quite strong, but since you're barely allowed to practice it, it’s nowhere near the son of Morgana’s abilities or prowess. This book was your only chance at defeating him.

Frantically rifling through the pages, a look of pure horror on your face, you try to scan the spells for something to save you. Teleportation is soon gone, as well as fireball. As soon as you catch a glimpse of a spell name that could be helpful, the incantation is instantly obliterated.

Panic building faster than even the speed of the dark magic, you flip to the front of the book, trying to find a spell at the beginning of the alphabet so you have enough time to actually read the incantation.

But apple is of no use, and neither is bridge. Morgie stands there, gaze transfixed on your struggling form, wickedly smiling with an amused raise of his eyebrows. Guess he really is a villain after all.

The black energy eroding the book spreads across both covers, demolishing the tome as you hold it in your feverishly trembling hands. Your eyes race across the letters, desperate to find one that could even have a chance at saving you.

Dragon, no.

Claws, not that.

Chasm, not that either.

None of these will help me! your internal voice screeches, the book dissipating as you hold it. Then, your eyes snag along a word.

Chains. The perfect spell. 

“Ut qui inritat, catenas sentiat iras,” you wildly spit out, heart racing, tongue unable to move fast enough. Your eyes dart frenziedly ahead of your mouth, running on sheer panic as you try to memorize the words in case the book does disappear. “Pati in compedibus, ut solvas pretium peccatorum tuorum,” you continue to cry out.

As the last fibers of the pages evaporate in black fumes, you thrust a hand in Morgie’s direction, yelling the last few words. “Eris enim sine fuga ligatus!”

Nothing.

Then, boom.

The residual magic from the demolished book, no longer contained in a physical form, explodes, the force sending you flying backwards. You soar for a couple feet before colliding with a shelf behind you, your head slamming against a sharp edge.

You crumple to the floor, body bruised, beaten, and bloody. The world spins, your head throbs, and you feel so generally shitty that you want to crawl out of your body and leave this physical hindrance behind.

Your head feels too heavy to lift up, and so it falls forward, swaying back and forth. A warm sensation on the back of your skull draws your senses back to the present, and you lift one weary hand to the spot. Bringing it back down in front of your face, you see a whole lot of red smothered on it, just as more trickles down onto the base of your head and neck.

Groaning, you lift your face to scan your surroundings as the dust settles yet again. The fog is now almost completely gone, allowing you to see rather clearly. Sight still blurry, you barely make out the figure a few meters in front of you as heavy chains whip up from the floor, wrapping around his arms.

More spring up around his legs, dragging him down and causing his knees to buckle. He fights against the metal, but they only tighten as even more encircle his torso, tethering him to the ground. He leans forwards, now kneeling before you, arms spread out and chained to the floor on either side.

In front of him, halfway between you two, lies the Mirror of Yteriv, face-up on the floor.

Scrambling to get up, you slowly manage to stand, leaning your weight on the bookcase behind you. The ground sways underneath your feet, but you don’t collapse. One shaky step after another, you make your way over to the mirror.

You practically crumple to the floor as you lean down to snatch it up, the sounds of chains rattling against each other echoing through your head as their prisoner resists his bonds.

You straighten again, running your fingers over every millimeter of the Mirror’s surface to ensure that the cracks reflected on it are only part of its usual appearance and not actual damage caused during the explosion. Once you're sure of its safety, you look down at the figure shackled in front of you.

Morgie looks up at you, hair disheveled and face bruised, a few drops of blood spattered on his cheek. His eyes are a storm of anguish and a wounded kind of sorrow, his jaw clenched tight. You’d like to think that he isn’t peering up at you, body tied and bound, with resentment etched into his features, but you know you’d be lying to yourself.

He gives another violent tug against the chains, but to no avail. Neither of you speak a word, remaining in complete silence, yet somehow saying a thousand things through your eyes. You stare down at him, at the way he can barely lift his head due to his restraints, the agony swirling in his eyes tugging at your heartstrings in ways that make you ache through your core. 

But you’ve already come this far. You can’t turn back now.

The deafening silence remains as you raise the Mirror up in front of yourself, the white mist wrapping around you as if beckoning you closer. The red eyes glow even brighter, their judgment intensifying as your reflection begins to appear in the glass. The cracks on the surface slowly fade away as you come into view, until finally revealing a completely smooth and unmarred image as you gaze into your own eyes.

Except they aren’t yours.

Your reflection in the mirror is not of yourself, but of a younger version of you. She smiles effulgently, a pure, innocent sparkle of wonder in her eyes. A look of untainted bliss painted on her face as she beams. 

A look you haven’t seen in your own reflection for a long time.

“Mommy?” her young, high-pitched voice calls out. “Mommy? Moooommy? Where are you?”

A sob gets caught in your throat as you gasp, tears framing your vision. As if the memory finally gets uncovered in your mind, after being hidden away all these years from your brain deeming it too painful, you realize when this is—or rather, what this is.

“Mommy?” she calls again, her smile faltering as her little brow furrows in confusion, her face scrunching ever so slightly. “Mommy?” She turns her head to the side, looking at something out of view before asking, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?”

Your chest heaves as a sharp cry escapes you, the pain taking a physical form in the tears streaking your cheeks, your face contorting as you weep. In the background, a man’s faint, shaky sobs sound.

The mirror slips from your fingers, landing on the ground with an echoing thud. You whimper, uncontrollably trembling breaths causing your chest to jolt back and forth. You don’t move, can’t move, empty hand still suspended in midair.

You feel numb, yet like you're experiencing every emotion all at once. Your brain can’t wrap around this, around any of this, can’t comprehend your own thoughts. Can’t process what you feel. You’ve shoved your emotion down for so long, that now that they’re no longer bottled up, you don’t know how to deal with them.

“I’m sorry.” The voice cuts through the thick silence, snapping you out of the raging war inside your head.

You glance over at Morgie, still wrapped in chains. His eyes no longer hold the same animosity and misery, but instead a soft sort of sympathy, an underlying look of understanding as he peers up at you, head slightly raised.

“I don’t want your pity,” you sniff indignantly.

“I’m not pitying you.”

You look down at him, your chest heaving, eyes bloodshot. Taking shaky gasps of breath through your mouth, your body quivers as you wait for him to continue.

“I didn’t know about your mom, and you’re totally justified for wanting to know what happened to her,” Morgie continues. “You can take that Mirror and walk out of here if you want.” You keep on staring at him, not saying anything, frozen with anticipation as he carries on. “But are you really going to risk your future for knowledge of the past?”

You gulp before responding, voice hoarse and eyes half-lidded, voice cold and numb. “Would you still hesitate to take that risk, even when it means it could make your future finally be one worth living?”

“Your future is already one worth living,” Morgie replies. “You may not see it, but you’re talented, and smart, and pretty, and you’re a good person. You have a bright future ahead of you.” He shakes his head, eyes still boring into you. “Don’t ruin it like this. Blinded by your pain.”

Sniffling, you inhale a shuddering breath. “And how do you know my pain is blinding me, and not making me see clearer? Clearer than I have in my entire life. Clearer than she did.” You jut your chin towards the mirror lying on the floor.

“I don’t. But what I do know, from seeing my own mother, is that pain like this gets you nowhere. Letting the people who were supposed to love you instead turn you bitter and cynical never fixes things. You may think that becoming evil is the solution, but it’s not. It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it.”

You stare at him intensely, a raw kind of pain displayed on your face, one that no one has ever seen before. A thousand emotions flicker through your eyes, your lips twisting into a whimpering attempt at a smile as you cry again, the sob wracking through your body. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

Hope flashes in your eyes, reflected in his. Your gaze softens, looking at him as if he’s the beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. A small grin breaks his steady demeanor, looking at you with optimism shining through the glimmer in his eyes.

You reach down, picking up the Mirror again. You stare at it, although not directly at your reflection this time. He peers up at you, still shackled to the floor, eyes wide with anticipation.

You slip the Mirror into the pocket of your cloak once again before turning around, your back to him. Twisting your head to the side so he hears you, you say, “The chains will disappear in an hour.”

Turning your head back, you walk away and leave him behind, black cape flickering in the dark night.

Unclasping the back, you slip off the locket, placing it in front of you. The rusty metal is reflected in the mirror in front of it, along with the tears that splatter on its surface.

It had belonged to your mother, the only thing you had left of her. She had given it to you when you were a little kid, not too long before she left. It was old and weathered, the silver having tarnished over time. Still, you religiously wore it every single day, never taking it off as if it's a part of your body. And sometimes, if you stare at it hard enough, you can almost trick yourself into believing she's still there.

Safely back in your dorm, all alone, you had set the Mirror down, flipping to the notebook page where you had transcribed the incantations for the ritual, without a second thought.

Now, sitting on the ground, the Mirror leaning against a leg of your desk with your locket as an offering in front of it, you start to hesitate. Your face twists in pure agony, features scrunched up, lips quivering uncontrollably as a waterfall of tears splatter onto your hands and lap.

It’s too late to turn back now.

Taking another shaky breath, you extend your hands forward to the Mirror, placing one thumb on each red gemstone embedded in the intricate silver design. The jewels watch you, scorning your every action. Just like everyone else.

Your eyes flutter closed, letting out the steadiest exhale you’ve had all night. “Speculum, speculum, in conspectu oculorum meorum,” you whisper, feeling the way the rubies press into the flesh of your thumbs. Already, the Mirror starts discharging more fog, enveloping you as it grows denser with each syllable. “Accipe donum meum et veritas libera me.”

You open your eyes as the last words leave your tongue, staring straight into the eyes of your own reflection.

The red gems glow radiantly, emitting a bright light that nearly blinds you. You squint, yet still unrelentingly stare into your eyes—or rather, your younger self's eyes. The fog swirls around you, swallowing you whole. You can’t see anything anymore, can’t even tell where you are. You feel as though your soul, your life’s very essence, gets sucked out of your body and into the Mirror.

You have the sensation of being shoved forward, but you don’t fall. In fact, you don't have a body anymore, no physical vessel to hold you. You try to look down, but you're greeted by the absence of your legs, sheer nothingness filling the space beneath you. You can’t really move around either, not in the way you’re used to. All you can do is simply float, your existence diminished to an untethered life force, with some semblance of what you once were.

Looking around, everything around you is white like before, but not in the suffocating way the fog was. Instead, you stand in a wide expanse of whiteness, a vast field of empty space. It stretches on forever, with no end in sight. It’s as if you’re stuck in a blank canvas, waiting for a painter to bring you to life.

The sound of wind whistles all around you, but not so much as a breeze actually comes. In fact, everything is completely unmoving. Despite the stifling stillness, you remain listening to the sound of the wind. If you strain hard enough, you can hear something almost like faint whispers filling your senses.

You look around again, ignoring the eerie voices. According to all the texts you read, after the Mirror accepts the wielder’s offering, they can ask for their answer. You’re not quite sure if this field of emptiness means your offering’s been accepted, but seeing as how you don’t feel insane yet, you think it’s safe to presume so. Still, your brain can’t help but point out that crazy people probably don’t feel like they’re crazy either.

Shaking off your doubts, you decide to continue with the process. After all, it is the only shot you have. You had memorized all the incantations for this particular spell earlier, repeating them over and over again until every word was engraved into your mind.

“Scire volo verum,” you recite. “I wish to know a truth.” Nothing happens.

You take a deep breath. “I wish to know why my mom left.”

The wind around you grows louder, howling even in the still air. The whispers increase in volume, once seemingly non-threatening and benign, now forming a cacophony of overlapping, chaotic voices. They grow distorted and grating, pushing in from every side, wrapping around you and slithering into your brain. You can’t block them out, no matter how hard you try; can’t swat them away, can’t make them leave, leaving you trying to tear them out of your head, despite not having hands anymore.

Suddenly, the white vastness turns a dark gray, and you start getting pulled downward towards something, like moving towards the center of a black hole. The whispers grow claws and fangs, clawing and scratching at your chest as they drag you down, making it hard for you to breathe. 

You try to fight back, but the voices now in your head keep pulling you down. They’ve taken over you, consuming you whole, and it’s impossible not to succumb to their will.

As they continue to drag you down into the abyss, you turn around—or rather, focus on the other side of your vague form of spiritual energy—and notice a tiny black dot very far down, but steadily growing bigger as you move towards it.

The whispers are screaming now, cries of agony of those who came before you, encompassing you whole and forcing you to the depths of this dark chasm.

And that’s when it hits you.

The others who used the Mirror did all end up getting the truths they sought.

And the truth was what drove them to madness.

You panic, trying to shake off the invisible hands of the whisperers, but they only tighten their hold around you. No matter how hard you fight them, they don’t relent in their endeavor of pulling you towards damnation.

“Are you really going to risk your future for knowledge of the past?” Morgie’s words echo in your head out of nowhere, haunting you with regret. You absolutely despise admitting it, but fuck, he was right.

Your last conversation with him replays in your mind, reminding you of your foolishness and idiocy. You had been so focused on getting what you wanted that you were indeed blinded to the truth that had been right in front of you this whole time.

“Your future is one worth living.”

His voice swirls around in your brain, drawing your attention away a little from the screaming voices in your head.

“You’re talented, and smart, and pretty, and you’re a good person.”

You realize these are probably the last words you’ll ever hear.

“You have a bright future ahead of you.”

You feel like crying again, the despair that’s taken root in you fighting to escape. Still, you don’t have an actual body in this dreamscape, so crying is impossible.

“It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it.”

You look back up the other direction and away from the black dot, resigned to your fate as you get dragged down into the chasm, deeper, deeper, deeper. At first, you think you’re imagining it; a mirage created by your mind to distract you from your pain. But as the descent continues, you begin to realize that it may not be an illusion after all.

In front of you, from the direction you came, a faint golden thread, seemingly made of pure light, stretches from your form of consciousness and ascends, up, up, up, all the way to the never-ending sky. With each of Morgie’s words you repeat in your head, the string of light grows stronger, brighter.

“You’re talented.”

The thread becomes thicker and more luminous, and you begin to realize that your descent has slowed down as well.

“And smart.”

The thread grows again, and you slow down a little more.

“And pretty.”

Your eyes follow the string upwards, and now, you see there’s a faint patch of white amidst the murky gray surrounding you.

“You’re a good person.”

The thread, still shooting out straight from your form, gleams with a shimmering golden light now. You notice that you’re no longer getting dragged downwards, but instead up, towards the whiteness. The screaming voices aren’t as insufferably loud anymore, either.

“You have a bright future ahead of you.”

You keep ascending, getting drawn faster and faster up. Morgie’s words serve as your lifeline, saving you from insanity.

“You’re not worth it.”

Now, you see that the white patch is actually an opening, an escape from this hell. The thread leads to it, its blinding brightness concealing whatever lies beyond.

“I know so.”

The last of his words give you the final push you need, sending you straight into the white light.

Your head snaps up with a sharp, terrified exhale. You look down, taking a moment to register that you’re back in your room. The locket dangles from one of your hands, the Mirror clutched in the other.

Fresh tears replacing the dried ones on your cheeks as you let out a sob of excruciating heartache, a sound of pure agony. The kind that no one should have to go through.

You look down at the cracked surface of the Mirror—a feeling of raw, unbridled anger set in the way you clench your jaw, and the way your face contorts with your cries—staring straight at the evil red eyes still gleaming at you.

With a swift motion, you lift your hand above your head, still grasping tight. Mustering together all your might, you hurl the Mirror towards the ground, watching as it shatters into a sea of glittering pieces.

“You’re late.”

You lean against the rough brick wall of an empty corridor, arms crossed, your figure partially obscured in shadows.

“And I’m surprised you’re still here,” Morgie quips, walking towards you. “Why’d you even want to talk with me? Especially through leaving that threatening note next to my nightstand for me to find when I woke up.”

He stops in front of you, leaving you to glower at him. Suddenly, with no warning, you lunge towards him, seizing the collar of his shirt and pushing him against the wall, your other hand summoning a rod of crackling lightning. 

His eyes widen with a startled gaze, but he doesn’t look quite as fearful as you want him to be. “Now, listen here.” You press the tip of the lightning bolt against his neck. “If you say a word of what happened last night to anyone—especially my father—I will kill you.”

Although you try to sound as menacing as possible, Morgie is unfazed. An amused smirk spreads across his face as he replies, “Alright, relax. I wasn’t planning on telling anyone anyways.”

His eyes trail down from your gaze to the locket dangling from your neck. He reaches out a hand, brushing his thumb along the tarnished metal as he softly says, “You didn’t go through with it, huh?”

You pull away, frustrated at his compassionate tone. “No. I decided…it was too risky. After all, what’s the point of figuring out the past if I can’t ever use that information, right?” A small smile spreads across Morgie’s face, that sympathetic, delicate look in his eyes again. Your irritation rising at this, you add, with a growl, “Although I will find a way to get my answer. I don’t care how bad I have to become, if you, or my father, or anyone stands in my way, you’ll truly see how evil I can be!”

Morgie keeps his unfettered appearance up. God, he’s so annoying! you mentally scream in frustration.

“Why are you so fixed on this?” he asks, tilting his head sideways and furrowing his brow as if trying to look past your cold, vengeful, rancorous mask and figure out the scarred little girl buried underneath.

You roll your eyes instead of answering. Never one to express emotions, the thought of opening up now about your years of pain feels terrifyingly vulnerable. It’s so much easier to just build walls around your heart and shut everyone out.

“Tell me this, and I promise I won’t tell a word of what happened last night to anyone,” Morgie bargains.

You narrow your eyes. “You already said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Well, now I’m having second thoughts.”

You raise your arm again to summon another bolt of electricity, and Morgie lifts his hands, palms facing forward, in a gesture of surrender. “Relax, I won’t say anything, fine. But I just want you to talk to me. Bottling up your emotions like this isn’t healthy. Last night should be a good example of that.”

You shoot another glare at him, but can’t deny the fact that he’s right. Still, you hate the idea of how exposed and weak you'd be if you actually told someone how you feel.

“I’m not going to leave you, you know.”

You peer up at him, eyes wide in shock, as he continues. “I’ll stay by your side. You don’t have to worry about me abandoning you.”

Gulping, you nod, averting his gaze. Instead, you choose to look down at your shoes, studying the laces as you speak. “I…when my mom left, it was so sudden. No goodbyes, nothing. It was like one day, she just vanished.”

Your voice cracks, and Morgie places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, unknowingly pulling you closer to him. You swallow, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “My dad didn’t even care. It was as if she never existed. And everyone else…they all knew what happened. But they paid no attention whatsoever. They expected me to act normal, be all nice and sweet as if nothing changed. It made me hate them, hate all of them.”

“Do you hate me?”  

Morgie’s voice rings in the empty corridor, quiet yet speaking louder than a thousand shouts. You look up at him again, his image slightly blurred by the tears welling at the bottom of your eyes. You look up and you see the boy that stood by your side at your worst, who didn’t get scared or run away when you showed him your true colors.

The boy who said things no one’s ever said to you, whose words saved you from destroying yourself.

The boy who stands here, a concerned crinkle on his forehead as he awaits your answer. He doesn’t have to be here, listening to your problems. He doesn’t have to care.

But he does.

“No,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, I don’t hate you.”

In the suffocating sea of fake smiles and stifling pressures, Morgie is like a breath of fresh air. The first gulp of oxygen that you take as your head breaks free from the water.

“That’s a relief,” he responds, a trace of a smirk ghosting his features.

You give a small, bittersweet laugh. “Ever since my mom left and my dad stopped caring about me, I’ve never had anyone to talk to. No one seems to care about my emotions, or ask me how I’m doing. It’s as if I’m not a real person who has actual feelings.”

You’re on the verge of tears again, and Morgie must realize this, because he tries to lighten the mood by attempting—and failing—to inconspicuously wrap an arm around your shoulder as he says, “So, what I’m hearing from all this, is that you need a strong, reliable figure in your life to lean on, right? Like…a boyfriend or something?”

You duck under his arm, moving a good few feet away from him while fixing him with another glare. “Yeah no, I’m good.”

“Come on, that was smooth! You’ve got to admit it,” he whines, drawing out a small giggle from you. 

It’s been a long time since you’ve laughed like this: a true, heartfelt laugh, not the fake one that you do to appease other people under the pressure of society's expectations. It feels nice, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. 

All because of him.

“I don’t know, maybe I'll consider it with some time, if you treat me well,” you joke as you turn your head away with faux indifference. 

“Hey, a slim chance is better than no chance at all, right?” Morgie moves closer to you again, as if he can’t stand having so much space between the two of you. “I can see I’ve made some progress since last night, when you tried to kill me.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes at him.

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the bruises on my body.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so weak and sensitive,” you retort with a grin.

He nudges you playfully and you laugh again, shaking your head with an amused look. “Hey, I was wondering,” he asks, locking eyes with you, “what did you end up doing with the Mirror?”

You give a knowing grin, masking the undercurrent of what’s left unsaid. You vaguely respond, “It’s in a better place now.”

“If you say so,” Morgie replies, his smile returning to his face and lighting up his features once again. He continues to tease you, and you oblige him, keeping up the friendly banter as he walks you to class.

The Enchanted Lake glistens, reflecting the sun’s gentle rays with a bright shimmer. Deep down, under feet of clear blue water and various forms of aquatic life, in a far corner of the lake, lies a bag of glass shards. Next to it floats an ornate metal carving with a hollow center, reminiscent of something once set there. And at the top, two glowing red gemstones briefly flicker and die out, like watchful eyes finally closing.

end x

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a/n: how did this get so long...if you're still here, and if you actually read that entire thing, thank you so so soo much! I'm sending you a virtual cookie and a hug (if you're comfortable with it ofc) because you're absolutely awesome! <3 hope you enjoyed reading!

do not plagiarize, translate, remake, or copy my works, including my writing and images, in any way.

[sanzaibian]

I'm loving the stories! I'm heading to Mexico in a few weeks with work, but hoping to immerse myself in the culture a bit. Can you help me out?

You find yourself in front of your local Spanish-language association. You thought that taking a few classes in Spanish would help you recover some of the long forgotten classes you took in high school… though in all honesty, it won’t likely do much. You’re quite old, now, so it means that your brain cannot learn new languages as easily as it used to...

As you enter, you see the Mexican flag front and center, along with flags of many other Latin American countries, as well as that of Spain. You walk up to the receptionist, and she tells you, directly in Spanish :

“¡Bienvenidos! ¿Cuál es el motivo de usted venida? (Welcome ! What is the reason you came here ?) - Er…” You try to conjure some of the very old memories, and only manage a “Hola !” Before going back to English. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know Spanish… I’m here to take classes, in fact.”

The receptionist nods, and thinks a bit before taking out a timetable.

“Okay, well, you see, I have a... beginner’s course of Spanish in a few hours… It’s not perfect because they already started in January, but I think you can still catch up if you work hard enough.” She says, with a perfect American accent. She is visibly bilingual. - Oh, in a few hours ?”

You are quite interested, considering that you did want some beginner-level courses, but in a few hours… That’s too short to just go back home and come back later, but that’s also too long to just stay here and wait without getting bored !

The receptionist notices your embarrassment.

“You know, we are also a place where Spanish learners and native speakers can hang out. If you want, you can go to the hangout room while waiting ?” She offers sympathetically. - Well yeah, I could do that.” You nod. It may be geared towards more hard-core learners, but you can always try to immerse yourself…

You go to the room she waves you to. It isn’t loud, but there’s quite a lot of people in it, all speaking Spanish. You go and find somewhere to sit, when, on your way, someone hails you.

“¡Hola! ¿Cómo te llamas? (Hello ! (...) ?)”

Your long-buried memories start churning, as you recognize the second sentence as meaning something like “What’s your name ?”. You think a while, and then, flash of brilliance.

“Me llamo Charlie.” You answer, giving out your name in the most American of accents.

Your conversation partner smiles, and speaks quite slowly to let you understand what he means.

“¿Cuántos años tiene?” You understand the sentence to mean ‘How old are you ?’ - Er… Soy… cuarenta y dos… años ?” You try, but he shakes his head. - No, ¡es ‘Tengo ventidós’ o ‘Tengo ventidós años’!”

You blush of embarrassment as he corrects you. Yes, you now remember that to mean “I am x years old” you say “Tengo x (años)”… you even remember the worksheets from way back when… Huh, it seems like it was less far of a memory than you thought.

“Lo siento…” You excuse yourself with sentence that came back strangely fast. - ¡Jajaja!” He laughs. “¡No te preocupes! ¡Hablar español es difícil! (Don’t worry ! Speaking Spanish is difficult !)”

You are surprised how easy it is to understand him. Visibly, you had more memories than you expected ! Then, that guy continues.

“¿De dónde es? (Where are you from ?) - Soy de… Mexico… Nuevo Mexico. (I’m from… Mexico… New Mexico.)”

You almost stumbled on yourself. There seems to be something wrong with that statement. You know you’re American, but something seems wrong…

“Ah, de... ¿Nuevo México? Pero tu acento no suena asi… (Ah, from… New Mexico ? But your accent doesn’t seem like it comes from there...) - Si, es verdad… (Yes, it’s true...)” You’re about to tell him that it’s because you’re American, but then you say : “La gente dice que tengo un acento de la Ciudad de Mexico. Sabes, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl. (People say that I have an accent from Mexico City. You know, Mexihco Hueyaltepetl (?).)”

Wait, why do people say that ? You never went to Mexico City ! Okay, yes, you did go there for the holidays, after all, your father lives there… Wait, your parents aren’t separated !

You get more and more confused as multiple versions of your history start competing with each other.

“¡Ah, tenía razón! Puedo verlo en tu cara que eres… eh… ¿mexiqueño? (Ah, I was right ! I can see by your face that you are… er… from Mexico City ?) - ¡Jajaja!” You laugh. “¡No se dice ‘mexiqueño’! ¡Se dice capitalino, o chilango si estás familiarizado! (You don’t say “Mexiqueño” ! You say “Capitalino”, or “Chilango” if you’re familiar !)” You don’t quite know where this knowledge comes from. It seems like something only locals would know… - Perdón, soy chileno, no lo sabía… (Sorry, I’m Chilean, I didn’t know...)”

You smile at him. Of course, he couldn’t know that, you’re familiar with these terms because you’re a Chilango through and through ! Born in the city, lived in the city ! Yet you furrow your brows, as something still feels off.

Somehow, you’re convinced that you’re American, even though it seems to be a more and more distant fact. Well, when you look down and see those tan arms, you know that you aren’t, like, a total gringo, you’re at least part Latino…

“¿Cómo es la vida allá? (How is life there ?)” The Chilean guy asks you, a torrent of memories coming back (?) to you. - ¡Es complicado de describir! Pero México es muy dinámico, ¡entonces siempre es interesante! (It’s difficult to describe ! But Mexico is very dynamic, so it’s always interesting !)” You think back to how frantic life is over there… and how much you love that. “Especialmente comparado con aquí, parece que esta citudad está muerta… ¡En México siempre hay un xochitzin con el que te puedes topar! (Especially when compared to here, this city seems dead… In Mexico, there’s always an xochitzin (?) you can run into !)”

As the Chilean nods, you keep getting quite confused. You know you’re from Mexico City, you know you’re American, yet somehow there is like… a piece of the puzzle missing. You keep on thinking strange words like “Mexihco Hueyaltepetl” or “ihni”, and you know it’s not Spanish, nor English – not that you would know too much of that language.

You continue thinking as your body starts feeling strange, as you feel it shifting. You put your hand on your forehead and sense your wrinkles relaxing. You feel quite queasy…

“¿Estás bien? (Are you alright ?) - Me siento un poco mareada… (I feel a bit dizzy…) - Sólo tienes que ir al baño. ¿Quieres que te ayude? (Just go to the toilets. You want me to help ?) - No, estará bien. Tlazohcamati. (No, it’s gonna be alright. (???)) - Okay… eh... ¿Eres indígenas? (Okay… er… Are you a Native American ?)”

You don’t answer the Chilean, only giving him a small wave to thank him. You find your way to the toilets, still queasy, and look at yourself.

You’ve got your usual short black hair, your nascent beard that doesn’t want to come along, your brownish tint, as well as your light muscles. Nothing looks out of place, yet something seems wrong.

Is it the fact that you are so youthful ? You know you’re quite twinky. Is it the fact that your skin looks weird ? You know that it’s clearer than the other’s because your mother is gringo.

You feel even more queasy, as you feel your entire body tensing. Memories come back of your time in the gym, but also of the time with all your xochitzmeh (bros)… Yes, you now remember how you’re the son of an American linguist and a Nahua man. How you grew up speaking Nahuatl along with the other kids from around Mexico City. How you started going to the gym to prove that gays aren’t cuiltemeh (sissies/fags). How you now cringe to that line of thought, yet continue doing it to attract guys.

As the pieces of your life go back together, your queasiness dissipates, and you feel better. You drink a bit of water, and then you go back to the hangout room. As you go in there, the Chilean hails you once again.

“¡Charlie! ¿Esta mejor? (Charlie ! Doing better ?)”

Laughable, “Charlie” is only the nickname your grandparents use when you’re at their house… Why does that guy even know it ?

“¡Mi nombre no es Charlie, es Carlos! ¡Carlos Zopiyactle! (My name isn’t Charlie, it’s Carlos ! Carlos Zopiyactle !)” You say in a very matter-of-fact fashion. - Lo siento, pensé que te llamabas Charlie… (Sorry, I thought that you were named Charlie...) - No es nada. (It’s nothing.)” You answer with a very Mexican accent, aspirating your ‘s’. “Pero, tengo que irme ahora. ¡Adiós! (However, I need to go now. Goodbye !) - ¡Adiós, Carlos! (Goodbye, Carlos !)”

You leave the room, go past the receptionist who smiles at you a bit weirdly, and make your way back to your grandparent’s home. You don’t really like going there, because you’re not very good in English, but eh. Pleasing your mom is a good enough reason.

Suddenly, you hear a very familiar-sounding sound from your phone. You open it, seeing a notification, smile, and answer it before calling your mother.

“¡Cualli teotlaltzintli! ¡Amo niyaz tlacualpan! (Good evening ! I’m not going to be there for dinner !) - Pff… ¡Aic timotlamahzehua nanmonahuac! (Pff… You never come eat with us !) - Nomati, pero tengo cosas que hacer. (I know, but I have things to do.)” You say, switching back a bit to Spanish. - ¿Zannima tihual mocuepaz? (You will come back soon ?) - Quema. Nantli, nimitz nequi. (Yes. Mom, I love you.) - Ohuihqui nimitz nequi. (I love you too.)”

You finish the call and smile. She doesn’t have to know that you’re missing the family dinners to be pounded. Those jocks on Grindr don’t know what your pseudonym “Moiztactlaca” means, but it sounds foreign, and they love it.

Soon, you’re going back home to Mexico City, but it doesn’t mean that you can’t take advantage of all the hot guys here in the meantime !

[sunlightmurdock]

The Odyssey | 1.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

One step forwards, two steps back. You’re just not on the same page.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), swearing, infidelity, making out, honey has a meltdown every time she thinks Bradley wants to have sex with her but very much wants him to want to have sex with her, bradley dislikes her fiancé, deception, also inaccuracies in the timeline of Pompeii and the telling of Greek mythology, 18+ minors dni, wc: 4.7k

…

It’s the last day of June. Under the table, his hand is on your knee and above it, you’ve started to memorize the delicate pattern his smile lines cast around his temples. A bottle of mostly empty Malbec sits between you, the centre of his lips is tinted a sweet red.

His fingers curl into your thigh, eyes widening in mock offense as he leans in close enough for you to inhale that honey, amber, cedar medley of his cologne. You’ve been meaning to ask him which fragrance he wears; it’s classic, it could be too strong but he seems to have hit the perfect balance when applying it. It makes you want to turn your face into the curve of his neck and fall asleep right there.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to upset me,” He taunts with a grin on his face, shaking his head in dramatized disbelief. His thumb has been trailing a complex pattern around the curve of your knee for the better part of ten minutes. “Come on — I taught you this two days ago.”

Something about the age of Cicero, the supposed master of Latin prose. You remember the lesson — well, you remember being present for it. He’s right, two days ago. Right after arriving in Florence.

That first afternoon, Bradley had seemed restless. Leaving Natasha behind, you had presumed. Being cooped up in a hotel room trying to study was the last thing he had needed, and you know that he likes showing you around. As soon as you had asked, he had once again found the perfect spot for your lesson.

The corner of your lips twitch as you think of being nestled away in that corner of the library with Bradley. On a beautiful day in late June, it was practically deserted beside the two of you.

He stares at you across the table, seeming to enjoy the show of you trying to think back to what exactly it was he had been talking about.

The smile tugging at his lips that afternoon in the library as he had kissed down the column of your neck, lips grazing the collar of your polo shirt, fingers bracing against your thighs politely. His voice deep, and low, respectful of the library’s standards, “His philosophical works were the basis of moral philosophy during the Middle Ages.”

You swallow softly, crossing one knee over the other.

Across from you, that brown hued gaze flickers briefly downwards. It’s hardly a scandalous dress. A soft pink colour, cowled in the middle, dipping just lower against the centre of your chest than you would normally allow. The summer heat, or this newfound feeling in your stomach — one of them has you practically glowing. From the second you stepped out this evening, Bradley has been admiring this dress.

Either way, when he looks back up, he knows that you think you just caught him staring at your chest. He might have taken a glance in that direction. Unashamed, he smiles again, more candidly this time.

“Is this why you were late back this afternoon?” His fingers stray from the safety of your knee until the chiffon material is curling between his fingertips.

Caught. The look spreads itself so quickly across your face that you couldn’t lie to him even if you wanted to. The class was given an hour to roam the city today after the morning lecture — you had been a short measure later than everyone else.

And here you sit, in your reason for being late, staring back at him like he just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.

His gaze flickers down again, the conversation about your lack of attention and the dull topic of the golden age of Roman literature long forgotten, and brushes at the hem of your dress with his thumb.

“I like it,” Though the look on his face has already given that away, it makes your mouth tug at the corners anyway. “Should I have worn a tie?”

Malcolm would have worn a tie, and a jacket. You would have expected nothing less from him. Bradley is sitting opposite you in a faded yellow shirt made of something comfortable and not stiff — probably a linen blend. He has skipped the top three buttons and from your seat beside him, you’ve got a faint glimpse of the gold cross necklace he wears.

As well as the dip between the muscles on his chest, dusting of brown hair covering his golden skin and the constellation of sun-kissed freckles you’re growing ever-familiar with.

“No.” You answer him decidedly, tearing your eyes away from his tanned chest to look him in the eye. This time, he caught you right back. His lips tug at the corners, and he almost fights it, and then he lets his mouth stretch into a smile.

His lips are a set pink. You’ve never liked facial hair but him without the always neat dusting above his lip is unthinkable. Tonight, the two of you shared that bottle of Malbec. His mouth will taste of the notes of cherry and blackberry.

His fingers brush the underside of your knee, featherlight. “Let’s take a walk.”

It’s late already, now that the two of you have finished your dinner. Bradley’s already regretting making group dinners mandatory now that he finds himself having to wait until afterwards to take you out, but in this moment, he doesn’t mind. It just means that there is even less chance of running into someone that you know.

The city is quieter by the time he slips his palm into yours, an instinctual move that neither one of you will address. Your fingers squeeze against his. It’s not until afterwards, when he turns his head to look down at you quickly, that he remembers it shouldn’t all feel this normal.

He should be ashamed of himself; afraid of being caught with you. He’s far from it. He’s arrogant enough to know that his students will be getting drunk on cheap spirits in the taverna he left them at, and that he’s got you all to himself.

“What do you want to do?” He asks you. He’s got an idea in his head already, that he’s not so sure you’ll find as interesting as he will.

“You’re the expert.” You answer calmly.

He smiles like that was the answer he was hoping for, then pulls you closer and lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your almost bare shoulders. His lips press softly to the top of your head.

“I walked by a place earlier that I thought maybe we could stop by,” He explains as he starts to walk, looking up at the waning crescent centring the stars over the city. He doesn’t mention to you that there’s a little more to it than that. You follow his lead, looking up at the stars above these ancient rooftops. “Counts as school work in my book.”

You make a sound of complaint beside him, leaning your head back against his bicep and exhaling with a dramatic sigh. Without having to look, you know he’s grinning beside you as he curls his arm tighter around your neck and drags you closer.

“Be nice, honey,” He whispers jokingly into your hair. “Just give it a chance.”

At that point, you should have guessed that he was up to something. Tucked under his arm, wondering exactly which undertone in his cologne makes it so entrancing, you’re hardly jumping for joy when he leads you up the steps and into an art gallery. It’s the kind of art gallery that you don’t need a suit or tie to get into — so can’t be that impressive.

Pompeii is one of the few words on the poster board that Bradley whisks you past that you understand.

“We’re going to Pompeii in a couple of weeks, isn’t this cheating?” You turn your head to look up at him and he just shrugs, taking you in his stride as he leads you right up to the first floor. Despite this being a temporary exhibition, he seems to know exactly where he’s going.

He rounds the corner and tightens his hold on your shoulder as you’re met with a canvas featuring a rather blurrily drawn woman bent over some kind of seat, and a man standing behind her.

To the right of that is a woman pictured straddling a man, his head thrown back against the sheets. Bradley lifts his hand from your shoulder and tucks it safely over your eyes.

“That’s not what we’re here for.” His tone is almost soothing, like he’s expecting you to turn and run for the door as he uncovers your eyes again. The opposite actually, you frown slightly and tip your head to understand the angle of the oil painting. He guides you swiftly onwards.

As you pass by, you can see that this room is filled with similar art. Some of it is weathered, not quite preserved, or outright broken. All of it is erotica.

All too quickly, he leads you into the next room in the gallery and swiftly off to the side. This room is already filled with people sitting in chairs, and at the front there’s an older lady with hair down to her waist and glasses that cover most of her face.

“She’s a classicist at Cambridge.” Suddenly his lips are brushing your earlobe and he’s nudging you back against the back wall of the room. “I think you might like her way of explaining things a little better than mine.”

He turns his head towards the front, you turn your head to look at him. His way of explaining things is just fine. Still, you turn your head back to watch the lecturer, and lean against Bradley’s side.

“As many of you know, during my team’s ongoing works in Pompeii, we are constantly able to determine more and more about the neighbouring cities of both Pompeii and Herculaneum. On a visit this past March, my team worked primarily in a building: the lupanar, or brothel.”

You shoot a look up at Bradley. He drops his hand down to your waist and pinches playfully at your skin, making you jolt into him.

“Pay attention.” Bradley whispers to you, smiling towards the front.

“Lupanar in Latin translates almost directly to ‘wolf's den,’ and lupa, she-wolf, was a common term for female prostitutes at this time.” The lecturer goes on.

She’s an interesting woman, maybe around your mother’s age, talking about sex and phalluses and erotica with a level of candor that you simply weren’t expecting. The people in this room are hanging on her every breath.

She goes on to explain more about what sets Pompeii and Herculaneum apart from other Augustan era Roman cities. As Bradley’s textbooks prove, Augustan Rome could be somewhat prudish in the major cities. Essentially, with their seaside location and their distance from the eyes of the emperor, modern theories tend to lean towards the abundance of erotica being simply a result of the Romans getting hot and heavy in their summer homes.

Bradley would scold you for phrasing it that way. You’re cutting corners and leaving things out, but that’s the gist of what she’s saying.

As much as you’re enjoying the fact that he wants you, specifically, to stand here and see this with him — you must admit that you’re waiting for the point to hit you a little bit.

Brothels quite clearly aren’t your kind of thing.

Then, she gets to the point. “So far in the study of Rome, we have tended to interpret erotic decorations in rooms to be signals of a brothel. The discoveries we are making now, tell us even more so, that there was a safe space for sex inside regular homes.”

Is that what he’s trying to tell you?

You turn your head and look up at him, watching the way he listens to the lecture. He hasn’t even noticed you staring just yet, he’s so interested.

Exhaling softly, you push closer to him. Heat courses through you, uncomfortable like an itch. If he wants you to feel safe having sex with him, if that’s why he brought you here — you’re not so sure that’s a good thing.

When you close your eyes and ignore the speech being given, and picture yourself in that library two days ago, with that dark look in his eyes and his lips sucking at your neck… it’s a nice feeling. It felt good. You would do it again in a heartbeat.

When you think further back, to the night he knelt beside your bed and buried his mouth between your legs, it makes you shiver, but not in a bad way. In a cold and hot all at once, conflicted kind of way. That felt good too.

He feels good. His arm on your shoulder, his weight in your bed, the way it feels when he grins at you. It all feels good.

Maybe that’s not such a good thing.

After all, he may only want one thing in return. With this ring on your finger, what he wants is no longer yours to give away — you’ve promised it to someone else.

You turn your head and rest it against his chest, your cheek hugging the soft linen of his shirt.

“By 79 C.E., by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, Christianity had begun to usurp the formerly polytheistic Roman Empire. With the rise of Christianity came a clear shift in the way sex was viewed culturally. With conceptions of red becoming more obscene into the 19th century—“

“Bradley, can we go?” You tug at his shirt and break him from his focused listening.

He unwraps his arm from your shoulder and gently touches your hair, cupping the back of your head. “Sure. You okay?”

“Mhm. It’s just getting late.”

He seems content enough with that answer, taking your hand once again and letting you lead him down the steps. Each step you take, you know that you’re just one step closer to inviting him into your hotel room.

“I know I kinda threw you in at the deep end just then,” Bradley starts to talk, seeming not to notice the way you’re panicking at his side. “I just wanted you to see how impressive she is.”

“Yeah. She was cool.”

“Cool? — She’s a legend,” Bradley cranes his neck to get a look at your face, frowning as he feels you speed up and tug at his hand to bring him with. “Her studies into Greece and Rome won her a Nobel prize, baby.”

“That’s… impressive.” You wobble over the words, trying to give him what he wants in an answer. Bradley stops abruptly and tugs hard at your arm to make sure you do the same. You’re spun towards him sharply, stunned as you blink up at him.

“I know I probably should have warned you about the paintings, but—“

“Do you want to have sex with me?” You ask him.

Bradley notices the elderly couple passing behind you turn their heads and curses them silently for being just about the only ones around that would have even understood the absurdity of that question, then looks back down to you.

He stares, focused and unwavering for a moment.

“Yes,” He answers you calmly, still holding your wrist in his hand. “But that’s not going to happen, honey. Now, what’s the matter?”

“It’s not?” He’s surprised by the surprise in your voice. You see it on his face. He’s practically tracing his steps in front of you, trying to figure out at which point the two of you stopped being on the same page.

“I… baby, Your first time shouldn’t be with me.”

“I was going to say the same thing.” You exhale quietly, without missing a beat, feeling the panic in your chest start to drain finally. A different feeling pinches at your nerves, tingling in your chest that makes you fidget. Bradley stares back at you.

“Good.” He answers curtly. Maybe a little too quickly. He’s still holding on tight to your wrists.

“Yeah, good.” You try back, heat creeping along your skin and making your ears burn. You push onto your tiptoes and back down again, glancing down at him still holding you captive in his big paws.

He seems to notice at the same time, and swiftly drops his hold on you to instead hook a finger under your chin. “Okay, so you’re alright now?”

“Yeah.”

He swallows, then nods. As he turns away, he sticks his hand out for you to grab once again. For him this doesn’t change things — he has wanted to sleep with you and known that he can’t since the day you kissed him back in Verona.

For you, this is the first time you’ve ever heard him admit that he wants you. You knew, of course, by the way he touched you last week in Venice.

You slip your hand into his. Across cobbles, under the stars and string lights, he leads the way the short walk back to your hotel somehow without the need for a map.

This hotel doesn’t have an elevator, you climb three flights of stairs beside him and start towards your door. Heels along aged, dark wood floors. This time, your sole occupancy room isn’t at the end of the hall or on a different floor — it’s right in the middle. Sandwiched between the common bathroom, and Robin’s room.

As you open up your bag and dig for your key, you wonder how he’s going to say goodnight. After the time you had, you don’t want the end on this tone.

“Can I come in?” He asks softly, fully prepared to hear you tell him no. His hand reaches once more for the pale chiffon of your dress, his thumb familiarly trailing the seam at the small of your back.

“Yes.” You turn your head and meet his gaze over your left shoulder. He’s relieved to see you smile. A smile spreads across his cheeks, warm and flushed as the old door clicks open with a pained but compliant creak.

It almost looks like room service came. If Bradley didn’t know any better, he would say they had. The bed is meticulously neat, and all of your belongings are packed neatly ready for your travel day tomorrow.

“I feel like I need to explain why I took you to that exhibition.” Bradley closes the door behind him and sticks to it as you cross the room and sit on the edge of the double bed.

“Okay.”

“It’s not because I’m trying to fuck you.” Bradley wracks his hands through his hair, his back pinned to the door, his eyes searching the floorboards like he’s looking for his point. “I’m a little bit offended that you think I can’t do better than Roman erotica if I was trying.”

Bradley hasn’t tried to make any of this happen. It’s not like he sought you out. And yet, it all keeps happening — like puzzle pieces falling into place.

Still, his joke is enough to earn him a smile and a soft giggle at the same time. You lean back on your palms as your smile fades into an apology of its own.

Bradley takes a step away from the door and crosses the room to sit beside you. He opens his palm.

“If we had stayed, the end part of that seminar is about Greek influence on Roman culture — specifically Pompeii,” He watches as you rest your hand in his, looping your fingers through his. “I thought maybe seeing her talk might convince you to stay in school… in my postgraduate program.”

His fingers close around yours, squeezing softly as he turns his head to gauge your reaction. His worst case scenario was that you freak out — and that doesn’t happen, so his pitch is a success in his eyes.

“I didn’t even know you ran a postgrad.”

“It’s a research programme. It’s relatively new — I ran it a year ago, we didn’t get enough people enrolled to run in this year. Next year I have forty places and a waitlist. Mythology and Art; Poetry in Greek Culture.” You still haven’t told him no, it feels like that’s building to a yes.

Instead, your brows knit together slightly.

“I don’t know anything about mythology.”

“Yes you do,” Bradley argues. It really bites at him when you pretend to know less than you do. “Look, it doesn’t have to be my class. I just wanted you to think about what comes after this.”

“My wedding.” You remind him quietly. Now you aren’t looking at him, staring at your hands in your lap. He’s kicking himself for ruining the night but god, everything you say makes him want to argue even more.

“And after that?” He skips over the idea of letting you go entirely. It’s easier that way, to pretend that he doesn’t care that you’re still planning to get married.

“After that I’ll support Malcolm and—“

“Christ, is that what you want? — You want to spend your life picking up his dry cleaning and cooking his dinner?” Bradley stands up from the bed and paces away from you. Instantly, you throw your face into your hands and growl in frustration.

The thought crosses your mind like a camera flash. The alternative; seminars and art galleries, nights like this with Bradley. He probably doesn’t even get his clothes dry cleaned, probably just drops them all in the washer.

Your brows draw together. Bradley hates how often he has seen that wounded look on your face.

“I don’t have to want the same things that you want.” You croak out.

“No, you don’t, you’re right,” He won’t come any closer, he’s just standing there and dwarfing the doorframe behind him with his broad shoulders and long legs. He runs a hand roughly across his mouth. “But you should want something for yourself. Something that’s just yours. Something you care about, you know?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. At first, he thinks he has really ignited the fuse and that there’s a big argument coming. Then, all of the anger fades from your face and you throw yourself back against the bed, facing the ceiling and letting out a deep sigh.

“You think too much.” You mutter grumpily, draping an arm over your eyes and finally taking away the ugly warmth of the yellow-orange mismatched lampshade above your head.

Bradley agrees, in principle. This doesn’t stop him, though. He thinks again as he’s watching you lay there in the middle of the bed, with your arm covering your face, about how different things could be.

Even with your eyes closed and your forearm acting as a makeshift blindfold, you expect that he’s still standing by that door and planning out your future for you. It’s tiring.

With all of the thinking he’s doing, you expect him to have plenty to say by the time he’s done. Another lecture.

The air is sucked out of you as he plants his knees on either side of your thighs, grabs your forearms and pins then above your head. Eyes blown wide, you must look crazy. He looks beautiful. Smiling softly, inches from your face, his cross necklace spilled forwards from his shirt and dangling above your lips.

“I’ll stop.” He swears, eyes pooled with sincerity as his head dips with a soft nod. Your heartbeat thurs between the two of you; his thumb strokes at your wrists. “I’ll stop, if you just make me one promise.”

The playing field isn’t exactly level, here. You could be convinced to promise him just about anything when trapped with him looking down at you like this. Your lips twitch, but you won’t smile at him. One of his hands leaves your wrists, coming down to trail an index finger along your cheek.

“You’ll think about it. While you’re here, you’ll think about what comes next for you.” He’s gentle with you, leaning in close and kissing your lips chastely.

It’s just too tempting to roll your eyes at him.

Bradley abandons his hold on your wrists all together and grabs at your waist instead, pinching playfully as he scowls down at you. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

“Fine, fine — you win.” Your lips crack into a smile, taking advantage of the newfound freedom to drape your arms around his thick shoulders and guide him in closer. Compliantly, he kisses your mouth.

Your tongue pokes out from between your lips and wets the flesh of your bottom lip, coating it in saliva, capturing Bradley’s total and absolute attention.

He lets his thumb follow the same path your tongue had, your saliva coating the rough pad as he trails it downward and catches hold of your chin.

The doe-eyed look on your face, the silk of your skin and the soft sheen of saliva sitting on the pad of his thumb has his mind reeling with possibility. You’re studying him too, recognising that same dark look in his eyes, trying to place it.

“You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that.” He whispers finally, his chest inflating with a deep breath, his throat tight as he finally swallows. Heat prickles at the back of your neck. Your eyes dart downward from his face, at his knees bracketing your thighs, and back up swiftly.

That’s it.

“Will you teach me something Greek, then?”

Teaching is truthfully the furthest thing from Bradley’s mind. The thought of grading bad papers isn’t even enough to stem the sudden rush of blood flow headed to his dick. He exhales above you, practically itching with the need to touch you.

The thing about Bradley is that he isn’t a stranger to casual sex, but he doesn’t sleep around. When someone has captured his attention, they’ve got all of him. He can’t imagine going out and finding someone to hook up with, but at the same time — he can’t keep spending the morning work time thinking about you with your hand shoved into the front of his jeans.

“Sure, kid,” He leans forwards and kisses your forehead, then rolls off of you and settles against your pillows with an arm tucked behind his head. “What do you want to know?”

You push off of your back, wrinkling your nose at his choice of pet name as you turn and settle at his side, laying your head on his chest.

“I don’t know. A myth.” You close your eyes and turn your face towards his neck. After waiting all night to do so, the first inhale is exactly what you wanted. You hum and pull closer to him. His hand finds a spot safely, almost platonically at the small of your back.

“Okay, uh…” He takes a moment to think, trying to remember his study material instead of the way your bare leg is brushing against his thigh. “I’ve got one. It’s from the second century… by Apuleius, in…”

You let him figure out the publication details, absently toying with the loose button in the middle of his shirt. It would be a quick fix, beyond easy to sew back on. You could fix it for him.

“So the myth is right in the middle of his book, and it’s there as an example of mise en abyme—“

You turn your head quickly, frowning disapprovingly back up at him. “Bradley, I just asked for a story.”

“Right,” He hums, shifting slightly and closing his eyes as he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Fine. The context might have been helpful, but fine… The story starts with a king, and the king has three very beautiful daughters. The most beautiful of his daughters is called Psyche, and she’s beyond beautiful — rivaling Aphrodite kind of beautiful.”

Right before your head settles against his clavicle, fitting perfectly against the curve of his broad shoulder. Your fingers follow the wrinkles in the linen on his shirt. Your leg is hooked just slightly over his thigh. Glancing upwards, he’s already watching your fingers dance across his chest. His lips pink, his cheeks warm, his eyes flicker up to yours.

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchele @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27 @ahoyyharrington

[staticvn]

the foxes : random headcanons (because i need to let it all out somewhere)

• Renee & Matt are both huge fans of atla and the pjo series. Dan likes it as well but not as much as they do. They also tried to convince Allison to watch it with them and despite saying it’s “not her thing” she really likes it.

• Renee keeps her own garden. Mostly plants and flowers though. She tries for some veggies as well but they never grow right

• At some point, Andrew would stop smoking completely. The withdrawals are crazy and he’s cranky as hell through the whole thing but yeah.

• Renee would definitely love visiting churches and cathedrals in different countries. Not only cuz she’s religious but also because she loves the architecture and art a lot.

• also also Renee would keep the coolest looking patterned stuff. Fox shaped & cat paw carved ceramic mugs, knitted sweaters with a lot of patchworks and so on.

• Renee taught Neil ASL. For no particular reason just that it’s a good thing to know. After that she also tried teaching some of the other foxes but mostly just the basics.

• Kind of surprise to everyone, Aaron would be really good at chess. Neil and Matt on the other hand… very much not. He sometimes has chess matches with Kevin but Kev always loses which genuinely drives him mad.

• Aaron knows latin- not just the medical terms that med students have to know but like the language. So you bet that whenever someone gets him angry he starts to yap at them in latin just to make a point of some sort.

• Andrew would like those old/retro gameboys

• Andrew always beats everyone in mario kart with Nicky often being either close second or complete last - no in between.

• Nicky is the #1 pancake maker. He was kind of awful at it at first but after many many tries he perfected it for the twins

• Kev is also the #1 cook in healthy but completely flavourless prison-looking meals (though it is not his fault. i blame the nest.)

• if the foxes would ever have escape room night best believe Neil would be the first to figure it out and in record time as well.

• Kevin is a mosquito magnet and won’t stop complaining about it…like ever. (had to google synonym for bitching btw)

• to fight off the “eboy Andrew” allegations im fighting back with “absolute loser Andrew” where he wears too big sweaters, reading glasses, has crooked teeth, and searches through different cryptid or internet mysteries- related sites for too long (…projecting but still)

• Neil hates coffee. his favorite tea is peppermint or earl grey.

• the monsters watch cartoons in the morning if they don’t have classes i said what i said

• Neil definitely got into photography (or sketching or both) at some point. there is just something so symbolic about that i just can’t wire up my brain rn to figure out why.

• Kevin listens to podcasts instead of music while working out because he is simply that type. sigh

ok im done

[neiptune]

something's not quite right with them

c/w: 2.4k wc, the secret history au, implied incest, implied dark themes, gojo and suguru and everyone else are secretive annoying & disgustingly elite students, the dark academia setting just really does it for me idk i want to play around with dark themes more

PART 2

The library is empty enough to give you less excuses not to focus on what’s in front of you, thick books piled on top of each other and messy notes taken on isolated pieces of paper you keep forgetting to arrange in an order that would make sense.

Most of the students have travelled back home for christmas but you’re too behind on your study plan and had decided that staying would’ve made you more productive than joining your parents on a christmas trip to Salzburg. What an idiot.

The only things you’ve been able to focus on during the past hour are the specks of dust lazily dancing in the winter sun filtering through the tall windows, and the group of people sitting two tables away from you. Their presence there is so unusual one might guess it holds the reason of almost every single stare in the room locked to them, hesitation laced with morbid curiosity. But, truth be told, they’d be alluring anyway, anywhere.

There’s something weird and unnerving about how they carry themselves, always so elegant and eerily enticing. It doesn’t help that they’re almost never around, only attend one class and spend their time exclusively with one another.

To state that you never wondered what went down behind closed doors on evenings and Sunday mornings would be a lie. An entire classroom shut down, barricated for just six people and the only professor you’d refused to endear yourself to would pique anyone’s interest.

You don’t like them, therefore you never had any reason to feel lured enough to attempt a conversation like so many have, with fairly disappointing outputs no less. You don’t like the haughtiness embedded in their attentive stares, the smug sense of superiority surrounding each component of the clique like a nebulous haze that bodes ill.

You don’t like how that Utahime girl constantly sits on her sister Shoko’s lap, letting the latter card thin fingers through her hair so languidly one might get the wrongest idea. You don’t like the contrast posed by that bubbly Yu guy, always far too excited to discuss whatever it is they study in their stupidly exclusive, obsolete literae humaniores class. You don’t like Nanami Kento and his insufferable, stoic expression: he looks like he’s carved in stone, the cold and sharp-edged kind.

You definitely don’t like the best friends, Suguru and his sickeningly condescending smiles, Satoru with his infuriatingly cocky smirks and jokes blurted out loud in Latin or Greek to complete strangers passing by their table, only to laugh at their confusion. You can’t quite put your finger on it but those two have some odd dynamic going on, although you’ve never been one to believe the weird rumors suggesting secret relationships, clandestine gatherings at night or straight up incest. People love to make up stories about popular students they can’t approach and the group certainly is weird enough to fuel some unusual fantasies.

Still, that Gojo guy sometimes looks at his friend like he’d want to swallow him whole and you swear you’ve seen Geto tilt his head up with a gentle hold of his chin more than once, speaking in soft murmurs only inches away from his lips.

Whatever they have going on, it’s none of your business. But you do wonder what they learn in that class, if their exams are any different from yours, where the hell they disappear to from time to time, why they all stayed instead of travelling home for the holidays. Don’t they have families? Are the perfect, most elite students of the already disgustingly elite college having trouble keeping up with their study plan too?

Lost in your thoughts, you notice Suguru’s sharp gaze suddenly darting to yours a second too late. You instantly bring your focus back to the notes you have messily scattered across the table but Satoru’s distinctive, petulant chuckle travels all the way to your ears and your hold on the pencil grows a little tighter.

You don’t dare look in their direction again and actually end up getting some work done, taking short breaks every now and then only to reply to your roommate’s texts. Thank god she’s more than a few states away, Hina is never one to shy away from challenges and she also fell victim of an irrepressible (and, quite honestly inexplicable) fascination with the Classics gang, as she likes to call them. She’d meet Geto’s gaze and bluntly ask if she could join their table with one of her charming smiles, not even bothering to mouth the question or get up to discreetly inquire. She wouldn’t care about heads turning and strangers whispering and you can’t shake the feeling that they’d actually end up indulging her. If as a cruel joke or out of genuine interest, you’re not sure.

As you rise from your seat to start collecting all the exam prep materials, a single glance is all you allow yourself. It’s enough. Suguru is elegantly supporting his head on hands clasped underneath his chin, the thought of his feline eyes having been set on you the entire time teasing your spine with a shudder. Satoru follows suit: he’s been clearly chewing the top of his pen and he lets it rest between his pearly teeth as thin lips stretch into a cheshire smile right as your gaze slips away again, the attempt at giving yourself some sort of composure seemingly amusing him.

You clear your throat and unceremoniously shove books and notes into your leather backpack, the pads of your fingers growing increasingly cold as the air in the library suddenly changes. There are less students sitting at the dark, agarwood tables now, the sunset must be a mere half an hour away and for some silly reason, the greenish glow the little electric lamps cast over the chestnut of the shelves and the burgundy of the walls turns unsettling.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Then why are your hands shaking while you gather the few remaining tomes you couldn’t fit in your bag?

Let them look if they want to. You’re going to keep your head up and march by their table and the disturbing, fleeting moment will recede to the back of your mind as soon as you’re out of the library, free to focus on a matter of the uppermost importance: what the hell to get for dinner.

Still, the tweed of your skirt feels itchy on your legs and the opaque black tights are sticking uncomfortably to the skin. You hope the way you loosen your tie is casual enough, as opposed to the booming clacking of your chelsea boots along the polished pavement.

You know you’re not imagining the way the table grows silent as you approach it, every nerve deemed alert by gazes still stubbornly, shamelessly fixed on you. And yet, if they think you’re going to attempt some sort of approach, they better brace themselves for a big, fat, disappointing—

“Excuse me?” his voice is as soft as velvet, melodious in a way you never would’ve guessed. It stops you in your tracks and, for some reason, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the same time.

Suguru offers one of his saccharine smiles when you meet his eyes.

“We have a debate going on. Perhaps you could help us settle it”

Utahime is staring at you with an arched brow, not entirely hostile but indifferent enough to make it clear she’s far from being interested in your opinion on whatever matter. Her sister’s arms are loose around her slim frame, one hand comfortably resting on her naked thigh, skirt sitting shockingly high on her legs. Shoko doesn’t smile but shfits slightly forward in her chair when you glance at her, head tilted to the side in quiet anticipation.

“I doubt it” you reply, not adverse either but certainly resolute enough to elicit a chuckle. Yeah, you don’t fucking like that Yu guy.

“Oh, come on” Geto softly reclaims your attention once more “I’d love to hear your opinion on the matter”

“She doesn’t have any valuable opinion on the matter. Let it go, Suguru” Utahime starts to impatiently tap on the book in front of her with a pencil.

He hums, seemingly pensive.

“Is that so?” the fake disappointment in his voice makes a vein on your forehead throb.

You narrow your gaze and shift the weight of the books you’re holding to your left arm. Whatever stupid game or bet this is, perhaps it’s time for someone to teach these assholes the school is far from being their personal playground.

“What debate?”  

Gojo’s smirk isn’t but a teasing curve in your peripheral.

“Some of us believe that Roman literature is too derivative of the Greek one to be deemed original” Suguru doesn’t add a question to his statement, he simply leaves it hanging in the air as he waits for you to bite.

And hell, you do.

“Only because genre-defining works are all in Greek. But should all epics be judged against Homer? Should all history be judged against Herodotus, all comedy against Aristophanes?”

Nanami’s eyes lazily travel to you for the first time but you don’t falter, nor you let Utahime’s scoff distract you from Geto’s magnetic gaze.

“So we shouldn’t compare, say, De Rerum Natura to any of Epicurus’ writings?” the challenge he offers is polite. You simply shrug.

“You could, but would that take away the fact that it remains one of the most original pieces of all ancient literature? Lucretius was the first one to write a didactic epic about philosophy. Latin literature found an innovative way to build depth and exist within an already established tradition, why would you reduce it to being merely derivative?”

He stares back for a moment too long before offering another one of his enigmatic smiles.

“It’s six to one, Hime” Yu grins as he faintly throws an eraser that hits her arm.

“Oh, give me a fucking break” she groans, gaze now fiery confronting yours “Latins were assimilators, borrowers. I’m willing to bet your ignorance goes as far as arguing that everything Virgil has ever written won’t be forever inferior to anything Homer’s ever thought”

You ignore Yu’s low, impressed whistle and take a second to weigh each word she’s spat. Then, you offer a gentle smile.

“Comparing works of literature, particularly when composed in two different languages and centuries apart, is awfully subjective. But sure, I will bite. The Aeneid, the Illiad and the Odyssey are all written in dactylic hexameter but I would argue that, in general, Homeric poetry is just not as cohesive, not as harmonious. The Aeneid is briefer and still, it manages to evoke both Homeric epics beautifully. We can’t hold Virgil accountable for the fact that Homer came first, can we? You’re focused on the wrong comparison anyway, you should’ve asked me to pick between Virgil and Ovid”

Shoko’s giggle is sweet enough to dim Utahime’s deep scowl. She kisses her shoulder and whispers something about knowing when to admit defeat, chocolate eyes never leaving your figure.

“Requiescat in pace” Yu sticks his tongue out and effectively dodges the eraser being thrown back at him, boyish grin making his eyes glimmer with malice.

“Would you like to sit?” literal honey trickles from Suguru’s relaxed tone, a closed hand now resting on his cheek, index finger pressing to the temple. He looks absolutely unfazed by his friends’ antics, much more focused on studying you instead.

“Suguru!” Utahime’s hiss is certainly rewarding, just not enough to convince you to accept what suddenly feels like an offer there is no turning back from.

Right as you’re about to speak, Satoru straightens up in his seat and you can no longer resist the urge to glance in his direction. You’ve heard about his eyes before, the not so quiet gossiping involving the group always surrounding him the most. He truy does look as perfect as they say, disturbingly so actually, so much that he instantly reminds you of Aether, son of Erebus and Nyx, personification of the sky.

The way he smiles makes you take a tentative step back for good measure: whatever element balances the blessing of such ethereal beauty, must be extraordinary in its darkness.

“Cubitum eamus?”

It’s impossible to blink back your surprise, one that has the corners of his lips curl further up. The boyish inflection of his voice doesn’t pair well with the wicked glint in that otherworldly, challenging stare.

Suguru lets out a good natured huff, Nanami’s scoff sounds much more sincere. It gives you the courage not to succumb to the blood rushing to your cheeks, undesired heat making your insides churn with sincere revulsion.

“Malo mori quam foedari” you murmur it as a prayer to keep yourself safe and don’t spare any of them a single other glance as the urge to get out of the room finally becomes unbearable.

Some would find the deviant laughter that follows you all the way outside of the building amusing, perhaps even satisfying. But all it does is leave a rancid taste in your mouth and as you make your way back to your dorm, you can’t help but feel as if you have taken one too many steps toward something you really don’t want to have anything to do with.

Satoru watches your upside down figure walk away, chair leaned back as he throws his head back in laughter.

“Suguru” he smiles, the tip of his tongue running along his upper lip while he still eyes the wooden doors that have swallowed you “she’d be fun to play with”

“You’re repulsive” Kento’s eyes run along the page he’s so focused on reading, disapproving frown by now a habit more than a timely reaction.

“I think we should get to have a little fun” Shoko ignores her sister’s glare as she sweetly mirrors Gojo’s smile, hand warm as the pads of her fingers sneak underneath Utahime’s skirt to soothe her irritation.

“Let me have her first” Satoru feels ignited as he meets his best friend’s gaze, he recognizes the dimmed flame beginning its faint flicker within it “let me ruin her just enough for you”

Suguru knows he’s lying. All Satoru does is take and take until there’s nothing left, he consumes everything he touches way before anyone else has the chance of getting their fair share. He lives for himself and is still arrogant enough to like that Geto can see right through his bluffs, gets a twisted pleasure from pushing his limits more and more to find out when the wire will snap.   

Sure, he’ll let him have it his way yet again. Suguru doesn’t appreciate rush, knows that true corruption takes time and, boy, does he have all the time in the world.

index vocabulorum:

requiescat in pace - rest in peace

cubitum eamus? - will you go to bed with me?

malo mori quam foedari - death rather than dishonor

[da-rulah]

Welcome to my masterlist!

All fics are tagged by main characters involved and rated either sfw or nsfw 18+.

Under 18’s please respect these ratings.

Trigger warnings are tagged in the posts.

Full Length Fics

Confessional. [NSFW 18+] As a sister of sin, it was your duty to confess at least once a month, to have your sins praised by a higher up member of the clergy. But you only ever chose Thursday nights, when you knew he was on duty. And tonight, you were working up the courage to confess your darkest sin - the dreams you had been having..

  > Read on Tumblr (3 Parts)   > Archive of Our Own

Rituale Septem. [NSFW 18+] Your faith is shaking; 16 years at the Ministry, and what did you have to show for it? You’d never even heard the Dark One’s voice like your Siblings… But what could you do? Well, you could ask the advice of the one person chosen to guide his flock through adversity; Papa Emeritus III. And he has an idea that might work… Terzo centric fic, but smut pairings include Copia in the *bold* chapter highlighted below.

> Read on Tumblr (8 Parts, Part 6 for Copia) > Archive of Our Own

Heads Will Roll. [SFW] Copia is waiting on the new Papa V, anxiously awaiting their arrival. He's not sure what he expected, but... It certainly wasn't him. > Read on Tumblr > Read on AO3

Headcanons/Drabbles

Copia teases reader with dirty talk... [NSFW 18+]

Copia stress relief [SFW]

A plus-sized reader's first time with Copia [NSFW 18+]

Copia's rats interrupting your night together... [NSFW 18+]

Copia receives a love letter from his crush... [SFW]

Surprising Papa on tour... [NSFW 18+]

Copia comforts you after a traumatic nightmare... [SFW]

Reader is suffering with the memories of past trauma... [SFW]

Reader finds out they're unexpectedly pregnant... [SFW]

Copia gets jealous... [NSFW 18+]

Reader tells Copia about their childhood trauma... [SFW]

Copia's s/o loves writing, and Copia loves them. [SFW]

Reader falls asleep in Copia's Latin class... [NSFW 18+]

Copia gets jealous... [NSFW 18+]

Reader gets harassed when out with Copia... [NSFW 18+]

Copia is bullied by a Brother of Sin. You stand up for him... [NSFW 18+]

Copia gets jealous when your Christian ex-boyfriend shows up... [NSFW 18+]

Copia gets possessive when a rumour about him spreads while he's on tour... [NSFW 18+]

Full Length Fics

Rituale Septem. [NSFW 18+] Your faith is shaking; 16 years at the Ministry, and what did you have to show for it? You'd never even heard the Dark One's voice like your Siblings... But what could you do? Well, you could ask the advice of the one person chosen to guide his flock through adversity; Papa Emeritus III. And he has an idea that might work... > Read on Tumblr > Archive of Our Own

Creatures of Habit. [NSFW 18+] Every week was the same; the same Sunday routine you'd had for as long as you could remember, lost in the pages of books that sported characters of women like yourself, finding that perfect balance between acquired and self love. But soon come the winter months, and along with it, a strange new face that became a part of your routine. A man, whose self-worth reflected that of your own, forced into seclusion, hiding from the humiliation of forced retirement. You find yourself enraptured by the mysterious man, and somehow, allowing him to become a part of your very own weekly ritual... > Read on Tumblr > Archive of Our Own

In Cold Blood. [NSFW 18+] Solitude had always appealed. Perhaps that’s why you took on this project… The thought of transforming a dilapidated old Victorian farmhouse into a sanctuary of your own, to live in peace and the romanticisms of a gothic home you fell in love with. After the structural integrity of the house is replenished, you fill your days with DIY and decorating, bringing to life a house that had been frozen in time and left to rot for decades. You could enjoy the solitude of the land already, a few miles outside of a town plagued by disappearances and a fear of the dark. But you couldn’t escape the news of more missing people, nor the strange occurrences happening around your new home. Were you imagining things? Or was there indeed a shadow haunting your sanctuary? > Read on Tumblr > Read on AO3

Headcanons/Drabbles

Terzo HCs (in the style of Confessional)

Full Length Fics

Rubenesque. [NSFW 18+] Retirement had its perks. For Secondo, one of those was being able to spend much more time on the things he enjoyed. And there were only two things he truly enjoyed these days; art, and you. Although if you asked him, he’d insist that they were one and the same. So how would he react when he learns that your peers are mocking your sinfully gorgeous body, and you're struggling to love yourself? > Read on Tumblr > Archive of Our Own

Come Home to Me. [NSFW 18+] No one ever thought to question why Papa Emeritus II was such a bitter man. People assumed it was a product of his upbringing, of the pressures being an Emeritus brought him. But they had no idea that years ago, he was a completely different man. A man that you so easily fell in love with... > Read on Tumblr > Archive of Our Own

Learn the Ropes. [NSFW 18+] Secondo likes to be in charge. He likes to be in control. But you'd always wondered what he might do if one day, you decided to flip the script, and take charge for him... > Read on Tumblr > Archive of Our Own

Rituale Septem. [NSFW 18+] Your faith is shaking; 16 years at the Ministry, and what did you have to show for it? You’d never even heard the Dark One’s voice like your Siblings… But what could you do? Well, you could ask the advice of the one person chosen to guide his flock through adversity; Papa Emeritus III. And he has an idea that might work…

Terzo centric fic, but smut pairings include Secondo in the *bold* chapter highlighted below. > Read on Tumblr (8 Parts, Part 5 for Secondo) > Archive of Our Own

Headcanons/Drabbles

Secondo cuddles after a hard day... [SFW]

Secondo gets jealous... [NSFW 18+]

Full Length Fics

None. Yet...

Headcanons/Drabbles

Bishop Primo decides to pick some red roses... [SFW]

Full Length Fics

None. Yet...

Headcanons/Drabbles

The Papa's Kinks [NSFW 18+]

Papas holding their newborn for the first time... [SFW]

Papas reacting you reader crying during/after sex [NSFW 18+]

The Papas and their technology skills... [NSFW 18+]

The Papas and the Halloween costumes their s/o makes them wear [SFW]

Reader asks Papa to keep his robes on... [NSFW 18+]

Papa's comforting a reader on their period [SFW]

Papa's catch reader sneaking out to go to a party... [Hints at NSFW 18+]

Papa's comfort reader who's losing her faith... [Hints at NSFW 18+ in the overall post]

How the Papa's dominate you [NSFW 18+]

Papa's and their thick-thighs S/O [NSFW 18+]

The Papa's make their S/O squirt for the first time... [NSFW 18+]

Full Length Fics

Rituale Septem. [NSFW 18+] Your faith is shaking; 16 years at the Ministry, and what did you have to show for it? You’d never even heard the Dark One’s voice like your Siblings… But what could you do? Well, you could ask the advice of the one person chosen to guide his flock through adversity; Papa Emeritus III. And he has an idea that might work…

Terzo centric fic, but smut pairings include Ghouls in the *bold* chapters highlighted below. > Read on Tumblr (8 Parts, Parts 3 & 7 for Ghouls) > Archive of Our Own

Headcanons/Drabbles

Swiss wanted to try Papa's batwings... [SFW]

The Ghouls catch a cold... [SFW]

The Ghouls go to an escape room... [SFW]

Ghouls holding their newborn for the first time... [SFW]

The Ghouls and their technology skills... [NSFW 18+]

The Ghouls reactions to an easily flustered reader... [NSFW 18+]

Full Length Fics

The Mayor's Daughter. [NSFW 18+] Mary knew the entire town hated him; the metalhead with the freaky make up and fake blood dripping down his face. He was the local menace, the town vandal, the cliché trouble maker. He played up to that image, enjoyed the havoc and the chaos, revelled in it. He loved pissing people off. And so, what better revenge to get on his beloved town, than to fuck around with the Mayor's daughter…

> Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 > Archive of Our Own

Headcanons/Drabbles

Sexting with Mary [NSFW 18+]

Jealous Mary headcanons [NSFW 18+]

BDSM Activities with Mary [NSFW 18+]

[lilahisntsadanymore]

Neil helps his best friend's sister with Latin. The problem is - he has a crush on her, but knows they could never be together. After all, he couldn't date Charlie's family, it's against the rules. And secondly - Neil is sure Y/n wouldn't have ever talked to him if it wasn't for the tutoring.

Pairing: Neil Perry x dalton!fem!reader

Words count: 1.5k

Warnings: none

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

Tutoring

"Thank you for helping me, Neil." Y/n said as she closed the door of her room. She stopped for a moment and then added, "I didn't ask if you wanted something to drink. Shall I bring tea? Coffee? Juice?"

"Water would be perfect," Neil sent the girl a smile.

As Y/n walked to the kitchen for two glasses of water, Neil unpacked his bag. He had some notes that could be helpful for whatever Y/n could need help with. He was a year ahead, so the things she was learning now, he knew cold.

At least tutoring let him spend some time with Y/n. Charlie wouldn't have a problem with his best friend and his sister having a thing, but that wasn't the problem. The Daltons were rich and that was the problem. If it wasn't for the tutoring, Y/n probably wouldn't even have talked to Neil. Neil's family wasn't poor, they had enough money to send him to Welton, but his father worked hard for this.

"Okay, I'm back!" Y/n announced, setting the cups with water on her nightstand, far away from the books.

"Great, so, what do you have a problem with?" Neil asked, taking a seat by Y/n's desk.

The girl sat down on a chair next to him, smiling. "Oh, you know... Latin." She giggled awkwardly, putting a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Oh, how beautiful she looked in that moment. A bit blushed, smiling awkwardly. Neil was mesmerized and almost forgot what he came here for.

"Yes, but what in particular?" He tried masking his infatuation. And he was good at it so far.

"You know what, the desk feels uncomfortable for two people, doesn't it?" Y/n grabbed the book and tossed it onto the bed. "Let's sit there, shall we?"

And so they did. In front of each other, with their legs crossed. Neil forgot about his glasses, but he quickly reached into his bag to search for them.

Now Y/n seemed to be a little mesmerized. She hadn't seen him wearing glasses before and that was a very flattering model for him. Neil looked so attractive.

"Glasses suit you," the girl complimented, "do you ever wear them, you know, outside of studying?"

"No," he chuckled, "I don't need to." Right after this he said it, he scolded himself, in his head of course, for saying it. To make it less awkward he added, "Although thank you."

"No problem." Was it Neil's brain playing tricks on him, or did Y/n sound disappointed by his reply? "Okay, so let's start."

"What shall we start with? Do you wanna start from the beginning, or...?"

"No, no, not from the beginnings. I understand the basics, but it's get pretty difficult later on..."

"Yeah, languages have that thing where they get harder the more advanced they get."

The joke made Y/n smile. She pushed Neil playfully and he theatrically pretended it hurt him.

"Maybe we should start with ACI?"

"Accusativus cum infinitivo," Neil smiled at the memory of Charlie laughing at the word 'cum' every time, but to Y/n it just seemed like a kind smile sent to her. "Alright, let's start."

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

"I don't get it, Neil, I just don't!" Y/n whined pathetically. She felt truly hopeless if even Neil couldn't help her.

"No, Y/n, calm down, please, and listen to me." He ordered in a lower, but still kind voice.

Y/n looked at him with worry in her eyes. Worry and fear, but she wasn't scared of him. She was scared of not passing the class, failing her whole education.

Her eyes are so beautiful, Neil thought, she looks like a lost, little doe.

"I know what your problem is," he continued, "you don't know the declensions."

"Well, have you seen how many of those are there?"

"Yes, there are five. But why can't you remember them? From what I've seen today, you don't have a problem with conjugations."

"There's only four of those. And they just make more sense, you know? They feel natural to me. Meanwhile how am I supposed to remember it's puella, puellae, another puellae, puellam, puella with the funny line above the a and vocativus is the same as nominativus?"

"Not to brag, but I must be a really good teacher because you've just recited the first declension in singularis."

"I did?" Y/n beamed at the realization. "Neil, you're amazing!" She threw herself onto Neil, closing him in a very tight hug.

They were laying down on the bed. Neil was on his back and Y/n was on top of him. This moment lasted a bit longer than it was appropriate.

Y/n raised herself up, she went back to sit in the spot she was. She realized how inappropriate it was. She thought Neil must've felt so awkward right now. So she began apologizing and explaining.

"I'm sorry." She said. "I made it awkward, didn't I? I don't know what got into me. I guess I just- I don't- okay, there's no explanation," she knew she might take the explaining too far, but she didn't know how to stop this stream of words. "There is an explanation, actually. I like you, yes you've heard it right, I like you. More than a friend, I've had a crush from you since I met you."

Neil sat back in the cross-legged position. He was astonished by this confession. Not because he didn't feel the same. The thing was he did feel the same, but had no idea Y/n would, so he never prepared himself for this moment. He didn't know what to say, because it seemed so impossible to him. It was never supposed to happen.

"Oh no," a whine came from Y/n's mouth, "I knew I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry, again. The way we looked at each other today, I thought the feelings were mutual."

"Y/n, calm down." Neil tried to keep his voice relaxed. He didn't want to make himself seem too excited, that could creep the girl out. "I do feel the same."

"You do?"

"I do, I just didn't know you would. That's why I've tried to keep it to myself."

His confession gave Y/n a bit of confidence. "You weren't so good at keeping this a secret today, the way you looked at me was... giving me signals, let's say."

When this problem was solved, there arised another. What were they going to do with it?

"So... what happens now?" Y/n asked.

"I'm asking myself the same question."

"Should we tell Charlie?" Tell him what though, Y/n? Y/n asked herself, This confession didn't change anything, you're not suddenly dating.

"No," Neil laughed, "I don't think he's ready. I don't think he's mature enough."

Y/n nodded with a smile on her face, but didn't say anything. So Neil continued.

"Would you like to start going on dates?"

"Sure, I would love that. What's your first date idea?" Y/n gave Neil a cheeky smile.

Neil's hand suddenly happened to be on Y/n's, intertwined by the fingers. "I will take you to my rehearsal. Afterwards, we can go eat something or have ice cream. What do you say?"

Without an answer, the girl scooted closer to him. Eventually, she gave Neil a reply. "I say, it is a nice idea. You must look so good on the stage, doing what you love to do."

In that moment, Neil blushed, but what made him blush even more, was Y/n's next action. She put her hand on his jawline and pulled him in for a kiss.

He didn't hesitate to kiss her back, but decided to let Y/n stay in control of the pace and everything else. It was a slow, very romantic kiss. It wasn't awkward, it felt as if they kissed so many times before, their lips co-worked just perfectly.

Soon, Neil's hands found their way to Y/n's waist to pull her closer. A moment later, the lovers were laying down on the bed again. But it wasn't going to go anywhere further than this kiss. Neither of them were ready, besides they've just confessed their feelings, it would be too quick.

After a while, Y/n pulled away, letting Neil and herself catch a breath. She laid down next to the boy, taking his hand in hers. She felt him rub her hand with his thumb. It felt so reassuring. Whatever happens later, we'll get through it.

If Charlie finds out, then he finds out and there's nothing he can do about it. If he doesn't like it, it's his problem, he should be mature enough to understand it.

If the parents find out, either Y/n's or Neil's (it didn't matter, because whoever found out, they would tell one another), then that would be a problem. But Neil was sure he would do something about it, he would make up a solution. It wouldn't be the first time he went against his parents' will.

In the worst case, Y/n and Neil would have to wait until they finish high school. After that, they would be adults, free to do whatever they wanted to. Whatever was going to happen, everything would work out in their favour.

[genshinluvr]

A Guide on How to Study

Pairings: Various Genshin Men x Isekai'd!Reader

Summary: You have been studying for three final exams that are looming over you. You stayed up countless nights to study, but you're not retaining any information in your notes and study guides. Luckily for you, your twenty-five boyfriends have the perfect guide on how to study for your final exams.

Note: This is a mini-fic for my university students who have finals coming up! I have finals coming up in three days, and your girl hasn't studied the fifty-plus terms for Greek and Latin 💀 I'm hoping this is a motivation for all of you to do well on your exams and this as a way for me to force myself to study because I really do need to study 🥲Since it's finals week for me, I will be posting mini-fics for Genshin and HSR for this week. I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.4k

You sit at the table in the library, staring at your study guides sprawled before you. You have four final exams to study for, and here you are, staring at the papers and not retaining the information you need to remember before the impending day. You have stayed up countless nights trying to get yourself to process the given information by your professors at the Akademiya, yet you’re not able to retain any information.

“I’m fucked,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands.

“Still studying for your upcoming final exams?” a familiar voice asks.

You peek over your shoulders to see Venti peering down at you with the other men standing at his side. You sigh, resting your head on the table, and nod. Unfortunately, you are still studying for the final exams. 

The same exams the professors have been encouraging your class to study since the beginning of the quarter. Did you do that? Kind of, but as time went by, you lost the motivation of having to study constantly. It started off just fine, but you gave up halfway into the quarter and put it off. You’re starting to question why you chose to enroll to be a student at the Akademiya. That’s one of your biggest regrets since being thrown into your boyfriends’ world.

Poke.

You’re brought out of your thoughts when someone pokes you in the cheek. You blink and look at the person from your peripheral vision to see Itto standing close to you. You groan and lean in your seat, sighing once again while stretching back.

Itto clears his throat. “Onikabuto booboo bear, you look exhausted. Have you been taking breaks in between your studies like how we told you to?” Itto asks as he pulls out a chair from under the table and sits beside you.

You stare at Itto, shrugging your shoulders. “Kind of, but I decided to cut my breaks short because whenever I take breaks, they’re longer than it’s supposed to be,” you reply.

Al Haitham raises his eyebrows at you. “What do you mean? Are you implying that instead of taking fifteen-minute breaks in between your studies, you would extend it?” 

You smile at Al Haitham, rubbing the back of your neck before slowly turning to your study guides in front of you. Now is a time to study and act like you weren’t procrastinating not long ago. You grab your papers and flip to the ones you haven’t gotten to yet, and begin skimming through them. Maybe that’s why you’re not retaining information. You’re skimming through them and not actually trying to take time to process the definitions and equations. 

Tighnari sighs, rubbing his temples. “Oh, [Y/N]. You’re setting yourself up for failure if all you’re doing is skimming through your notes. Did you know that berries are good for your memories? I recommend snacking on them as you study,” says Tighnari, reaching for your notes.

You bury your face into your hands and close your eyes. You know they all mean well, but you feel like a child being scolded for not doing well on a test that hasn’t even happened yet. You lean on the table, pressing your forehead on the cold wooden desk, closing your eyes. Dear Archons, you’re tempted to go to give up and accept your fate at this point. You can study in the morning, right? A ceramic plate is placed beside your head, grabbing your attention. You look at the plate to see sliced fruits. 

Zhongli pats your head. “Make sure not to starve yourself as you’re studying. Even if you say you’re not hungry, it’s good to have a snack or two while you study,” Zhongli says, smiling at you.

The only beacon of light during the hard times that is your studies is the men bringing sliced fruit to you while you study. It’s a small gesture, but it means a lot to you. They’re always checking up on you to make sure you’re doing well. While they care about your future in the Akademiya, they care more about your mental and emotional well-being. Heizou and Aether sit across from you.

“If you’re not able to study anymore, maybe it’s a sign to call it a day and continue tomorrow!” Aether suggests, reaching across the table and squeezing your hand.

Heizou nods. “You have time to study for your final exams! If you continue to push yourself, you’ll burn out and lose the motivation to study,” Heizou interjects.

You give Heizou and Aether a strained smile. You grab a sliced fruit and begin nibbling on it. How are they going to react when you tell them how many days you have left in your studies before the impending day? 

Cyno leans over to look at your face, narrowing his eyes while you stare at him with wide eyes. Cyno sighs and leans on the table, shaking his head with disapproval. Did Cyno see through you? This man can read you like a book. He has you figured out, like how he has TCG figured out.

“Sweetheart, when is your exam?” Cyno asks, raising his eyebrows at you.

You clear your throat. “It’s on Friday! The exam is being hosted in the lecture hall at 9 PM and—”

Kaveh looks at you with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, NINE? At night?!” Kaveh interrupts, propping his hands on his hips.

You nod. “Yeah, it’s at night. The exam is almost two hours,” you reply. “I think….”

You pull your calendar out from your backpack and flip to the month. Your brain is all over the place, and you’re in desperate need of sleep. As previously stated, you stayed up countless nights to study, and you can’t remember when was the last time you had a proper sleep. Thoma looks over your shoulders, scanning the calendar you keep in your backpack with you at all times. 

“Oh! Okay, so you made a mistake there. The exam you were talking about, that’s at 9 PM, is your last exam for finals week. You have other exams before that. The first exam starts at 6 PM,” says Thoma, pointing at the scribbled words on the calendar. 

You stare at the calendar and close it, laying it on the table before lightly banging your head on the table. Oh, you’re definitely screwed. After a few minutes, you stop banging your head on the table and sigh loudly.

“Snookums, we can help you study if you’d like! We can go through the notes together a few times, and after that, we can start quizzing you on the materials in your notes and study guides!” Childe suggests, pulling your seat out from under the table and turning you around to face him and the others.

You hum and chew on the inside of your cheek, contemplating if it’s a good idea to have the men help you with your studies. Some of them are going to get bored and distracted, and you don’t blame them since that’s been you for the last few days now. Aside from that, it’ll be good to have someone help you with your studies because someone will be quizzing you on your knowledge of the subject instead of it being you skimming through it and not retaining any information. 

“Alright, I’ll take up on your offer.”

Diluc had you move to another area of the library in the estate. According to your other boyfriends, a change in scenery is good since you’ve been sitting at the same table for hours and would go to the same spot every time you study for any of the exams you have.

“We’re going to set up a routine on how the study session is going to go. All of us will go over the study guide and notes with you, alright?” Diluc says, patting the spot beside him.

You sit next to him and pull your notes out from your backpack. It was a lot to study, and despite the men volunteering to help you, they can see why you get overwhelmed easily with your studies. The study session hasn’t even started yet, and some of them want to call it a day already.

“How are you going to retain all of these things before the exam?” Xiao mutters, holding up stacks of notes and study guides in the air.

You laugh bitterly and shake your head. “I don’t! I just pray to whichever Archon is listening to me and hope for the best that some of these things stick to my brain before the exam starts,” you reply.

Scaramouche plops down beside you and takes some of the notes from your hands. “And does that work?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Sometimes, but it really depends on what I’m studying and how the information is placed in the exam,” you answer. You look at Zhongli and give him a sheepish smile. “Looks like I’ll be praying to Morax before the exam, hoping he’ll bless me and let me pass all of my exams.” You bat your eyelashes at the former Geo Archon.

Zhongli chuckles and shakes his head, handing you a sliced fruit to eat. You grab the plate from Zhongli’s hands before passing out fruits to the others around you. Dainsleif was in charge of keeping up with the time. The only time you can take a break from your studies is if Dainsleif tells you it’s time to take a break.

“You will be going through your notes and study guide for one class. You have an hour to go over it, and once one hour is up, you will have a fifteen-minute break from your studies before one of them starts quizzing you on what you went over,” says Dainsleif.

You raise your hand before speaking, “Wait, so… is the fifteen-minute break a break from studying and I get to relax for a little bit, or is it a fifteen-minute break from going over my notes and I have to refresh my memory before being quizzed?”

“The fifteen-minute break can be anything for you. If you want to take that fifteen-minute break to go through what you have studied, then you can do that. But we recommend you take that time to relax because cramming your studies won’t help,” replies Ayato.

You sigh and flop back on the chair, staring at the ceiling while contemplating your choices in life. This is what you get for wanting to be a strong and independent person who needs no man to help them with being successful. Here you are, having your lovely boyfriends assist you with your studies. As much as you want to show them you can do it on your own, you can’t do it because you have tried it for the last few days, and look at where you are right now. 

Not retaining any information while getting a headache for stressing yourself out. It’s also nice to have company while you study because it gives you some motivation and you won’t feel lonely! Even though you know some people tend to be distracting with their touchiness, they understand how important these exams are for you and your future at the Akademiya. 

“Okay, let’s get started with the studying! We’ll continue this routine up until the day of your exams. When it’s the day of your exams, we will help you with your studies at the House of Daena before you go to the lecture hall,” says Gorou.

You can always trust Gorou to help you come up with a strategy for your studies. The men will give Gorou some suggestions, and Gorou puts them together to make a strategy that is usually successful. The only plan that Gorou came up with that ended up failing was trying to surprise you for your birthday. You were able to figure things out because they took you to many places you’ve never been to, making you suspicious of them.

Baizhu stops before you and tilts your head up, examining you closely while Changsheng slithers close to your face, eyeing you with her dark pink eyes. You blink at Changsheng and Baizhu, watching the white snake retreat back onto Baizhu’s shoulders.

“It seems like [Y/N] hasn’t been taking their melatonin. They’ve been skipping out on their sleep,” says Changsheng.

Baizhu sighs and rubs his temples. “Just as I feared. [Y/N], I know you’re going to take the fifteen-minute break to review the materials you’ve studied. I think it’s best for you to take that time and nap instead,” says Baizhu, stroking your cheek.

You stare at Baizhu and look over at the others, pressing your lips into a thin line. You see, you would love to take a nap during your fifteen-minute break from your studies, but you don’t think it’ll be a good idea. You can do anything other than take a nap.

You place your hand over Baizhu’s hands, giving them a squeeze. “What if I wake up from my nap and do not want to study? Then what?” You ask, raising your eyebrows at Baizhu.

Kazuha sits on the ground and grabs your study guides and notes. “Oh, you won’t have to worry about that,” Kazuha smiles, flipping through your notes. 

“We’ll make sure you don’t over-nap or continue to take a nap after waking up,” replies Albedo, ruffling your hair.

Kaeya smirks, raising his hand up. “But if you do struggle with it, I know a way to wake you right up,” he winks at you. 

You point an accusing finger at Kaeya. “If you’re going to shove your cold hands up my shirt, I will never forgive you for it,” you state.

Kaeya chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. Capitano, Pierro, and Pantalone gesture for you to start looking over your notes and study guides after Dainsleif brings out a timer that Dottore lets him borrow for the time being. The perfect guide to studying is having a study group (even if the person or study group isn’t in the same Darshan as you), taking breaks after an hour of studying, quizzing each other based on what you have studied, having a snack while studying, and pray to Morax that you’ll pass your exams.

If you pass your final exams, you’ll be rewarding Zhongli and the rest of the men with something for helping you study for your final exams. You’re not sure what it is, but you’re hoping it’s not going to involve Mora. 

Note: I was going to post this after the HSR fic, but I was so exhausted that I could barely get myself to type the mini-fic and post it. So, yes, this is a late post. Since this is my finals week, I'm hoping to post the second route of the Burning Desire series after my finals week. Tighnari is next because he did lead the poll and is still leading. I'm going to try to make a new fanfic request form since I'm not a huge fan of the current request form. Any requests sent in with the old/current format are void. Anyway, to my new and/or returning readers, please keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!

Taglist for my Isekai'd!reader one-shot series and my overall taglist: @xyji, @chirikoheina, @yoru-trash, @kaoyamamegami, @deartoru, @luminarymoonlight, @toobytub, @ins4nebish, @bokuto-kinnie, @exhaustedcommunist, @jadedist, @mompt2, @chalksdreams, @thelost-in-time, @ventisweetheart, @hispasian-otaku, @juuuuuj101010, @samarill, @testsubject0012, @irisxiel, @kazuhaprnt, @lunarapple, @emilymikado, @mabie, @vinnie-w, @n8mareee, @heyimkay, @eliciana, @blesstosuisen, @goldeneclipsedragon, @jjvr4yxc, @sovermike-21-blog, @vox34, @skyyyyackerman, @undecidingfate, @nightlysunn, @faeryminnyx, @simpcreator, @lucifarts-boxers, @thelovebuggs, @urlocalheizousimp, @sunlightstarr (Accounts that I was unable to tag have been removed. Those who don't want to be tagged in certain stories are not tagged in this particular post. Remember to check your settings if you're allowing people to mention you/tag you in posts or not)

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[thoodleoo]

A latin teacher! You seem like the perfect person to ask! The Aeneid. Is it worth it for me to read it? My class read the Iliad in 5th grade though I didn't really understand it since I was 10. I read the Odyssey with my class last year and I enjoyed it except for the part when Argos died ("It is a book about a man who's dog died" - A former student of my English Teacher 4 years after reading), and I really like mythology, but I am also busy with all my schoolwork so what do you think? Also, is there a specific translation you would recommend?

i am not joking when i say the aeneid fundamentally changed me as a person like that shit rewired my brain. i think it's one of the best stories ever written and i have actually shed tears translating it. you can check out my #aeneidposting tag to experience this

im not in love with any particular translation but i find ruden's the most palatable