#Having thoughts and opinions about how stories and histories are written again

[miirshroom]

Elden Ring and Bloodborne - What do we Learn from the Dead

I have been thinking through a dilemma regarding Elden Ring interpretation. And it occurred to me that Bloodborne addresses and engages with similar concerns.

There is a scene in Bloodborne where the player approaches Lady Maria sitting still and unresponsive in front of a clock face. The player reaches out to touch her and instead she blocks them saying "a corpse should be left well alone". In Elden Ring the player stands in a palace of blood in front of a corpse next to a woman who if she were not wearing a helmet would have a certain amount of resemblance to Lady Maria. This time Leda says "touch the withered arm", inviting you to meddle with a corpse. And I find that an interesting symmetry.

I. Dissection

Two things to note about Bloodborne: 1) Lady Maria's advice to leave corpses alone is implied to come from her experience of finding a corpse and being cursed by the knowledge that came from that incident, 2) It's very late in the game to be receiving this advice considering how many corpses the player has already tampered with. The Chalice Dungeons are for grave-robbing and the different subregions are grouped by tombstones - memorializing corpses. In fact there is a very compelling set of videos by Charred Thermos about the medical metaphor of Bloodborne, including the role of dissection.

I would go a step further and say that Bloodborne weaves together the concepts of both physical and psychological dissection.

In Bloodborne the consumable item to gain material for levelling is called "coldblood", presumably because is much older than the fresh "warm blood" obtained from killing enemies. The highest tier of this is "Great One Coldblood". But "coldblood" can also have the association of murders done pre-meditated and dispassionately "in cold blood".

There is a book called "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote. I have read "In Cold Blood" for a book report a long time ago and I looked up some reviews to refresh my memory. It's a "whydunnit" story - the killers have already been caught and confessed. The point of the book is to interview them and to try and make sense of the why and how. It is also an example of how difficult it is to give an objective and unbiased account of motive. As this one review puts it (by Eden Gray on Google):

"I would not recommend this book to anyone. Capote claims that this book is non-fiction, however, he has changed so many facts throughout and knew one of the prisoners personally. He also had influence on the end of the book as he did have enough money and influence to prevent or prolong the hanging of the two killers, but he chooses not to as he needed them to hang in order for him to finish and publish his book. His bias comes through clearly with his anti-death beliefs and his favouritism towards Perry is blatant because Capote related to Perry. Capote manipulated his audience to feel sympathetic towards Perry even though he brutally killed the Clutters. His manipulation and deception, verisimilitude to the core, left me thinking what is true and what is false throughout the whole book, further making me disinterested as why read a book that claims to be non-fiction when it is clearly filled with false information."

I think this is the Catch-22 of non-fiction. Digging into the lives of real people is more true to life than simply inventing characters and their psychologies from old stock tropes in fiction. But if you want to tell the non-fiction story of these people then you need to be objective and factual all the way through - and this will strictly limit the ability to work in creative themes or a thesis. But being objective just becomes a boring lists of facts. Especially unlikely to be feasible if you are trying to do a story set in a historical time period with fragmentary primary sources - realism is not possible and there will be a subjective filter on everything.

As Charred Thermos describes it in this video, there is evidence that many characters in Bloodborne are inspired by prominent medical practitioners of the Victorian Era...but Bloodborne doesn't market itself as a true crime story, or even a historical fiction. They are framing themselves as "murdering" the Great Ones - the great people of the past - in cold blood and dissecting their life's work for narrative and thematic components, but they obfuscate this under layers of eldritch aesthetic.

If I had to give an example it's like this: it is known that Alan Moore's "In Hell" is a fictionalized version of the 'Jack the Ripper' murders, because he uses the names and faces of real people (which I know about from this Arcane Workshop video that explores the comic's themes alongside the game Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs). This version propagates the conspiracy theory that a specific Crown physician committed the murders - hearsay speculation that arose 80 years after the man's death when there was no-one left alive to dispute it. Nobody talks about the specific ways that parts of Bloodborne take inspiration from the wild theories surrounding the Jack the Ripper murders. Because the game only takes hints and fragments of names and the theme of committing violence against women by men who may-or-may not have some level of anatomical knowledge. Doesn't rely on the name recognition to tell the story that they want to be telling about the darker sides of humanity in the Victorian Era.

II. Discovery

How should a person feel if they are confronted with the knowledge that the character who they idealized was created from story of a single, specific human being with the identifying name scrubbed off?

The character of Lady Maria toys with this idea - the doll was made in her image, but by what is shown of their personalities they are nothing alike. How did people in the Bloodborne fandom react to this? Seriously, how should this be treated? Is it believed that the doll was made by Gherman to have Lady Maria's looks but none of her personality? Is it believed that Lady Maria has a gentle and pious side when she is not in combat? Does it change your impression of Gherman that he gives you permission to "use the doll" after knowing that this is a simulacrum of a single specific person?

I know real person fiction fans exist, but for the rest of us I feel like it would seem weird and exploitative to learn such knowledge retroactively about a beloved character. On the one hand, if a person wanted to flesh out their fanon they could go read the biography of the original. On the other hand, if new characters are being made as fictional reincarnations of the people of the past then their stories carry all of the baggage from that past. Digging through a minefield of old prejudices and heroic fantasies that aren't compatible with navigating the complex global interdependencies and ethical dilemmas of the present day.

Elden Ring pulls back from the aesthetic of physical dissection and expands massively in the realm of psychological dissection. Like "In Cold Blood", it's a kind of "whydunnit" story - the stuff about becoming an Elden Lord is a red herring (perhaps even a "red HAIRing" looking at Radagon and Radahn for example). The purpose of the Tarnished is to understand why Marika shattered the Elden Ring. To understand and accept her decision as part of the process of mourning. This dissection is not done for the benefit of the dead but is for the living to learn from the mistakes of the past and do better in the future.

Marika-as-Leda invites you to the dissection of the corpse in the cocoon. This is a secret past that they were trying to leave well alone. It is generally dark and unpleasant and surreal because these are the inner fears and obsessions of a mind that struggles to tell the difference between fact and fiction. Stuck in the nightmares of a superstitious past. Recreating cycles of painful and nonsensical rituals supporting a mythology of individual exceptionalism born out of a fear of trusting that people can work together. Messmer "the Impaler" having connotations of being a vampire because an egotistical person in a leadership role is incapable of self-reflection (vampires traditionally cannot see their reflections in mirror of polished silver), and may conclude that their solution is always best despite evidence to the contrary - until suddenly everything is on fire.

In Elden Ring and the Shadowlands you can find references to the real and mythological people who served as inspiration for Marika. She's Marie Antoinette. Anne Bonny. Bloody Mary. Anna, sister of Arthur Pendragon (mother of Mordred). Mary Shelley. Marina "La Malinche". Virgin Mary, Mother of Christ. She's all of them and none of them and probably a few more that I've missed. Some of these may even have been the inspiration for Bloodborne's Lady Maria herself due to the way FromSoftware tells stories across a multiverse. But for her case - above all she is Lady Maria OF the Astral Clocktower. If you can understand the Clocktower and the FromSoftware meta-narrative, then you can understand Lady Maria far beyond what is available by the item descriptions alone. At least, now with the context of Elden Ring it's possible to understand it. Don't know if it could have been done back in 2015.

A lot of people were not ready for the revelations of Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree. Not sure they'd be pleased to learn that there is a way to demystify the method below the madness of Bloodborne.

III. A Confession

So, it wasn't random chance that I connected the concept of "coldblood" to Capote's "In Cold Blood". Sometimes I do a "this day in history search" for each the dates that FromSoftware releases games and sometimes this yields interesting results. September 30 was the release date of Dark Souls 2 DLC: The Crown of the Ivory King. September 30 was also the birthday of Truman Capote. This isn't the first time an author birthday has popped up in a way that I find meaningful. Regarding themes of Elden Ring and Armored Core VI, respectively, there was John Wyndham - author of the Midwich Cuckoo, The Day of the Triffids, and the Chrysalids - on July 10, release day of Armored Core (1997). And Walter Michael Miller Jr. - author of A Canticle for Leibowitz - on January 23, 1923 which matches the release day of a game called Thousand Land (2003). And then Jack London (born John Griffith Chaney) who authored The Call of the Wild, White Fang and The Iron Heel has a matching birthday with Enchanted Arms (2006) on January 12, 1876.

And September 30 wasn't a date that I selected randomly to scrutinize next. More than ever before the Shadowland area of Elden Ring gives me the impression of a rotting old theatre where literally "the curtains have fallen" on previous eras. There's a progressive rock band for that: Dream Theatre. Combing through Dream Theatre's discography not only are there several motifs that I can see echoed in Elden Ring, but several album release dates line up with FromSoftware's previous games including "Chaos in Motion", the live video album that was released September 30, 2007 - same calendar date as the Crown of the Ivory King DLC in 2014. This is an interesting alignment because in classic writing by Virgil the Gate of Ivory is the one through which false dreams pass through.

What I'm taking away from is this: FromSoftware will not "show their work" and explain in interviews or supplementary footnotes the full scope of media and real life influences on their games. Because boasting about all of the research they did would be morally wrong - a false dream. They are in the business of making fictional characters, not exploiting the dead and putting words in their mouths for sensational name recognition. They may take inspiration from scientific concepts such as medical and psychology and various political and philosophical movements, but they won't pretend to be an authority on these things. If the player wants to fully comprehend the story then, yes, grasping at the hints of references to real world phenomena and doing your own research into those topics is a way to get there with greater accuracy.

IV. Witnesses

And how can a person know if they are correct about identifying any given influence? You can't "know", but you can build a case for it. Like how the broad strokes of complexity theory are described in this video about the 5 layers of depth in 2016 game The Witness. When understanding the logic of the game universe you want to be collecting "Witnesses" of what the narrative does and does not support. I like this idea of calling witnesses as an extension of the dissection/murder mystery metaphor - after all murder trials make use of both eye-witnesses and expert witnesses.

If I can collect 25 items containing a helix or spiral pattern and sort them according to number of twists and this vaguely follows the agreed upon timeline of history from other sources, then that tells me that the game history supports being sorted into discrete units of time and this is reflected in the art direction. If 5 of those 25 give unexpected results, then either I didn't understand the rules of the helices as well as I thought, or there is a misinformation in the commonly believed timeline. If I can collect 20 instances of suspiciously meaningfully anagrams, then that's 20 Witnesses that the game supports anagram wordplay in certain situations. If I can look to the band "Rush" and collect 7 album release date matches in FromSoft's back catalogue + 13 sets of visuals or wording similarities to specific songs then that also would seem to be 20 Witnesses that these are intentional references rather than the random noise of the universe. Maybe there is grounds to think that FromSoftware saw something inspirational in the creative or intellectual philosophy of that specific group of musicians - drawing from contemporary sources rather than solely on an outdated catalogue of classical poetry. Though to be honest I'm starting to think sometimes it's the other way around - they started with the musicians and mined their lyrics for pop culture references.

Based on collecting Witnesses, there is evidence that Elden Ring contains an elaborate reference to JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, which is itself well known for making global musical pop culture references. In Bloodborne the Great Ones convey their messages through sound.

V. Verdict

Altogether I'm feeling more confident about the relevance of the 3 additional backlogged posts that I've been working on that delve into the musical scavenger hunt of Elden Ring. But the dilemma was about whether it is right to clinically dissect and present evidence that a video game has made characters out of sensitive topics as they relate to the personal histories of specific people who are living or have living family. I guess it depends on presentation - is due respect given to the topic? Are there cases where it would be better to recommend an auto-biography or other primary source than to paraphrase? Is there something of value to be learned, or is it all just entertainment?

[temptress-writes]

📜Roll Call

A/N: my favourite, moody professor. feral. he's actually such a twat.

Content Warnings: coarse language

Sexual Content: Degradation, spitting, light bondage, spanking, slapping, age gap (10 years)

Word Count: 21.5k

Now, sit straight for Professor Styles.

***

Oxford University, 1992.

“Are you actually going to put the effort into my class or do I have to get you a tutor?”

It wasn’t what she was hoping for after handing in an assignment. She fought back the hot tears that sprung into her eyes and hoped he didn’t see how wet they were. She was exhausted, overworked to the bone trying to balance her studies and a part-time job.

He’d handed back the papers at the end of his class, and not long after escaped to his office down the hall. She’d chased after him, fumbling to keep up with him while her mind was jumbled over the failed grade. She’d done plenty of assignments with him and he’d passed every single one.

“I… I don’t understand. I studied the material—“

“Well, clearly you didn’t study it enough. The years are all mixed up. If you want to be the historian that you say you do, that usually comes with not mixing up dates. I mean,” he held the paper in front of him, reciting the words she’d written. “Julius Caesar was assassinated in March, 43 BC. Incorrect. He was assassinated in March, 44 BC. You should know this, it’s basic stuff.”

“I’m sorry, I swear it was a simple mistake—“

“Simple mistakes will cost you your grade. In fact, it has.”

Her heart dropped. “Is there anything I can do? I can fact-check and write it all over again. Please. I want to pass this paper. I—I need to pass.”

He was always this mean. This… hurtful. He had no leniency towards so much as a falsely placed comma, and she could see her incorrect information pained him deeply. He was right. It was basic stuff, and internally she knew it. However, she’d been slammed with studying and had simply made a mistake.

But he had no patience, no care if anyone in his class was overwhelmed with what he pushed onto them. He’d been given the same load when he himself was studying. In his view, being pushed to the brink was what made him great at what he did. So, he showed his students the same respect as his professors once had.

“What makes you think I have the time to give you special treatment, Violet? I have enough papers to grade as is, adding yours to the pile all because you made a mistake will only set me back.”

“It’s one paper.” She begged, near on in tears again. She eyed the plaque that had his name engraved in the gold, avoiding his eyes.

Leaning back in his chair, he eyed her through his wide-framed glasses. He tapped his fingers against his thighs, clad in soft beige plaid pants. Her eyes fluttered towards his sweater, the striped shirt underneath. She lost herself in the pattern as he mulled in his thoughts.

“I want it on my desk tomorrow morning by nine o’clock.”

She could have jumped at the relief she felt. “Thank you, sir.”

“Just this once. I won’t be so easy on you if it happens again.”

“It won’t happen again.” She grinned, grabbing the paper from his outstretched hand.

"Since you're rewriting it—do you want my honest opinion?"

"Of course." She whispered, always one to accept constructive criticism. She knew he wouldn't hold back and she mentally braced herself.

"I was bored reading your paper."

She gulped, blinking in surprise but he continued, not concerned about hurting her feelings. That wasn’t what he was there for—to teach her.

"I expected more from you, Violet. To be frank, I’m disappointed. There was no depth to it. No excitement. You did the very bare minimum. You gave me a bunch of facts, with some of the dates mixed around. What’s more, is that nothing about this piece made me want to read it. Tell me, what makes history so exciting?"

"Uh, I guess learning about—"

"The stories. The stories make history so exciting. Stories of the people, their daily lives, and the fight for survival and victory. History would be nothing without the stories it tells."

"Yeah, I understand, now. You're right."

"Of course I’m right. Retelling history has to be gripping. Write it again and pull me in."

His eyes scanned over his pager, alerting him that a staff meeting was about to commence. He stretched out his neck, grabbing his folder and eyeing her as he stood.

He hated the way his eyes observed her frame. Soft corduroy pants, a graphic t-shirt of a band he had never heard of. Her hair was in a bouncy ponytail, half splayed over her shoulder as she twirled a lock between her fingers.

What he didn’t hate was how she feared him. Her eyes were wide with intimation as she stared at him. She was clearly so desperate to please him, not wanting to disappoint him or let him down.

She wanted to do this paper for him as much as she did for her grades. That’s why his tactic was to be cruel. To keep her at arm’s length, but also to keep his mind at bay from wandering into risky territory.

"Is there anything else?"

"Oh, that's all—"

"Great. I have somewhere to be."

The expectant look he gave her threw her off, but she very quickly gathered his meaning. She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder and gave him a soft smile, hoping to lessen his harsh expression, yet all to no avail. His expression remained the same. She turned to leave, barely getting through the threshold before his voice reached out.

“Nine o’clock, Violet.”

“Yes, professor.”

She left his office, winding her way through campus, smiling at her classmates as she passed them. Oxford University. Rich with history and success. Abundant with opportunities fit for her dreams. It knew no bounds of imagination, with its old and infamous buildings and all the tales held within them.

There was something about history that made her feel alive. Reliving the past through depictions, art, studies, and discoveries. It was what drove her.

So when she’d landed her dream Ancient History class, taught by a very highly adored historian, Harry Styles, she knew that she had a lot to prove.

She raced back to her flat after a stop at the supermarket for brainfood and energy drinks. She got stuck in, completely starting again, double and triple-checking her facts to be sure.

Her Walkman kept her company, and she cycled through her favourite CDs. She even went above and beyond, adding small details to her work that weren’t overly relevant but she knew Professor Styles would enjoy reading.

As grumpy as he was, she wouldn’t deny that she had a soft spot for him. For his focused gaze, his deep voice as he stood before the class and taught, and how his dimples flexed when he was talking or hiding his irritation.

Oftentimes, she’d allow herself to admire him. To see him as a simple man. Rich in thought and graceful in the way he so confidently carried himself. He was effortlessly smart and passionate. Young but full of experience, which she found impressive amongst the older faculty.

In his early thirties, it was remarkable how far his career had soared already.

He was gorgeous. Poised and proper, with inklings of something more unhinged that she could sometimes spy through his carefully placed mask.

But then she’d shake her head and chastise herself for thinking such thoughts about someone so above her.

He was known to be a sucker for details and personality. He hated textbook answers, even though his whole career and teachings relied purely on facts. So, she spent extra time being a little more pedantic than usual.

She wanted to impress him. He was one of the most successful historians of his impressively ripe age of thirty-two. She’d never wanted to let him down and she had to prove to him that she had what it took to be in his class and be worthy of his teachings. It was what motivated her to piston through her assignment and perfect it.

She was going over her paper, adding some final flares when her flatmate knocked on her door.

“Vi, you’ve been working on that for hours.”

“I know,” she wrote furiously, so hyper-focused on the spread of papers and books in front of her, “it’s due tomorrow.”

“You need a break, come get a drink with us.”

Violet was that person that worked herself to the bone to maintain her grades. She was a people pleaser, and that trait stretched to her professors. She clung to every word they said and took every assignment seriously.

“Due tomorrow, Alice.” She repeated, barely blinking as she wrote and mouthed the words out to herself.

“Please take a break before you lose your mind.” Alice could sense her friend falling into that mindset where she neglected everything aside from whatever assignment was due.

Violet sighed, pausing her work and turning to face her. “Who’s we?”

She soon found herself dressed in an attire that completely contrasted her university jumper and sweat pants. A tiny green dress, and a little makeup applied to her tired face to make it seem as if she were actually getting any appropriate amount of sleep.

They made their way to the local bar they often frequented, meeting their group of friends who had already started on the drinks. It was then that she realised was extremely overworked and tired.

Her study load was never-ending, piling on top of her until she was suffocating. She had to take some time for herself tonight or she’d go crazy. Her mind was constantly whirring with assignments and tests and studying.

Her paper was mostly done. She’d have a few drinks and then head home to finish it off. It was only nine o’clock, and she figured an hour or two wouldn’t hurt.

By ten o’clock, she was feeling lighter. She stayed true to her word, only having two drinks before cutting herself off. She knew she’d have to leave sooner rather than later, but her friends were renewing the energy she had been lacking. She couldn’t leave the source of such liveliness.

There was one guy in the group who had been pining after her all year. They shared a few classes together, including Ancient History with Professor Styles. He had a bright smile and a sense of humour that she enjoyed.

“Hey, Vi.”

“Hi, Charlie, how are you?”

“I’m good, yourself?”

“Not bad.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled. “Can I get you a drink?”

He made her laugh all night, stuck to her side to enjoy her smile up close. They flirted, sending each other sultry gazes and warm, suggestive touches.

She couldn’t even deny that she wished it was someone else she’d rather be with tonight. A certain professor who wore glasses, sweaters, and displeased frowns. Perhaps that was why she threw herself head first into Charlie, wanting to forget about her sinful desires.

She felt warm and gooey, needing something to focus on other than that damn paper and the professor who was expecting it.

So, when he led her down the hallway, kissing her lips and her neck, she didn’t hesitate to get lost in him.

Too lost to see her professor sitting at the bar watching as she pulled Charlie into a supply closet.

“I have to say, Miss Walters. I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.”

She huffed out a breath at his expression. It was like he was almost smug about it. About her having to rewrite a whole paper, work that would take weeks crammed into one night.

He was being truthful. The paper would have been difficult to complete in one night, he’d known as much when he told her that he wanted it the next morning. It was a test.

He didn’t want to be played around by his students. He was tough on them for a reason, and barely ever handed out second chances as he had done with her.

So, to know that she had been out last night when she should have been at home was an insult. She’d fluttered her eyelashes and taken advantage of the one sliver of good nature he had in him. And here she was, a pleased smile on her face with her paper before his very eyes.

She was wearing makeup as if to hide how tired she was. It wasn't because she had stayed up all night writing his paper, but he already knew that. He looked at the assignment dubiously, doubting its contents.

“Well, I did it. Correct dates and everything.”

“It’s longer.” He said, flipping through the pages and noticing that there were a few additional ones compared to the initial few she had handed in.

She absorbed her surroundings, his office was deep woods and dim lighting. His desk was large and cluttered with books and assignments to grade, and the room was framed with bookshelves, awards, diplomas, and expensive-looking knick

knacks.

“I took your advice and made it more exciting.”

He wanted to reprimand her. Tell her that adding extra fluff didn’t equal excitement or any weight to her assignment. But he swallowed his sour mood and nodded, placing the paper flat on the desk and leaning back in his chair.

His outfit was darker than his usual palette and style of light colours and unique sweaters. Instead, he donned a black shirt, a black suit jacket thrown over the top with charcoal pants. She could tell that he was in a bad mood, somehow even more irate than usual.

“I’ll review it over the weekend.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but then snapped it shut. She very clearly wanted to say something and he raised a brow in encouragement.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the second chance. I hope you enjoy it.”

Enjoy it? He’d never had a student wish that he enjoyed something they handed in. They simply wanted to meet the criteria and pass.

She turned to leave, feeling overwhelmed by his scrutinising gaze. She’d handed in the assignment, and had a bit of time to cram in some study before her first class of the day, which just so happened to be with the grumpy professor.

"Violet."

"Yes?"

He tapped his neck, eyeing hers. "I want that covered before you come to my class."

Her cheeks flushed with heat, her hand coming up to cover the hickey on her neck. She thought she'd done a good enough job with her concealer this morning, but apparently not.

She didn't even have the nerve to reply before she left the room, utterly mortified.

He stared after her, wondering if he'd embarrassed her. Probably. He disregarded her feelings, viewing the mark on her neck as inappropriate. He wasn't sure why the hickey bothered him so much.

Perhaps it was because she'd clearly had a late night last night, and it wasn't with the company of his teachings. He watched her take that man into that supply closet and the evidence of that was staring him in the face.

He didn’t want to look at that fucking hickey on her neck because then he knew he’d have to face the reality of the fact that he was jealous.

Jealous of one of his other students putting his hands and mouth on her. His student in that tiny green dress, cheeks flushed with arousal and drink. He imagined it. How she'd taste on his tongue. The sounds she'd make. The way she felt.

He had felt pathetic about the whole thing, sitting at the bar all alone and sulking. He’d polished off his drink at the bar after watching it happen. He’d just as quickly gone to his cold and empty home to wallow with a bottle of tequila and some Aerosmith.

Fuck. He couldn’t think about this. About her soft thighs in her tiny skirt and her bouncy ponytail. Or the way she called him professor. It wasn’t right and he felt sick about it.

He checked his pager, seeing it blank and sighing. He needed something to do so he couldn’t keep thinking about her. And then she’d be staring at him during his class, her eyes wide and wandering.

Almost panicked about the prospect of being near her again, he picked up her paper and began reading it to distract himself.

Following a strenuous battle with her concealer and the sizeable hickey on her neck, Violet entered Professor Styles’ classroom. It was mostly covered, there wasn’t a lot she could do in the way of hiding it completely. However, in the back of her mind, she was perplexed that he found it his place to even say anything.

Surely he just wanted to mortify her. He had been a student once, he knew the means of getting lost in dark hallways with another warm and desperate body.

She spotted Charlie sitting in the center of the seats and he waved her over. She smiled, shaking her head. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to him just yet, especially considering he was the cause of her marked neck.

She took her usual spot up front, always wanting to bathe in the professor’s teachings, and found herself lost if she was stuck in the middle of the seats.

Professor Styles wasn’t in class yet, and she took the time to prepare her notes in an organised spread on the desk in front of her. She didn’t even notice him silently enter, setting up at his desk with a look of disinterest.

Her body felt heated. Not the warm embarrassment of him pointing out her hickey, but because his gaze was on hers as he set down his satchel. She held his eyes, right until he looked away to retrieve the folders that held the material he needed for the class.

Decidedly ready, he stood at the center of his territory up front, his suit jacket parting as he slid his hands into his pockets. He eyed the class through his glasses, noting that no one had realised he’d entered the room yet. Except for her.

He sighed, wrinkling his nose before looking down at his oxfords. He cleared his throat, somehow garnering everyone’s attention in a split second. He leaned back against his desk.

“As you’re aware, I’m obligated to drag you on a class trip abroad in the coming weeks. I’ve heard your suggestions as you’ve not so subtly given them to me.” He eyed the mouthy students in question. “However, the board and I have discussed it and we’ve come to a decision.”

Students started chattering loudly, and Violet sent a friendly smile to her friend next to her but otherwise kept her attention on Professor Styles.

“Quiet, or you’ll be staying behind while I go on holiday by myself!”

His demand was heard loud and clear, and everyone became tight-lipped and watched him. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, already dreading the idea of this trip.

The university board had been grilling him about it, and he’d been pressured into making a decision that pleased them with ridiculously limited time to sort it out.

“Pompeii.” He said simply, letting it sink in for his students.

Violet felt a rush of excitement. Pompeii—preserved in Naples, Italy, was rich with history and had been on her bucket list for as long as she could remember.

It was a monumental part of history, and she could not wait to see it in its glory and stand where devastation rocked an ancient city so long ago.

The class talked loudly, bursting and bubbling with enthusiasm. Professor Styles remained unphased by it all, waiting until the chatter had died down before he spoke again.

“We’ll be staying in Naples, however, the focus of our trip will be Pompeii. This will be your final paper and will be half your grade. This isn’t a holiday or a time to slack off. You’re here in this room for a reason, that applies to this trip as well. Think about the history there. The people, the politics, the daily life. The power of nature and the terror that it entices.” He took a slow breath, as if bored or tired. Perhaps both. “It wasn’t my first choice, naturally. But seeing as it is one of the most famous natural disasters in ancient history, the board saw it fit to touch on, considering it differs from any other material we’ve studied so far.”

“Can’t we go to Paris instead, Professor Styles?” One of the girls at the back of the glass giggled. It was clear that the only reason she took this class was for someone nice to look at. “It’s the city of love.”

“Love?” He laughed but it was void of humour. “If you want love, you’re in the wrong place. Maybe if you spent less time daydreaming, and more time paying attention, you wouldn’t be failing my class.”

Violet laughed under her breath, doodling in her notebook. His eyes went to her at the sound, wondering if she found the girl's suggestion funny or his response.

She looked up at him, brushing her hair over her shoulder. He clenched his jaw and looked away, locating the documents that contained everything regarding the trip.

He handed piles to the desks in the front row, telling them to take one and pass it back. He stopped before her, placing the papers in her waiting hands and staring at her with an unreadable expression.

“See me after class.”

“Me?”

His voice was low and deep. “Yes, you.”

She was perplexed. See him after class for what? He said that he’d go over her paper during the weekend, so she doubted it would be about that.

Maybe he wanted to torment her about her neck some more. Really rub in the embarrassment and taunt her for it.

It was hard to focus during the whole class. She jotted down notes every now and again, but her mind was honed in on him. Even more so than usual. The authority in his tone as he told her to cover her neck, his confident stance, and the way his lips caressed words.

He rambled on about the trip, what to expect, and in turn what he was expecting from them. He adjusted his glasses, searching the student's expressions and finding her eyes. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek before looking back at his notes.

By the time class had ended, she had written down things she wasn’t paying attention to. She’d been paying attention to him. Only him. And she couldn’t even fool herself into her fascination with him strictly existing just because of his teachings. It was far past that now.

She gathered her things, the room emptying of students. She stood, her gaze falling to him, stood behind his desk organising his folders.

She approached his desk, standing before it. She noticed that his jaw clenched, looking up at her from the frame of his glasses and raising his brows.

"You wanted to see me?"

“I did.”

She waited as he righted his desk, ensuring everything was in order before he finally regarded her.

“Your paper. I want to talk to you about it.”

Her stomach dropped. “The paper I just handed in?”

What would he have to say about it considering it had only been mere hours since he’d received it? She felt a flash of irritation, wondering if she’d ever be able to please this man.

“I don’t have time this week, so it’ll have to be next Monday. You’re my last class so I’ll be able to give you all of my attention.”

She felt warm at his words. At the promise of having his full attention, her body was alive with need and desire. His eyes were so intense, deep, and thick with thoughts she could see the complexity of.

But as the foggy haze of her absurd fantasies cleared, she frowned. Monday? It was Thursday now. Why didn’t he bring this up closer to the time? Did he just want her to stew in her worry until Monday?

Surely he couldn’t have read her paper already. Maybe he’d read the first paragraph only to crumble it up and lob it into his trashcan.

“Is it that bad?”

He shot her a look that she couldn’t decipher. “Monday, Violet.”

As she left the classroom, completely vexed and anxious, Charlie caught up with her.

“He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?”

“Who?” She felt like she was barely there as she navigated the old building toward her next class.

“Styles. I mean, that paper we just did, for example. He ignores all of my hard work and focuses on the shit I’m doing wrong.”

Violet shrugged, “I mean, isn’t that what makes him a great professor? He points out what you need to improve on to do better.”

“Whatever. I feel like there’s no winning with him. At least we have this trip. You and I can ditch the group and do our own sightseeing.”

She didn’t miss the way his eyes sparkled at his suggestion. And maybe if she wasn’t so hung up on someone she had no business being hung up on, she’d reciprocate Charlie’s enthusiasm.

Monday. She’d be seeing her favourite, constantly disgruntled professor on Monday.

It wasn’t hard to keep herself distracted until then. She attended her classes, her study load growing as each one passed. Her flatmate held a party on Saturday night, in which she’d spent most of it pressed up against Charlie, however avoiding his advances of something more.

He was sweet and funny but he wasn’t what she wanted and she was just a fuck to him. She felt bad that she’d even let that night happen. She’d just needed to feel something, something that wasn’t the ever-pressing crush she had on her professor.

She was wrecked with intolerable thoughts about her assignment. Was he going to fail her again? Tell that she wasn’t cut out for his class that she’d battled so hard to get into?

By the time Monday came around, she was a nervous wreck. She settled herself into a private nook in the library, her Walkman on hand and her collection of her favourite CDs.

She read every single piece about Pompeii that she could find. She wanted to be even more prepared for the trip, and have a better understanding of what it might entail.

And maybe having more knowledge of it would impress her professor.

Her last class on Monday was with him. As she entered and took her usual seat, he was setting up his material, dressed in plaid pants and a cozy looking sweater.

He used the knuckle of his pointer finger to adjust his glasses and flipped a pen in his other hand, staring over his class agenda.

She just loved watching him. There was something in his mannerisms that was so fascinating. He was mesmerising in the way he carried himself. From his large hands, which she always stared at, to his ever-expressive eyes.

The first time she’d spotted the cross tattooed on his hand, she had to go into the bathroom after class and slip her hand between her legs to quell the dampness there.

With a deep sigh, he focused on the class and ran a hand through his curls, though they fell back into the middle parting as always.

He seemed even more put off today. He spent most of his time voicing more details about the trip to Naples and running through multiple checklists before handing them out.

Where he would usually throw her a glance, he didn’t even look at her today. Not once. His seemingly permanent frown was set deeper.

Instead of his usual drabble, he had some poor soul at the front of the class read out the daily lives of those who lived in Pompeii before its demise.

She jotted down notes, but her eyes kept flickering to where he sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed as if he were being read a lullaby.

As class came to a close, he stood, telling everyone to start preparing for the trip.

“Please refer to the list I handed out, and if you have any questions…” He twisted his lips, clasping his ringed fingers together. “Don’t.”

Her nerves were running haywire, sending electric currents through every part of her body as she stood with her bag and began to approach his desk. He was busying himself with the sprawl of clutter on the expanse of the aged wood.

She stood before it, and he looked up briefly before gathering a stack of papers and sliding them carefully into his satchel.

"Not here." His voice was so low that she felt it swirl in her ears like a thick, dreamy fog.

She took a deep breath and nodded, feeling intimidated to be alone with him again. Until a student approached the desk and asked for his aid on a project, and all she could do was stand there and wait.

"I just don't know how to make the connection." The student said.

He leaned over, staring at the paper. He nodded and then looked at Violet, "go and wait in my office. I'll only be a moment."

She felt her heart drop to her stomach at the authority in his tone. He looked at her for a second before focusing on the student who needed his help.

She tried to brush off her nerves as she arrived at his office and sat in the chair in front of his desk. She had no idea what was about to happen, but since it was regarding her assignment, she was beside herself with anxiety.

He stepped into his office with a sigh, running his hands along his thighs before taking a seat. He sifted through the drawer in his desk, taking out her assignment and reading over it.

“I’ve read your paper.” His voice was void of any emotion and it made her feel uneasy.

She wasn’t sure what to say, so she picked at the hem of her dress and avoided his eyes. He held up her assignment and stared at it.

“Violet… this is one of the best things a student has ever handed in to me.”

She took in a sharp breath, looking at him with wide eyes. She almost didn’t want to believe him. Or what was more believable was that he’d be jesting and then fail her. This wasn’t like the usual grumpy professor that she knew and she didn’t know what to make of it.

“I—Thank you, professor.”

“I could tell that it had potential when you handed it in. I’ve written some notes for you, but I wanted to go through them with you now.”

This was unheard of. He graded papers, jotted down brief notes behind his reasoning, and moved on. But this… this was beyond anything he’d ever done.

He was known for being insufferably unfair to his students. Yet he’d given her a second chance, and was now praising her work and wanted to express why.

“Okay.” She nodded, adjusting in her seat and trying to calm down her racing heart.

“Overall, it’s a well-thought-out paper. You have complete control of each point made and where your sources come from without sounding too recited. There are facts here, and you’ve shown how the influence that ancient Rome had in its prime is perceived nowadays… impressively. You’ve portrayed its people and politics really well.”

“Thank you.” She was struggling to believe this was actually happening.

“This is why I made you redo it. What you initially handed in was bland. But this is… you. Your authentic self and thoughts.” He gestured to the paper. “You’re passionate, and I can feel that when I read it. You’ve taken every aspect of what makes ancient history so fascinating and made it your own.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious right now.”

There was a flash of emotion across his face, his dimple appearing ever so slightly with a quirk of his lips. “Take my praise. I don’t give it often.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” His tone was suddenly warm, and his gaze brushed her neck for a second before finding her eyes once more.

“Professional opinion aside,” she toyed with the question on her tongue, feeling overwhelmed, “did you enjoy it?”

There it was again. Her question made his brow furrow in thought. He rarely enjoyed reading his student's work. Oftentimes, he was too preoccupied doing his job to feel any sense of enjoyment.

Why was it so important to her that he enjoyed it? He’d praised her work, and she wanted to know if he relished in reading it.

No one was as surprised as him when he found himself nodding slowly. “I did, actually. I like that it kept me intrigued and that I could sense how deeply you feel for the past.”

She wasn’t in his class for the wrong reasons, like he could see a lot of his students were. Some weren’t interested in anything past staring at him for an hour and then bullshitting their way through every paper they had to write. But she had a reason to be there, a drive to explore the past.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

Her expression was so burning and focused on him that he felt it in his gut. He remembered how she looked in that guy's arms and he swallowed, wondering if she would be just as soft in his.

He cleared his throat, shaking off the fog of her. She crossed one leg over the other and he blinked at the sight of more skin exposed under that sweet little dress she was in.

She released a breath as he stood, relieved that this whole interaction was one of positivity. She was elated that he had enjoyed her work, and moreover was elated that he had praised her as he did.

But as he stood, he rounded his desk and went behind her before he closed the door to his office.

She felt a wave of adrenaline wash over her, being alone with him. She questioned if he was even allowed to close the door, but she didn’t want to stop it from happening.

She watched as he walked in front of her, leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed.

“Why history?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, everyone has a reason for their majors. Whether you’re in it for archiving, research, or curating, you’ve got a reason for choosing history. My question is why.”

She straightened under his scrutinising gaze. He adjusted his glasses before his hands rested back on the desk, curling around the lip of it. She stared at his rings, mesmerised.

“I find it fascinating to observe how humanity has changed, to see how we’ve improved and what we still need to work on. I like studying the past, preserving the stories, the art, the structures they left for us to see their legacy.”

He was floored, although his expression remained a trained unreadable one. To meet someone with these values wasn’t uncommon. However, she had a way with words that he adored.

Like every aspect of his own passion was laid out on her tongue and given back to him in a gentle vocal caress.

“So, you’re just as intrigued by their way of life as well as learning from their mistakes?”

“In fewer words, yes.”

“You’re in it for the right reasons.”

“Are there any wrong reasons?” She frowned.

“Greed.” He said simply, not giving any clarification.

“Why do you teach?”

He tilted his head, his hands smoothing down his strong thighs. “I have a lot of experience in the field, as you may know. I wanted to extend that knowledge to people with the kind of drive I admire. The lust for research and preserving history. I’m good at it, and I have a lot to give you so that you can be just as good.”

His choice of words turned her mouth dry. I have a lot to give you. She knew he meant a lot of his wisdom and knowledge, but his eyes were sparkling with something she couldn’t decipher.

“I love your class.”

“Is that so? Is that why you asked if I enjoyed your paper?”

“Yes.”

He pursed his lips. “Are you trying to impress me?”

She smiled. “I don’t see anything wrong with that. I like the assignments you give us and the way you teach. It’s informative and exciting at the same time.”

“I like that,” he said, mulling deep in his thoughts, “it’s a nice change. To have someone care about their studies as opposed to struggle through them.”

“Oh, the struggle is still there.” She laughed and she spied a hint of a smile teasing his lips before he could disguise it.

He took a step forward and her eyes followed as he gauged how close he wanted to get. She gripped the arms of the chair as he stood in front of her, a jeweled hand reaching out to brush a few strands of her hair away from her face.

She hoped he couldn’t tell how hard she was shaking. Their eyes didn’t leave one another as his fingers brushed softly down, moving her hair away from her shoulder so he could look at her neck before he retracted all touch completely.

“You covered it.” He mumbled, his voice so low that she thought she imagined it.

“I did.”

“Good gi—“ He cleared his throat loudly. “Good. It’s not professional.”

Her brows raised at his almost slip up. She wondered if he was going to say exactly what she thought he was. And she almost begged him to call her that. Just once. Just so that she could go home and think about it in the shower, alone with nothing but the memory of him.

He leaned against his desk again, his gaze searing. She couldn’t breathe and pressed her thighs together to dull the ache his touch had left.

“Do you want to impress me, Violet?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I’m going to give you some extra work to do for me.”

For me. Her eyes fluttered. “You are?”

“I am.” His voice was slow, dreamy. “For my enjoyment, and your benefit.”

This, he thought, is where he should stop. He could feel the vapour of arousal lick at him in warm swirls. The way she was looking at him had him near crumbling. So innocent and intrigued by the prospect of impressing him. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, but he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself again. From going too far.

“My benefit?”

“Yes. I’ll reward you, of course.”

“What kind of reward?”

“Whatever the teacher’s pet wants.”

Her entire body became warm and gooey, though her nerves did not settle. Instead, they amplified the longer he simply stared at her, unwavering.

“What does this extra work entail, Professor?”

He didn’t smile—although he wanted to, and straightened. He rounded his desk, producing a small stack of papers, the top one decorated with his sprawl. He walked back over, handing it to her.

He looked her in the eye, his face serious. “Only do what you want to do. Extra work and rewards. Do you understand?”

“Okay.” She said simply, feeling overwhelmed and heated. As if he had read her mind, viewed her deepest, darkest fantasy of being his pet and making it a reality. Her mind was buzzing with what extra work he’d have her doing.

“There are only a few things there.” He nodded to the papers. “Some extra assignments if you can do them as well as this one. Also, some preparation for the class trip if you’re up for it.”

She scanned through the list, seeing the assignment topics from subjects he’d vaguely taught them about. She felt a twinge of excitement at the idea of doing more for him.

“And my reward…?”

His lips twitched like he was amused. “Extra credit, of course.”

She felt a pang of disappointment. But then what else was he meant to offer her? She wasn’t about to turn town extra credit or the chance to impress him. She was already on his radar as someone he could count on. The thought made her all giddy and warm inside.

“I’m very grateful, professor.”

“You have potential. As you finish each one, come and see me.”

“Thank you, I will.” She nodded. She’d try her absolute hardest to complete them, and as he said, only the ones she wanted to. She eyed the list again.

He stepped forward once more, and she braced herself for the contact again. She was still spiraling from when he touched her. Her cheek still tingled from his fingers and she felt desperate to have that feeling renewed.

But then someone knocked on the door once before entering. “Hey, Harry, I—oh. Hello.”

Another faculty member she recognised from the economics department. Her cheeks flushed as he eyed her before looking at the grumpy professor in front of her.

Harry. She’d always known his name, but hearing someone actually call him by his first name made him seem more… real. Less like a history robot and more like the man she fantasised about.

“Forgive me.” He cringed, “I didn’t know you had company.”

“That’s generally why you knock.” Professor Styles grumbled, however checking his watch with a sigh.

“I did—"

“Get started on those, Miss Walters. I’ll check in with you in a few days.”

Blushing, she stood and ducked her head, leaving the room hastily. The list was crumpled in her fist as she made her way home. Alice was ready to ask her about her day, and they quickly got distracted watching reruns of some old sitcom. But the list he’d given her stayed on the forefront of her mind.

And as the week dragged on, she made her way through the few assignments he’d given her. They weren’t full-length assignments and differed heavily from the kind he handed out to the whole class, as he’d stated. She found them quite easy, the basis of them fitted her strengths.

Had he tailored these to her? Had he enjoyed her work so much that he wanted more? It was like he’d hand-picked his favourite topics they’d briefly covered in class and was now asking her to do what she pleased with them.

She spent all of her time between classes in the huge library. It was undoubtedly her favourite section of Oxford, and she spent many hours getting lost in the ornate building, the old books, and the history they shared.

She sat at one of the aged desks, a sprawl of books in front of her as she finished up her second extra assignment. She took on his advice. She double-checked her facts, and added drabble that made the paper more exciting and gripping to the reader. Him.

She’d even gotten a head start on the third assignment he’d given her. Although she knew she’d have to spend more time locating sources for the topic, she figured it would look good if he saw that she’d started it. All she wanted was to impress him. To prove herself. She knew she had the talent, and he was fully appreciating it.

As her day wrapped up, she found herself swirling through the halls towards his office, a completed assignment in hand. Considering their class trip was only in a matter of days, she figured he’d be too busy to see her.

She approached the oak door and knocked, hearing his voice on the other side telling her to come in.

She opened the door, and his eyes fell on her immediately. On her pretty yellow dress and the hem that fell to the middle of her thighs. Her hair was in its usual ponytail held together with a pale blue scrunchie. He liked watching it swish through the air as she walked.

“Hi,” she said softly, while his expression was hard. “I finished another assignment. Do you have time?”

Technically? No. He had a pressing amount of things to grade. But the hope on her face and the way she looked so fucking pretty made it impossible for him to turn her away.

He moved his work aside, clearing his mind so that she was the only thing on it. “Take a seat.”

She took a deep breath and entered the room fully, leaving the door open which was a detail he didn’t miss. She placed the assignment in his hand and he felt the urge to read it immediately. To be wrapped up in her thoughts.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” His voice rolled through her ears like a steady stream tumbling over smooth rocks.

“I felt inspired.”

“By what?” He tilted his head.

“Not what,” she whispered, holding his gaze. “Who.”

A sliver of a smile touched his lips before it was gone without a trace. “Okay, then. Who?”

“You.”

“Me.” He parroted as if he didn’t believe her.

“You always have inspired me, but hearing what drives you and how you came to teach made me want to work harder. To give history as much as you’ve given it.”

He felt something warm him. He was almost bashful at her praise, where usually it would inflame his ego. But coming from her, from her earnest and sweet heart. It was different.

“I’m glad you find my teachings useful.”

“They really helped with this paper.”

“How did you find it?”

She mulled over her thoughts. Endearing. Intriguing. Enriching. “The perfect amount of challenging. It made me think but my thoughts came naturally.”

“Good.” He pursed his lips. “I knew you’d apply all that I’ve taught you and pull through.”

“And I hope you enjoy it as much as my last one.”

“I’m sure I will. Come and see me tomorrow after your last class and I’ll give you my notes.”

She liked the idea of hearing his musings on her own work. He saw her potential and her drive. Enjoyed what she handed in and told her how much and why.

“Tomorrow.” She smiled a little, standing and slinging her bag up to her shoulder. “I can’t wait.”

There was something in her tone at the sentiment. The hue of it. A soft, wispy colour as pretty as her dress. He wondered if it was flirtation but quickly threw the idea aside.

He couldn’t wish for such things with his student, no matter what signals she sent him. But she was his little teacher’s pet now, and something about having that claim on her was driving him mad.

After a grueling study session in her well-loved nook of the library, she went home to pack for the trip to Naples. There was a checklist criteria for what to bring and what to leave behind.

She threw some of her favourite summer dresses into her suitcase, a few pairs of shoes, and a few extra outfits of baggy jeans and band t-shirts.

She had class with Professor Styles the next day, in which he’d handed out light material in preparation for the trip. Essential knowledge and ground rules.

It seemed he viewed the whole ordeal as a burden. An annoyance. He was taking twenty students away, with only one other member of the faculty joining to help him out. A teacher, who happened to be from Naples, would be staying with their family between class adventures.

He’d rather be sunbathing in Naples than traipsing around ancient ruins with students he despised. Mostly.

He didn’t acknowledge her for the whole lecture, save an initial glance as she’d taken her usual seat. But he’d almost switch off any form of warmth he had towards her when they were in the class environment.

He was his usual grumpy self, impatient with everyone and snapping at anyone who was talking when he was.

She had a free period to end her day, and she used it to finish up some assignments for her other classes as well as work on one of the extra ones he had given her. It was about half done, but she knew to prioritise her other class papers over this one.

She made her way to his office again, and this time it somehow meant more. She felt the weight of entering his space, and it was because of how he seemed to change around her.

That icy demeanour of him melted just enough for her to see the genuine man that lay beneath it.

She knocked, waiting for him to tell her to enter before opening the door. His outfit palette today was soft browns and beige, his glasses perched on his nose while his eyes gleamed behind them.

He looked at her briefly before nodding to the seat and turning back to his work, his expensive ballpoint pen twirling between his fingers. She stared at the bright yellow pen with a smile, noting how it was the exact opposite of his mood; bright, sunny, and cheerful.

She sat in the chair and realised that she felt less and less nervous with every moment she spent alone with him. She’d never felt uncomfortable around him per se, but his intimidating nature was a constant reminder that she couldn’t want him. Shouldn’t want him. But she did.

His jaw worked on a piece of gum, and he frowned as he adjusted his glasses and continued writing on whatever he was working on.

She decided to get comfortable, settling deeper into the chair, figuring he was deeply enthralled with his work. She eyed the bookshelf to her left and scanned his personal library.

She didn’t even realise that he was trying to get her attention, too focused on his book collection, searching for clues as to who he was. Who he was outside of this office, outside of his profession.

“Violet?”

“Hm?” She turned to face him.

He retrieved her assignment from under a stack of other ones he was grading. “I’m wondering why every assignment you’ve given me hasn’t been as good as these last few.”

Oh. Her brows raised. It was a compliment to her most recent work while putting down everything else she’d given him prior to these. She’d always had the drive and passion, but it was evident that something had changed.

“I guess I just felt more inspired. I’ve enjoyed these topics a lot and felt compelled to do them well.” She frowned. “I thought I’d done well with every other assignment, though.”

“You did—obviously, as I passed you. You clearly didn’t do them as well, however, hence my praise.”

“That’s very nice to hear, especially from you.”

His lips quirked at her sheer and utter adoration for him. She valued what he had to say, looked up to him, and the influence he’d had in the younger demographic of Ancient History.

“Well, you deserve it. You work hard, and you’re driven by your passion. That’s rare to come by.”

She could only imagine what he himself was like as a student however many years ago. Like her, he’d studied at Oxford, and after not too long in the field, had felt the need to come back but as part of the faculty.

“Thank you.” She replied, unsure of what else to say. She felt like she was being pinned to her seat by his searing gaze and she wriggled in it, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“Help me with this itinerary for the trip.”

“The itinerary?”

“It’s mostly done. There’s a bunch of books and brochures here, if you see anything you’d particularly like to do, add it to the timesheet and make it work.”

She gawked at him like he’d grown three heads. Her? Help him with the itinerary for the class trip?

“Isn’t this your job?” She felt brave enough to ask. “Like, am I allowed to be doing this?”

“Yes it is, and yes you are.” His tone was so final that she didn’t feel a ribbon of unease lace through her mind.

She scooted forward so that she could use the desk, while he sat at the other side and graded papers. She scanned through the travel brochures and circled things she thought could be educationally beneficial, and eventually started going through the itinerary.

She loved planning and organising, and she wondered if he knew that. Maybe he’d picked up on how pedantic she was about her own class planners and thought this little job would be fun for her. He wasn’t even marginally wrong.

Over her work, she risked quick glances at him. Ones that dared to adventure over his posture, his stern, and concentrated expression. The way he chewed on the tip of his pen, how he would take off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

He was so endearing and she found herself watching him more and more, getting lost in how effortlessly beautiful he was.

He was still grouchy and short with her when she asked questions, and she had smiled whenever he’d huff and grumble under his breath at whatever he was grading.

“You seem particularly melancholy today.” She observed softly, and his eyes flashed to hers before he placed his pen down and laced his fingers together, leaning forward on the desk.

“Am I always melancholy?”

“I think so.”

“And you’re always vibrant.”

As bad as his mood appeared, he seemed to enjoy her company.

She mulled over the itinerary that he’d drafted, editing bits here and there. She had a sprawl of books on his desk, scanning through top tourist spots and mapping out the best walking routes.

There was a moment where he took a break, stretching his arms high over his head with a soft groan she almost missed. She hadn’t even realised that she was looking at him, enamoured and intrigued by his display of exhaustion when he always seemed so energised.

“Stop staring.” He stared at her over the frame of his glasses, his head tilted down.

She blushed, looking down at the itinerary. “I’m not.”

“I saw you.”

“Sorry.”

He watched as she focused a little too hard on a not-so-interesting book and he smiled. He’d called her out, as if he hadn’t been staring at her, too.

She hadn’t realised the time, unknowingly lost in her work for almost two hours. His pager beeped and he checked it, flipping his pen between his fingers as he read.

He reached over, grabbing the itinerary, pretty much complete, and nodding as he scanned it. He could see the depth and excitement that she had added to it and he suppressed a smile.

“I’ll go over this tonight.”

“I added a few different things there. Restaurants, as well as some historical sights and important cultural landmarks.”

He nodded, impressed. “Very good, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“As for the next assignment, I want that tomorrow.”

“We fly to Naples tomorrow.” She frowned,

“I know.”

His icy and cold guise returned. He was her professor demanding something, and she could hardly turn him down. The paper was half done and lucky for her, it wouldn’t be difficult to complete.

“Okay.” She nodded, standing and gathering her things. “It’ll be all yours tomorrow.”

He didn’t respond, turning back to his work. She’d learned to decipher his cues, and took his silence as her own time to leave. She had a lot to do before their trip and she took one last glance at his solemn expression before leaving.

As she closed the door, his eyes went up to the door. Then to the chair where she’d been sitting. His office now felt like a void of who he wanted to be. Influential, important, inspiring. All things that he rarely felt while he was stuck in an old classroom all day.

But then students like her came along. The ones alight with wonder and fascination that wanted to have his success touch them. They weren’t in his class simply because it was a requirement. They were in his class because they were eager to harbour influence of their own.

She spent all night going over her pack list, finalising her outfits and essentials for a couple of nights away. She dotted back to her paper often, wanting to have it complete. She struggled to wrap up her conclusion, and no later fell asleep on her bed, surrounded by her books and topic materials.

Her alarm went off, shrilling deep in her skull. She groaned, killing the sound and stretching. Checking the time, she noted that she only had a matter of hours until she needed to be at Heathrow airport.

She was in some type of trance as she got herself ready. She showered, ate a light breakfast, and readied her luggage. At the last minute, she grabbed the assignment that needed to be done and shoved it into her purse.

After securing a seat on the train, she got to work on it. Tossing back and forth between an abundance of different conclusions. Why did preservation matter? Why were artifacts archived how they were? How were stories of history pieced together?

All such basic questions to her whirring mind, and yet she struggled to encapsulate her thoughts in the unique way that she knew he loved. With a sigh, she put it away. She’d finish it on the flight.

After she arrived at the airport, she headed towards check-in, her small turquoise suitcase in tow. That's when she saw him, and she stopped dead in the hustle of travelers.

She had never seen him so paired back. He was dressed far more casual than his dress pants and sweaters and suits. But he was no less fashionable. She eyed his black, loose fitted pants, the worn vans on his feet, and yellow-stained sunglasses. As loose as his pants were, his t-shirt was anything but. A graphic white one that hugged him and left little to one's imagination.

And tattoos. Lots of them.

She'd only ever seen the cross on his hand and the inklings of something on his wrist. But she could see that his full arm was covered with them. Smatterings of ink, personal depictions, and dedications.

The ship on his upper arm rippled as his muscles flexed, his designer suitcase in his hand.

He looked grumpy, like always. However, the yellow sunnies over his eyes concealed some of his irritation.

His eyes found hers and he peered at her as she approached. She smiled, shy and suddenly nervous about this trip, and moreover, him.

She noticed that the rest of her class was already present, and Charlie wrapped his arm around her shoulder as he greeted her. Professor Styles' mouth twisted at the physical touch between the two before clearing his throat.

No one was paying attention until he stuck his fingers into his mouth and released an ear-piercing whistle, quieting down and facing him.

“Roll call. Be quiet.”

It took some time for every student to settle down, far too excited and chatty to keep quiet enough for him to call out everyone's name to confirm their presence.

As he called out Violet’s name, she raised her hand and watched his expression sour at Charlie's arm still wrapped around her.

Not wanting to be inappropriate, she slowly stepped away from Charlie, who was far too concerned with scoping out the other girls who were around.

They gathered, waiting in line to check in per Professor Styles’ instructions. He handed out the finalised itinerary that they had both worked on, and now everyone had their own copies. She wanted to approach him, but he was busy keeping everyone organised while the other teacher talked at the front desk.

It wasn’t until they were on air side, that he found her in line for coffee and pursed his lips.

“Did you finish the assignment?”

“Almost.”

He raised a brow, his arms crossed and accentuating his muscles and how inked they were. “Almost?”

“Yes, almost.” She affirmed, not missing his look of surprise at her tone, but she continued. “I’ll finish it on the flight.”

“We’ll be in the sky for five hours, Violet. I expect it to be done, so don’t get distracted.”

She almost snorted. What could possibly distract her on a flight? And right on cue, Charlie popped up next to her with a cheeky grin.

“How’s it hangin’, sir?” His grin widened as he stared at their disgruntled professor.

“Fine.” He grumbled, staring Charlie down before looking at Violet. “I want it before we land.”

As he sauntered off, Charlie released a sharp breath. “You’d think he’d crack a smile considering the fact that we’re going on holiday.”

“Of course, you’d see this as a holiday.”

“I heard our hotel has a pool.” He bumped his hip against hers.

She gave him a fake smile, worming out of his hold. “Can’t wait.”

Half way through the flight, she’d found herself polishing off her paper, just how he ordered. The conclusion was strong and unwavering, her skill and passion shining through each word.

She’d managed to avoid sitting next to Charlie, instead, she was next to two girls she enjoyed talking to, although they were a bit quiet during class and outside of it, it was so different. Everyone seemed to busy themselves with studying the itinerary for the trip, bubbling with excitement.

She read over her paper twice, thoroughly proud of it, and she couldn’t wait to have her favourite professor read it. She knew he was a few rows back, and stood, remembering that he wanted it before they landed.

Standing with a stretch, she made her way towards the back, scanning the faces for his, and finding those expressive eyes almost immediately. He was sitting alone in a row of three seats, and she wondered if he’d just gotten lucky or paid for three tickets.

His attention had been on a book before he’d found her eyes. She didn’t get the chance to study the cover of it before he was tucking it away and staring up at her expectably as she came to a halt by his row.

“Yes?”

She held up the completed paper with a look of triumph. “It’s done.”

He felt at odd sensation of pride wash over him. To be fair, he had given her quite a lot to do. And for her to finish it within such a small frame of time, while maintaining the immaculate value of her work, was an incredible feat.

So, he actually smiled. It was small but big enough that his dimples indented his cheeks a little.

“Attagirl. I knew you could do it.”

Her cheeks flushed at his praise and his smile. Two glimmeringly beautiful facets of him that she’d never seen, especially the latter. Fuck, his smile. So soft and serene and dreamy. It was verging on heartbreaking that he didn’t wear it more.

“I hope it’s good.”

“Knowing you… it will be.”

“You’re too kind.” She said bashfully.

He flipped through the assignment, nodding his head with pursed lips. He opened his mouth to say something, gesturing to the empty seat next to him before the sound that accompanied the lighting of the seatbelt signal interrupted him.

He sighed, adjusting his glasses before buckling up. “You better get back to your seat.”

She nodded, unaware that it took everything within him to not invite her to sit on his lap.

They landed in Naples in the early hours of the afternoon, and were shuffled onto a waiting bus towards their first destination of the trip. Professor Styles had done a roll call and had already lost all patience with the loud group he was stuck with.

Their luggage was sent to their hotel, where they’d be turning in after their activities. They were given a tour of the huge city. The driver pointed out landmarks as they passed them.

The expanse of the ocean was pristine cerulean, invitingly crisp, the shore framed with exquisite buildings that crawled up the steep cliffsides. It was bright. Awash with blues and yellows and pinks and reds. Hues that depicted such a lively city so well.

Violet practically had her face pressed up against her window in the bus, admiring how glorious it was. It was densely packed with culture and entertainment and history. She was itching to get out and explore, smell the fresh air and taste the experiences on her tongue.

Their first tourist spot was the National Archaeological Museum. Professor Styles separated his students into two groups, one with him, and one with the other teacher.

To her delight, she was with him, and by the look in his eyes, he was just as happy about it. Maybe he even planned it that way. What he didn’t plan on, however, was Charlie sneaking into his group so that he could be with Violet. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the flash of irritation that almost blinded him.

The museum was phenomenal. Showcasing historical artefacts that had been unearthed by many. There was an abundance of exhibitions, which they were led through by their professor.

She took photos on her disposable camera, one of which had him in the frame, and she wouldn’t realise until she got her film developed.

Following the tour of the largest part of the museum, he turned to face the group. He had noticed Charlie being a nuisance, especially towards Violet and he made a point to ask her about it if he got her alone. He cleared his mind, trying to remain professional but struggling when she was staring at him like she was.

“Archaeologists and historians work together to teach the world about history. About daily lives, historical events, and structures. They excavate the history, and we tell its story. I hope you all feel inspired by what we’ve seen today because I want you to choose a piece and include it in your assignment.”

The group murmured, gathering their notebooks and fluttering around the exhibitions, attempting to find one that could merge in with the topic seamlessly.

Violet found herself on the second floor of the impressive building, completely enamoured with how beautiful it all was. Rich with history and chronicles of the past.

She found a detailed model of what Pompeii had been in its prime. Detailed, intricate and precise. Her eyes wandered the tiny streets where people walked thousands of years ago.

It changed her perspective, seeing it all laid out in front of her gave it so much more weight in her heart. She felt the passion and interest wrap warmly around her like how the Italian sun had kissed her skin; new, inviting, and blissful.

She took a few pictures of it, wanting something to refer back to just in case. As she stared through the lens, she felt a presence behind her. Her professor, stood tall and intimidating, though his expression was composed yet warm.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” He nodded towards the model.

“It’s amazing.” She breathed, sharply aware of him standing next to her.

His shoulder brushed hers and she froze. She wanted his touch. Wanted him to out his hands on her and praise her. She hadn’t stopped thinking about when he reached out and brushed her hair away in his office.

“Is he bothering you?”

It appeared that their minds were in two separate places. Her, desperate for his attention, and him, desperate to keep Charlie’s attention off of her.

“Who—Charlie?”

“Because if he is,” he continued, frowning. “He can do his assignment back home.”

And perhaps knowing that she and Charlie shared a night together, sending him away wouldn’t be strictly for her benefit. He felt protective over her, and yeah, he was jealous. He wanted her and he hated to admit it. But seeing her here, in this city, in this room, felt like the final nail in the coffin.

“It’s fine, I can handle him.”

If only she knew how much he saw the depth in that statement.

“Okay, just let me know.”

“Why?” She was perplexed. His tone was almost… territorial. It was more than a teacher protecting his student.

“Because I want to take care of you.”

Her eyes fluttered as they found his, and she felt a rush of arousal spark between her legs at the sheer hunger on his face and in his tone. Fuck. This couldn’t happen. He was her professor.

This was far from appropriate but the way he was looking at her like he wanted to devour and savour her at the same time was driving her wild.

She didn’t know how to respond, but let him take her hand and lead her towards some shelves in the back of the room. They housed artifacts from Pompeii, preserved from excavation sites.

She barely had a chance to look before he was leading her on towards the Gabinetto Segreto. She frowned, halting.

“What is this?”

“My favourite exhibition.” His eyes told her nothing but mischief, and he made sure the coast was clear before ushering her in.

She was taken aback. His favourite exhibition threw all inhibition out of their minds. Sexually graphic paintings, carvings, molds, and statues. Incredibly erotic and lewd.

He watched her in the room, thankfully empty of any other museum visitors. She approached a particularly sensual painting, framed in deep marble, a woman on top of a man, both in seated positions.

“What do you think?” He asked her, his veins thrumming with life and excitement.

Her cheeks were warm, and she was very aware of his gaze on her in the room full of sexual depictions. “I think… people have always had fascinations about bodies. About sex. It’s humanising to see it depicted so early in human civilisation.”

Was it normal for that to turn him on so much? She was clearly feeling the intensity of the room and yet was in her mind enough to give him an answer that reflected her passion for his class.

“Mm.. and how does it make you feel?” His voice was so low as he came to stand behind her.

“Feel?”

“To be surrounded by ancient erotic art. How does it make you feel?”

She let out a shaky sigh, unsure of how to answer. She felt lightheaded and heated and knew the only way to quell it was to have some attention between her legs.

He picked up on her silence, thinking maybe she couldn’t gauge what kind of response he was wanting. “I’ll start. It makes me feel like recreating every piece of art in here.”

Her eyes widened at his confession, feeling so shocked that he would go in that direction but so pleased that he did. Was he just as deep in lust for her as she was for him?

“Me too.” She breathed out, and he swore lowly.

“These were all excavated from Pompeii and Herculaneum. They were kept in brothels, homes—anywhere, really. They had an appreciation for erotica and displaying it. So they allotted this space in the museum. For a time, they only allowed men to come in here and view it.”

She could listen to him talk for hours, and then she realised that she did. And loved every millisecond of it. How his lips caressed words, how he spoke a few octaves lower than most, but it was still a milky and warm voice that rang through her ears.

“Lucky me.” She smiled. He wondered how she truly felt. Aside from the obvious, she found it almost funny to think that people thousands of years ago were fortifying lands and yet found a common ground in sexual art.

He huffed out a laugh and her heart just about stopped at the noise. “Not as lucky as whoever had this hanging on their wall.”

He pointed to a large painting of a couple embracing, his skin golden against the woman’s fair skin. The preservation was amazing, aside from slight erosion of the colour and some cracks near the bottom.

“It’s very intimate.” She observed. It was—like everything else in the room—sexual. But the strokes of paint were soft, their hold on each other even more so. Love. Care.

He wanted to know if someone had held her like that. So gentle, savouring every inch of skin. Worshiping her like the piece of art that she was.

After a filling dinner at a nearby restaurant, they all found themselves at their hotel. They gathered their room keys, and each partnered up to share a room for the trip. As Violet and her professor were the last two standing in the lobby, they eyed each other awkwardly.

“This has to be a mistake.” He frowned, staring at the concierge. The other teacher was staying close by with family. Harry was sure that he’d requested his own room in the hotel. This couldn’t be happening. “Is there another room available?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

He sighed, clenching his jaw. He wanted to hole up in his room and order expensive wine and listen to music. Now he had to face the reality that he’d be sharing a room. With her. Maybe he’d sleep out in the hallway.

Instead of making a scene and taking out his frustration onto the person at reception, he stared at Violet, whose eyes were wide with what appeared to be apprehension.

“I can find another hotel to stay at.” He said lowly to her.

“With the number of people you’re caring for, I would advise against that, Sir. The nearest hotels are also fully booked.”

Harry glared at the concierge. The concept of staying in the same room as one of his students was a harsh pill to swallow. A jarring sensation. He was being faced with one of his deepest fantasies but now all he felt was that he was a creep.

He sighed, and met her eyes. “Come on.”

She blinked away her surprise and followed him. She could see how tense he was as his knuckle jabbed the button to call the elevator. She bit her lip and stared at him.

“Professor—”

“I swear to you I demanded a separate room.”

She frowned, seeing the worry in his eyes. He thought she saw this as something he had planned out. He felt sick about it.

“It’s out of your control. They clearly messed up the bookings, it’s fine.” She assured him, although her nerves were shooting through the roof. She had no idea how the night was going to go, or the rest of this trip, for that matter.

They arrived at their room and he took a deep breath before opening it. It was lavish, thought she expected him to book nothing less. A small seating and kitchen area, and a set of double doors that must have led off to the bedroom.

He located his duffel bag dropped off by the staff and rummaged through it. “I’ll take the couch.”

She stood awkwardly in the room. “Oh, okay.”

He took his toiletry bag, sauntering into the en suite in the bedroom. “Just gonna shower.”

Her eyes followed him, his tense body language putting her on edge. She’d never seen him so uncomfortable. Once she heard the shower turn on, she quickly changed into her sleepwear, soft silk pants, and an old t-shirt.

To keep herself busy and keep her anxiety at bay, she began working on her assignment for the class trip. Taking notes and jotting down observations she’d made. She was cozied up on the window seat, overlooking the city with a soaring heart.

He came out, his hair dripping, wetting his white t-shirt. The grey sweats on his bottom half left her speechless. Now, this was the most dressed down she’d ever seen him.

“We should get some sleep.” He said, eyeing the notebook in her hand.

“Yeah, o—of course.”

“And don’t worry I… I’ll see about getting another room tomorrow. Surely they’ll have a free one by then.”

“I don’t mind.” She blurted out, worried that he thought she was seeing him as utterly inappropriate. “It’s not… I mean, it is kinda weird but this whole mix-up is out of our control. We’re adults. We’ll make it work.”

“You’re right.” He huffed out a breath, seemingly relaxed at that. They could make it work. It was going to be a mission to shelf his attraction to her, but he kept putting on his professional hat, even though her wandering gaze was warming him up inside.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” She breezed past him, and he could smell her sweet scent.

“Good night, Violet.”

She paused at the door, about to close them when she turned back to look at him with a sultry expression that made his dick hard.

“Sweet dreams, professor.”

Suffice it to say, his dreams were anything but.

“Listen up! I’m not in the mood to repeat myself.”

It had been an eventful morning and they hadn’t even left the hotel yet. They were piled into a bus, and Charlie was sitting next to Violet, chatting her ear off.

She couldn’t keep her eyes off her professor's disgruntled expression. How she’d seen more of him than any student had before.

How he’d hidden his smile when she offered to make him coffee that morning, how his voice was far deeper after sleep.

How he’d effortlessly slipped back into his cold and disheartening demeanour after he’d gotten dressed. A pair of grey slacks and a light blue dress shirt. She tried to brush it off and pretend it didn’t bother her, but she wanted his warmth and all he gave her was soft glimpses of it before he shut her out again.

“Remember what we are here for. Keep your minds open and explore this unique opportunity. I won’t be supplying material when we return to class, so gather everything you need today. Is that understood?”

The students nodded, hearing him loud and clear. Violet checked that she had her notebook and disposable camera on hand, feeling inspired to make this assignment her best one yet.

Pompeii was everything she had dreamt of and everything she never knew she could experience. It was a phenomenal sight to see. To really walk the streets which had been wandered down before. Where lives had fled as Mount Vesuvius unleashed its wrath, coughing up poisonous ash and spewing deadly lava.

She trudged through the fallen streets, imagining what it must have been like. Danger looming. Harrowing screams. Grasping for valuables as they fled.

Her disposable camera seldom left her hands, and the click of her taking shots set off Charlie’s impatient streak in him.

“Let me give you a personal tour.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.

“I really want to focus on this.”

“Come on, Violet. You’ll have way more fun with me.”

She sighed as he attempted to take the camera from her hands. “Charlie, please. It was one night and it won’t happen again. Let it go.”

“Why the sudden switch up?” He frowned.

“I just… I want to focus on passing this assignment, okay?” And she was bored of him. Another, far more intriguing man has eclipsed her every thought.

“Fine by me. I’ll show someone else around.” He sauntered off and she glared at his back.

She rolled her eyes and tried to focus on the task at hand. At being in such a beautiful place, struck by such a disaster.

The class had all spread out by that point, and she fought to stay by herself. She worked best that way, alone with her thoughts. No pressure to fake her interest in anything aside from the historical site before her.

She sat at the edge of a small field, framed by stone arches and fallen buildings, crumbling walls. She began to sketch out the scene before her, listening to music on her Walkman, lost in her work as Duran Duran blessed her ears.

She felt the presence of someone sitting next to her, and she looked up, surprised to see her grumpy professor. His mouth moved as it formed words and she frowned, pulling her headphones off.

“I’m sorry?”

He looked amused, albeit annoyed that he had to repeat himself. “I said, I didn’t know that you could draw.”

She smiled sheepishly, staring down at her drawing. “It’s just a rough sketch. I’m a visual learner, so it helps, gives me something to refer back to if I need it.”

“It’s pretty good. You could incorporate it into the assignment.” He seemed impressed.

“That’s allowed?”

“Only because I said so.”

She bit her lip to hide her smile, although he saw her cheeks become a stunning shade of pink that he associated only with her. Like saturated carnations or his favourite ice cream, boysenberry with strawberry swirls.

She was worming her way into his brain like a rotten apple and he could only sit and watch the decay.

“I just called the hotel. They’re still fully booked—”

“Last night wasn’t horrible.” She said. “We both kept to ourselves and slept well. Unless you want a turn in the bed tonight.”

It was his turn to blush now, and she didn’t miss it.

“The couch is fine.” He grumbled, embarrassed.

She wanted to tease him. To tug that soft side of him out. But a large part of her knew he’d reprimand her for it. Use his authority on her. Not that she’d mind, but it wasn’t a way to get through to him in the slightest.

“What’s on the itinerary, then?”

He shot her a look. “You should know, considering you did it.”

She laughed. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like what I chose. If I remember correctly, I put us down for an afternoon of relaxing at the beach and self-appointed activities.”

“I never did ask what self-appointed entails.”

“Well, it could entail a number of things. Exploring the city, working on papers, grading papers,” she leaned in towards him. “Anything, it’s just downtime.”

“Downtime.” He parroted.

“That’s a completely foreign concept for you, isn’t it?”

He stifled a laugh and nodded. “Any and all free time I have is spent on you,” he cleared his throat, “my classes, I mean.”

“Maybe take some time to relax today, then. Even if just for a few hours before dinner.”

“I’ll try.” He sighed, staring down at her Walkman. “You always carry that thing around.”

He was a lot more observant of her than he was ever going to admit. And they both picked up on it. He stared at her red and white sundress for a time, wondering if she’d worn it just for him to agonise over. He had been all fucking morning. He pushed his glasses further up his nose.

As she opened her mouth to respond, he stood with a gruff, “I need to check in with everyone else. Keep working.”

She did, the sun browning her skin, her tiny sundress the only thing he could think about as he talked with other students and showed them around.

She ventured Pompeii some more, taking pictures, penciling quick sketches, and let her eyes wander over to him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. But he always was, and they both looked away quickly.

Charlie seemed to forget all about the rejection she’d given him by the time they were at the beach and lounging on sunbeds. Violet had taken a dip, but was mostly into reclining in her little yellow bikini.

She slipped her shades up onto her head as she took in the scene before her. Most of the students had joined them, a few had ventured into the city.

But it was a rarity any of them got to see the sun and sand like this, so they practically melted in the experience, vowing to never leave.

She let her eyes scan the beach, her book tucked into her side on a dog-eared page. She enjoyed people-watching. Seeing her fellow students thrive under the golden sun, and seeing families make memories.

And Professor Styles. Stretched out on a sunbed far from everyone else. Yellow swimming shorts, bronzed skin, decorated in tattoos, both arms flexed as he stretched them above his head.

Her mouth dried at the sight. How toned and prominent he was. She could easily imagine herself sitting on top of him, mapping out each tattoo, licking, kissing, biting. Admiring.

As if he could sense her eyes on him, he looked up, a lone finger sliding his shades down to look at her. And lip quirked up on one side in a subtle smirk that made her toes curl. So, he got especially cocky when he was half-naked.

She tried to turn her attention back onto her book, but it was an effort to think of anything else other than him. She craved his touch, even though all he had given her was a whisp of it in his office.

They were dangling themselves in front of each other, temptation and lust awry, waiting for who would take the plunge first.

Following a game of cat and mouse, trying to catch each other’s eyes, it was time to head back to the hotel and get ready for dinner at a local restaurant.

She beat him to the room, grabbing a quick shower, almost ready by the time he entered the room.

He could smell her sweet perfume as he entered the room, the air humid from a long shower. She was sitting at the vanity in the bedroom, swiping mascara on her wispy lashes.

Her eyes met his in the mirror, disappointed to find him dressed in a t-shirt, those same yellow shorts allowing her to see his tattooed thigh.

“How was your downtime?” She asked him.

He came up behind her, still watching each other in the mirror. “It was good. Although, a girl was gawking at me the whole time. Didn’t think my body was that atrocious.”

He was teasing her. She wasn’t sure what to make of it, and so she played along.

“I’m sure atrocious was the last thing on her mind.”

“You think so?”

“Maybe you should have asked her.”

“I thought about it.”

She held her breath. “Did you?”

“Mm. Thought about inviting her over to my sunbed… asking her what had captured her attention. I knew what she was thinking but I just wanted to hear her say it.”

“Say what?” She breathed out. His eyes were so intense. Molten and demanding, holding hers with such a ferocity that she felt it between her legs.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Now Violet, when have I ever given you the answers to a test?”

She released a shaky sigh, tilting her head away from him, allowing him access to her neck.

He smirked at her eagerness. “You’re a bad girl. Finish getting ready.”

“Then stop distracting me.”

He growled deep in his chest, taking a step away from her. “Don’t talk back, Violet. Ever.”

He sauntered into the bathroom, locking the door with a click. She fanned herself with her hand, quickly slipping on a white summer dress and heading downstairs to hang with her classmates.

Everyone was unaware of the fact that she and their professor were sharing a room, and she cringed to think about how they’d react if they found out.

The attraction they had for each other was undeniable, but she saw it as harmless flirting. Until… he touched her. Until he took her into that erotic room. Until he told her not to talk back. She was fucked.

He led them to the restaurant, pointing out architectural phenomena, and different historical sites for them to make note of. He looked so pretty that it hurt. Light pink dress pants and a matching blazer, a white singlet underneath. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, his curls falling down on his forehead messily.

She lagged behind, and he noticed, subtly falling back, She was stopping to take pictures of different buildings, in awe of the structures and local ways of life.

He slowed his pace, keeping close to her just in case. She wasn’t overly warm towards anyone else in the class, and it made him feel glad in the sense that she focused on his class, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she had many friends outside of class.

Perhaps that’s why he was so protective over her. How territorial and irrational he became towards her. How enamoured by her he was. Buy her words and her confidence, whether in corduroy pants or little sun dresses.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to appear relaxed, but he was crawling out of his fucking skin. He needed her. Wanted her. Had to have her. He just didn’t know how to do so. He sucked at talking to women, but he knew how to fuck.

Just getting them on their backs was the hardest part for him. He had never struggled with men, but women terrified him for some reason. Especially women like her.

He kept watching her like she’d drop a clue behind a step on the cobbled street.

And when he noticed that one of her sneakers had become untied, he felt his heart begin to race.

The group was further ahead, and he fell into step beside her, grabbing her hand to garner her attention.

She turned to look at him with wide eyes, her camera clicked, and as she spun around, his face fell perfectly into the frame. But the two of them were too focused on his touch to notice.

“Your lace is untied.” He explained simply, his touch gone.

She looked down, “oh.”

“Let me,” he knelt down on the ground, lifting her foot up onto his raised knee. She gasped at the feel of his fingers wrapped around her ankle. How they softly caressed her skin before they got to work tying her lace.

His ringed fingers were a wonder to watch. So precise and nimble. She felt her cheeks tinge pink as she stared down at him on his knee for her. And when he looked up, it was almost as if he was in awe. Worshipping.

His hand slid up her ankle, cupping her calf and sliding higher. And then he dropped his touch, realising how inappropriate he was being.

“Thank you, professor.”

His jaw clenched slightly before he stood, adjusting his suit jacket. “We should catch up with the others.”

They were the last to enter the restaurant, and the universe pushed them together once again with two remaining seats. Next to each other.

Her leg was still burning from his touch and she wanted to experience it over every inch of skin on her body.

It was a wonder she could even focus on eating. He was so powerful in his presence. Even when she wasn’t looking at him she could feel him. This tar-thick sensation next to her, begging to be pulled in, begging to have her attention.

He ate his meal in silence, drinking a cider, offering bits to the conversation here and there.

She was a nervous wreck. She could smell his cologne. How it was sweet and spicy and sultry all at once.

At some point, restless and on edge, she crossed her leg, her foot accidentally nudging his ankle. He shot her a look through the corner of his eye, his mouth on his drink.

She blushed, apologising to him under her breath. But he moved his leg towards hers a little before retracting. Intrigued, she extended her foot out again, letting it trace up his leg.

“Careful.” He warned lowly.

She stared up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Or what?”

“You don’t want to start trouble with your professor, do you?”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe I do.”

“I pegged you for a good student, Violet. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“I’m a good girl where it counts, professor.”

“Then be a good girl and go settle the bill. We need to get an early night.”

He handed her his card, watching as she stood and went to pay. He eyed her thighs at the hem of her dress, remembering how soft she’d felt as he tied her shoelace. How lulled her expression became when she was teasing him under the table.

He thought about how it felt to be kneeling before her. How if he leaned forward just a little, he’d be able to see up her dress. See the colour of her panties. Flick his tongue out and get a long-awaited taste.

He skipped the dessert menu because he knew nothing would satisfy the sweet tooth he had. Only she could quell the craving.

Fuck. He couldn’t share a room with her tonight. Not unless he wanted to fuck her against every surface of it.

The walk back to the hotel was tense for the two of them. They tried to avoid each other, she tried to spark conversation with other students, while he conversed with the other professor who was probably triple his age and insufferable to talk to.

He felt especially creepy when he realised the most interesting conversations he’d ever held had been with a student of his. One who was ten years his junior.

The other professor split off, heading to his family home while Harry was in charge of leading everyone back to the hotel.

He was back to his short and curt self, subdued by his own thoughts. She eyed him, wondering if he regretted getting so comfortable with her. Because she sure as hell didn’t regret anything.

Everyone parted ways, heading to their designated rooms, while she lagged behind, completely on edge.

Their eyes met as they leaned on opposite walls in the hallway. Waiting. Gauging.

“I should find somewhere else to stay tonight.” His voice broke through the tension.

Her heart dropped and she started to panic at the prospect of him leaving her. “You don’t need to do that.”

He sighed, torn. “Violet…”

“I promise I’ll behave. You won’t even know I’m here.”

He watched her, internally debating. Could he behave? And would she stay true to her word? It was later in the evening now, and he hardly felt like trudging around the city until he found an available room.

He sighed again and nodded, entering the room wordlessly. She followed after him, watching as he stripped off his jacket and ran his hands through his hair.

She slipped into the bedroom, and as she went to close the door, decided to leave it slightly ajar. An invitation.

He sat on the couch, spreading his arms along the back. His mind was a jumbled mess, the only clarity were liquified swirls of violet skies that gave him a sense of constant.

His eyes found movement in the gap of the bedroom door and his mouth went dry. Violet pulled her tiny white dress over her head, her matching white bra and panties revealed to his hungry stare.

She pulled her hair free from its ponytail, the yellow ribbon falling to the ground in a tiny silk puddle.

She bent over, unlacing her sneakers before pulling them off. He knew he had to look away. But he couldn’t. He was staring directly between her legs. The softness of her hips and her thighs. His stomach clenched.

Reaching back, still facing away, she unclasped her bra and let that fall to the floor carelessly. He internally begged her to turn around. But he knew that if he saw her bare tits it would be game over. He already felt like he was going to finish in his pants.

And then she stepped out of view, appearing moments later in a white silk camisole and matching shorts. He looked away quickly as she exited the bedroom, trying to hide the fact that she’d put on that show just for him.

“Can you please help me?” her sweet voice caressed his ears.

He still didn’t look at her. “With?”

“My necklace.” She came to stand in front of him. “It’s tangled.”

He eyed the dainty jewelry around her neck and wondered how his hand would look in its place.

“Do you ever take yours off?” She nodded to the cross pendant dangling from his neck.

“No. It stays on. Always.”

“Even when you—”

“Turn around, Violet.”

She giggled and turned while he stood, his body shaking with desire. She scooped up her hair out of the way, a few strands tangled in the clasp of her necklace.

“You like doing that, don’t you?”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me and acting oblivious to it.” His fingers began to unwork the tangles of her necklace.

“How do I tease you?”

“Well, the little show you just put on is a great place to start.”

She smirked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He growled and brought his hand around, cupping her throat and encouraging her to lean fully against him.

“Don’t make me out to be a fucking pervert, Violet. Prance around in your tiny little shorts all you want, just as long as you know that you’re doing so for me.”

“We’re not in the classroom anymore, professor. No need to boss me around.”

“Brat.” He said through his teeth. “I’m always the boss.”

She gasped out in the authority in his tone, at the sureness in his actions. His hand around her throat just like she’d imagined a million times while he taught a class.

“I know you daydream about me.” He whispered in her ear. “I can see your mind wander when you’re sitting at the front of my class. You think about all the things you want me to do to you.”

“That’s a bold assumption.” She continued to tease him.

“Mmm.” He rumbled in her ear. “And I bet you’re wet right now.”

“You’re wrong.” She whimpered.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

She stepped away, staring up at him. “H—How?”

He feigned a bored expression, shoving his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “You’re a smart girl, Violet. Figure it out.”

All confidence she had was shredded away by his condescending tone and she released a shaky breath. Prove it? She sat down on the couch, finding his eyes willingly.

Fuck. This was everything the both of them had been daydreaming about. Releasing the tension that had been building between them ever since she started his class.

He would have stopped her if she didn’t want this. And she wouldn’t have given him a show if she didn’t’ want it. She slipped a hand down her shorts, her eyes lulling while his widened at the scene.

Her fingers found her core, throbbing and wet already. She whimpered, trying to look unfazed but he could see how much her legs were shaking.

“That’s a good girl. Let me see.”

She retracted her hand from the silk of her shorts and displayed her fingers, glistening with her excitement.

He grabbed her wrist, investigating the wetness. He tutted. “Now, what are we going to do about this, hm?” His eyes met hers and she melted.

“I don’t know.”

His gaze hardened on hers. “Part of your studies have been based on problem-solving, Violet. I know I’ve been doing my job right. The question is: have you been a good student?”

“Yes,” she whispered, shaking.

“Is that so? Then tell me how we solve this problem that you have.”

“Problem…?”

“You’re sitting in front of your professor, dripping for him. Tell me how we can fix it before you make a mess.”

She swallowed, her mouth dry. “Touch me.”

“Raise your voice when you’re speaking to me.”

She cleared her throat, mildly embarrassed. “Touch me.”

“Touch you? I could fail you for this behaviour that you’re displaying. I can’t think of one reason not to.”

“Please,” she whispered, “please, touch me.”

He sat on the coffee table opposite her. “I can’t risk it… we can’t—”

“Please. Just once, it’s all I will ever ask of you.”

He stared at her, his expression disgruntled. Like she was causing him actual annoyance by asking him such a thing.

“Fuck it.”

He took her fingers past his lips, saturated with her wetness, and sucked on them. Cleaning them and tasting her. Heavenly and sinful.

She gasped as he did so, unable to even wrap her head around what was happening before his lips met hers, his hand on the nape of her neck.

“Kiss me.” He ordered against her and she obliged, whimpering as his tongue found hers.

He stood and leaned over her, pushing her back into the couch. He pulled away momentarily, as much as it pained him.

“You want this?”

She nodded, leaning forward to kiss him but he shook his head.

“Words, Violet. I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you.” She assured him, glad to finally have the words leave her mouth.

“Show me,” he breathed out. “Show me how much you want me.”

He sat back on the table again, leaving her panting and shaking while he slipped his glasses from his face. She bit her lip, finding every ounce of courage that she had before slowly slipping her shorts down her legs.

His eyes never left hers as she got herself comfortable, and he untangled her shorts from her ankle, his cock hardening further when she giggled playfully.

She spread her legs a little, her hand finding its way back between them. He hissed as she played with herself, and he could hear how wet she was as well as see it.

He leaned forward, his hands on her thighs. “Are you this wet for me during class?”

She shook her head slowly.

“Are you lying to me?” His hands smoothed up her legs and he could feel how hard she was shaking having his touch on her.

“No…”

“Mm...” His hands found her sensitive inner thighs and her legs spread further, enticing him in. “I think you’re lying, Violet.” His thumb brushed her sensitive clit and she gasped. “I think…” A little more pressure. “You sit in my class, fantasising about me.” Small circles. “And then you go home, get yourself off and imagine that it’s me doing it.”

“Please—”

“Am I wrong?”

“Fuck,” she cried out as his fingers built up speed and pressure. “No, you’re not wrong.”

“I never am.” He smirked, pulling her so that she was laying down flat on the couch.

His mouth found her cunt in a deep kiss and she rolled her hips up towards him, his hands cupping under her thighs to keep her where he wanted her.

Her back arched at the sensation of his mouth. So wet and hot and skilled. She’d known how good he was with his mouth, as she’d listened to him talk for hours. But this was something else, and she knew she’d never look at his lips the same again.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he moaned against her, loving how sweet she tasted. How she was shaking and he’d only just gotten started.

His tongue found her clit in delicate flicks, sucking and nibbling it until she was gasping.

The straps of her camisole fell down her shoulders, and her tits came into his view. Her nipples were pebbled from the cool air and he reached up, pinching and squeezing them with deft fingers.

All he could think of was the fact that she was lightyears better than anything he’d viewed in Gabinetto Segreto. But he knew that before he’d seen her naked.

His ears were ringing with how good she felt and he couldn’t wait to feel her wrapped around his cock. God, he’d grasp onto the feeling forever. He could already see himself begging shamelessly at her knees for a pity fuck.

Her hands came down and entwined with his curls, determined to make a mess of them. She had spent far too many hours admiring the perfect shape of them and the precise middle parting.

He groaned as she pulled them, his eyes finding her blissful expression. He ate her like he’d never had a satisfying meal in all his years. After tasting her, it felt like he hadn’t. And nothing would ever suffice again.

She brought Gabinetto Segreto fucking shame.

He gave her a finger, testing the waters with what she could take. Her body went lax before tightening up in pleasure. His jaw dropped at how warm and snug she was.

“Oh, pet. You’re going to get me addicted to this pretty little pussy, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, rolling her hips up in desperation. The way he was talking to her. Encouraging her and talking her through it. It was all so surreal.

“Professor…”

“What?” He pulled away, annoyed to have her interrupt.

“It’s okay.”

He frowned. “What?

“I—It’s okay. You don’t have to…”

“Don’t have to what?” He was getting pissed off now.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“What, make you come?” He frowned further, bewildered.

“It’s hard for me to do that.”

His eyes softened and he crawled up her body, his hand cradling her jaw tenderly. “Has anyone ever made you come, pet?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Just my vibrator.”

He pouted a little. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? I bet you get so creamy… so relaxed and soft.”

She could feel his hands massaging her body, but she felt lightheaded with how he was talking to her.

“I can make you come, pet. As many times as you want.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to do a thing. You just lay back and let your professor look after you, okay? You deserve it after all of your hard work. I’m very impressed.”

“Really?” Her eyes were wide.

“Really. Daddy’s going to reward you, now. Would you like that?”

Her eyes lulled the second that word fell from his mouth.

“Yes.”

“My good little pet.”

His mouth found her core again, reveling in her taste and the feel of her. He helped her relax enough that she could simply feel the pleasure and nothing else. She had been so stuck in her mind but now all she could fathom was pure bliss.

He gave her two fingers, massaging a spot inside of her that she had not discovered before. It was overwhelmingly intense. Pressure and sensitivity and euphoria.

“Relax, Violet. Can you do that for me?”

She focused on keeping relaxed, but almost laughed at his request. How could she relax with his head between her thighs?

She must have done a good enough job because he moaned, closing his eyes and kissing her cunt almost romantically.

He wanted to watch her. To guide her and talk her through it. He came up, licking inside of her mouth, sucking on her tongue.

You’re doing so well.

So sweet for me.

You’re milking my fingers, pet.

Breathe, that’s it.

He could tell she was close and he was watching her in awe. Watching her write in pleasure that only he had ever been able to entice from her. He was far too in his head to feel smug about it, but he knew he’d come back to that later.

“Oh…”

“That’s right,” he coerced. “You’re gonna come all over my fingers, I can feel it. Fuck, do it on my tongue instead.”

He swiftly placed his mouth on her again, paying all of his attention to her clit while his fingers worked inside of her. She was pulsing and it drove him to take her harder, moaning against her.

His arm tensed, the veins in it prominent, snaking around his muscles. He couldn’t fathom why the men before him hadn’t got her here like this. He was addicted to everything about her. Her body and her mind. Her jaw dropped in pleasure.

His mouth latched onto her clit ferociously, and the intensity of it knocked her over the edge of bliss. She writhed around, crying out as it overwhelmed her. He pinned her down, helping her ride the wave.

“Thaaat’s it, pet. What a good girl.” He soothed her as she came down.

She gasped out, grabbing his wrist as he slowly fucked her with his fingers.

“Fuck.” She smiled, meeting his eyes.

“How did that feel, hm?” He checked in, his mouth and chin drenched in her. He kissed her inner thighs, pulling away.

“So good.”

“Yeah?” He came over her. “Let’s get rid of this, shall we?”

She barely had time to register what was going on before he ripped her silk camisole from her body, discarding it behind the couch.

“Hey!” She yelled out. “That was expensive.”

“Daddy will buy you another one.” He promised, his eyes falling over her bare breasts. “Fuck, look at you. Gorgeous little thing.”

She moaned as he gripped her breasts, toying with her nipples. He spat down on her chest, wiping his spit around her tits with a devilish grin.

“You’ll let me do what I want, won’t you, pet?”

“Yes.” She whispered, meaning it.

“The next time you’re in my class,” he pinched her nipple. “I’m gonna make you sit on my lap. Make you read out your paper while I play with your clit and fill your cunt with my cock. Make you cream all over me while everyone watches.”

“Professor—”

He stood abruptly, ridding of his shirt and pants, allowing her to see him as bare as she’d ever seen him. His inked torso and arms. His strong thighs and toned tummy. She felt her insides melt and warp.

He grabbed her hand and placed it over his clothed cock, hard and throbbing.

“Feel what you do to me?” He asked, wrapping his hand around her throat to hold her still while her hand felt him. “I get so hard every time I see you. I can’t fucking stand it.”

Her mouth was watering and she shifted forward, kissing along his length. He growled lowly, feeling his cock twitch and his balls tighten.

“You’re a naughty pet. Come to my class in those tiny dresses because you know I think about pinning you against the wall and slipping inside of you.”

“I wish you would.” Her eyes were wide, staring at his.

He tilted his head, gripping her hair in his fist, his rings catching. “You do, don’t you? Little whore.”

She nodded eagerly, whimpering when he pushed her face forcefully against his crotch. He leaned down, his fingers finding her pussy, slick from her orgasm. He hummed, gathering her wetness and spreading it along his covered cock.

“Messy girl. Clean me up.”

“Make me.”

He glared darkly, his nostrils flaring at her disobedience. He gripped her hair hard enough that tears formed, and he moved his hand to pinch her jaw until she opened it.

“Tongue out.” He barked and she slowly did as she was asked. “Wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, clean me up or I’ll fuck my fist and make you watch.”

He spat on her tongue and she hummed, swallowing before leaning forward and licking off her wetness from his crotch. His brow furrowed at the sight. His feisty little pet.

She sucked on the tip of him over his boxers, and he whimpered before pushing her away. He quickly rid of his boxers, impatient. He had to be inside her. He prided himself in his ability to last but that seemed to be irrelevant when it came to her. Just looking at her naked and pouting was enough to set him off.

She reached for his cock, hard, a bead of pre-come on the tip. He throbbed in her palm, so hot and ready for him. He ran his hands through his hair, his body tingling.

She took him past her lips, her eyes fluttering. His head fell back on his neck as she took his tip, sucking and flicking her tongue against the slit. He encouraged her, his hand tangling into her hair.

“Take more.” He rasped, moaning loudly when she fit half of him in.

She used her hand to work on what she couldn’t fit yet. He was losing it, spitting down on his cock to get it nice and wet before forcing her to take all of him.

She choked on him, her eyes watering as she gagged.

“Fuck,” he gritted his teeth, his abs flexing as he pushed his hips forward.

Tears streamed down her face, smudging her mascara. His thumb wiped under her eyes, smearing it further. He wanted to destroy her.

He took her throat in slow, rolling thrusts, allowing her to breathe and watching when she tapped his thigh when she needed a break.

She picked up her pace, and his knees buckled. He attempted to pull away but her hands wound around his thighs, holding him in place.

“Pet,” he whined, “you gotta stop.”

She eyed him mischievously, moving her mouth harder. Faster.

He swore, grabbing her hair and practically ripping her from him. He threw her back and slapped her cheek before gripping her jaw and pressing his face against hers.

“You’re a fucking brat, you know that?”

She giggled, her cheek stinging, but it fuelled her arousal.

He clenched his jaw, holding hers harder. “You promised you’d behave.”

The feral rage in his eyes made her gulp. She did not fear him, per se, but feared what he’d do to her as punishment. Feared that she’d like it too much.

She wanted him warmed up to her. But she wasn’t sure that he was capable of that.

“I am behaving, professor.”

“I don’t think you are.”

She frowned, pouting. His expression softened, loving how she looked all vulnerable when she did that little face.

He cupped her reddened cheek, looking at her wet eyes and swollen lips from his cock.

She opened her mouth to protest, to apoligise, or to plead. She wasn’t sure.

“I—”

“Shh.. sit back and take my cock, pet.”

The willingness in her eyes melted him and she fell onto her back, pressing her legs together with her knees bent and swaying them side to side.

He took a step forward, fisting his cock with a shaky breath. He had fantasised about this for so long and now that it was finally happening, he couldn’t believe it.

“You look so good.” He complimented, his voice low. His hands ran down her body, feeling every inch and every curve. He settled over her, hitching her leg high over his hip.

“So do you.” She breathed out, her hands running down his sides, feeling the muscles flex.

“You were made for fucking.” He spoke his thoughts, running the tip of his cock between her slick folds. “Made to take me. Made to be used by me.”

She whimpered, rolling her hips up. “Take me. Use me.”

He kissed her, pushing his hips forward a little. She made a soft sound as he pushed inside of her, able to take the tip of him before her body tensed.

“You’re so big.” She whimpered, wide eyes staring up at him.

“You can take it.”

He held her in place, pushing forward and breaking through her tightness. She gasped as she took half of him, and he reached down, rubbing her clit to lessen the sting.

She mewled softly, her body relaxing as he slowly took her. He pushed all the way in, and he swore quietly as she rippled around him.

“Attagirl.” He praised. “I knew you could do it.”

“Oh… my god.” She moaned, her eyes watering at how fucking good he felt. He was so big that she felt him everywhere. He was pressed snugly against that spot he’d found not long before and the pressure of it was blinding.

It was the fact that they definitely should not be doing this that made it feel so much fucking better.

“I’m going to move now.” He informed her, retracting his hips until only his head remained inside of her. He slammed back in forcefully and she cried out, her back arching.

He didn’t stop. He screwed into her relentlessly, pounding her down into the couch. She couldn’t get a single breath in with how hard he was fucking her. His touch never left her clit, until he wrapped his arms around her and stood, holding her up as he fucked up into her.

She bit into his neck, his skin warm and damp beneath her. Her nails embedded themselves into his shoulders, trying to hold on as he took her.

He pressed her against the wall, his head dropping back with a growl. She watched him in awe. The sheer power he exerted on her body was blinding. He was so in control, so feral and animalistic but in control nonetheless.

She had never had someone fuck her like this. He was confident in the classroom, but having him even more so while he was naked and inside of her was something she never knew that she’d experience.

She gripped onto his hair, near on sobbing as he took her. “Professor…”

“Harry.” He gritted out, his curls a mess.

“H—Harry, please.”

“Please, what?” He breathed out, grunting. “Tell me—fuck—tell me what you need.”

“Touch me.”

His hand wound around her throat, his gaze searing on hers. “Tell me where you want me to touch you, pet.”

“My clit.” She whispered out. “I need it, please.”

“Fuck, say my name again.” He huffed, staring at her desperately.

“Please, Harry. I need it.”

He groaned, pushing two fingers in her mouth until she gagged, getting them wet. Then he connected his fingers to her clit and rubbed in delicious circles. Her toes curled, her hands raking down his shoulders and sides as he took her.

“You like that?” He checked, knowing full well she loved it with how tight her pussy was around him.

She nodded, whimpering as he slapped his hips against her.

“Yeah, you do, don’t you? Your pretty little cunt is squeezing me like a fist. Dirty girl letting me use you like this.”

He placed her on her shaky legs, slipping down to his knees. He aided her in placing a leg over his shoulder, opening her up to him. He latched onto her core with a loud moan.

“Taste so good.” He said between licks, her core trembling around his tongue. “Love feeling how my big cock is destroying your pussy.”

He ate her, addicted. He held her up as her body became weak with pleasure. His fingers found her core, fucking her with two fingers while his mouth sucked and nibbled and licked her clit.

She looked down at his face, seeing his eyes closed as he ate her. He was enjoying it just as much as she was. Her professor was on his knees for her.

From tying her shoelace to eating her out in a matter of hours.

He loved being able to taste his cock while he ate her. Able to taste where he’d claimed her and destroyed her. His dick twitched, missing the warmth of her. Wanting to spread his cum inside of her and watch it leak out.

He grabbed her, bending her over the window seat. She stared at the view of the ocean as he stared at the view of her.

“Spread your legs.” He ordered.

She bit her lip, looking back at him. She pressed her legs together and wiggled her ass.

He glared, slapping her ass. “Whore.” Another slap, to which she cried out, clawing at the window. “I said open your fucking legs.”

He kicked her legs open forcefully, spreading her cheeks and staring at her dripping cunt. She moaned as he massaged her skin, his thumb dipping to press against the tight opening of her ass.

He spat down on it, massaging gently before he bent his knees, guiding his cock back to her drenched heat.

She held back her pleasured cries as he fucked her, his skin slapping mercilessly against hers. His thumb played with her ass, watching as she moaned and flowered open to him. His to use.

“Good girl.” He praised. “Take me so fucking well. You love having my big dick fill you up, don’t you?”

She whimpered, rolling her hips back against her thrusts.

He slapped her side. “Don’t you?”

“Y‑Yes, Harry!”

He grabbed her by her throat, pulling her back while he kept fucking her. His lips found her ear, biting on the lobe.

“Call me daddy.” He growled. “Call me daddy and I’ll let you come again.”

She could feel the swirls of it blooming and she swore, her walls clenching around him.

“Please, daddy.” She whimpered, loving calling him something so naughty. “Please let me come.”

“You need daddy to rub your pretty little clit? Huh?”

“Fuck, please, yes I need it.” She gasped, her tits bouncing, drawing his attention to them. He played with her nipples. Twisting and tugging before his touch veered south, finding her clit with an expert touch.

She exploded around him, her body growing lax against him. He allowed her to melt onto the floor, not stopping his thrusts as he helped her through her orgasm. He screwed her on the ground, grunting animalistically in her ear.

They were sweaty messes, writing and naked on the floor as he took her, feral and obsessed. He lifted her ass up, taking her harder and harder, his hands gripped tightly onto her hips.

She clawed at the carpet beneath her, trying to hold onto anything that would keep her steady against his intense thrusts. The sheer power he had was astonishing.

He picked her up, sweeping knick-knacks and a lamp off a side table with a smash, throwing her against the newly cleared surface. Her chest was pressed against the cool wood, and he quickly began fucking her again.

Her knees betrayed her, and he spun her around, sitting her up on the side table. She wrapped her legs around his waist, their bodies pressed tightly together, sweaty and needy.

He pinned her back to the wall, his hand around her throat. They watched where they were connected before locking eyes, moaning before kissing with an intensity that made her toes curl.

He couldn’t get enough of her. His body was wound so tight with arousal, the feeling of finally having her driving him wild.

“Fuck,” he panted, “so fucking good.”

She purposely pulsed her cunt around him, his head going dizzy.

“St—god, you have to stop.”

The expression he wore was hardly an incentive to stop, and she did it more.

“Stop, stop.”

Pulling back, much to her dismay, voiced with a displeased moan, he stepped back from her. He grabbed his cock in his fist, playing with himself while she sat there watching. Desperately writhing, her chest heaving.

She whimpered as he fucked himself harder, the pleasure displayed clearly on his face. She shuffled forward a little, wanting to be the only form of bliss he felt.

He glared. “Did I say that you could move?”

“No, but—”

“Do as you’re told or I will come all over my hand while you watch.”

She bit her tongue, settling back into place with a pout. He chuckled lightly, his stomach tightening at the sight. He wanted to come so fucking bad but he wasn’t done with her.

“Get on all fours, pet.” He instructed, his fist still wrapped tight around himself.

She slowly lowered herself to the floor, on her knees in Infront of him before getting on her hands as well, on all fours just like he asked. He smiled proudly at her, watching her wait for the next instruction.

“I want you to crawl to the bedroom for me.” He purred. “Slowly.”

She bit her lip, hiding her smile, trying to remain unfazed. She did as he asked, just as she always had. Always wanting to impress him. He stalked behind her, watching the way her hips were shaped, watching how her ass swayed as she crawled, watching how her hair fell over her shoulders. She looked back to meet his eyes before picking up her pace a little.

He felt something spike in his bloodstream, and he ran after her, grunting as he picked her up and threw her onto the bed.

“You’re a fucking tease.” He chastised her as he followed. She crawled away, curled up at the top of the bed. “You want to run, pet?”

She shook her head, a mischievous smile lighting up her face as he narrowed his eyes.

“I better make sure you stay put.”

She watched as he went out to the lounge, fishing through his duffel bag before heading back to the bedroom. He began wringing a sage green tie between his hands, eyeing her.

He made his way towards her, gauging her expression. “Give me your hands.”

She did as she was told, mesmerised.

“Good girl.”

He tied her wrists up, not too tight, but tight enough that she wouldn’t slip out. Then he tied them to the white iron headboard, her arms stretched up. He couldn’t resist reaching down to bite and lick her nipples until she was whining and begging him to take her.

“You want this cock?” He shuffled forward until he was kneeling over her chest.

She nodded eagerly and he gripped the hair on top of her head. “Open your mouth. Taste your pussy on my cock before I give it to you again.”

She opened, her eyes fluttering when he pushed his dick into her mouth, all the way, not letting her adapt to his size. Just letting her taste him. Feel him.

“So pretty with your mouth full, aren’t you?”

She choked, her eyes prickling with tears that threatened to roll over before he pulled away. And then he was flipping her over, pulling her up onto her knees and elbows and fucking her so brutally that she feared the whole hotel would hear.

He made noises that were animalistic. Feral and unhinged. He fucked her so hard that neither of them could see straight. Hitting her so deep she could feel it in her throat.

He wasn’t sure he could last much longer, and he wanted to hold her. He moved her to her side, spooning behind her. He lifted her outer leg up, slipping his throbbing cock into her drenched heat with a deep, rolling moan.

His fingers found her clit again, and she reached back to kiss him messily. Their tongues met, wet and unashamed. He wanted her to come again, and his cock screwed into her relentlessly while he drew tight circles on her clit.

“Come for me.” He panted. “Please. I need it. Give me another one, all over my cock. You can do it, pet.”

She whimpered, her brow furrowed as he growled, taking her harder than he had all night. Her orgasm shattered her before she knew it was upon her.

She keeled forward, and he wound his arms around her to keep her steady while she came, crying out his name so loud that he had to give her two of his fingers to bite down on.

He swore at how tight she became when she climaxed, her walls pulsing and clenching around him. He fought to hold on, but his body was overworked and she felt so fucking good.

With a whine, he untied her hands and gently moved her onto her back, slipping inside of her with a long sigh. He took her, deep and slow and with a fluidity that had her legs shaking.

He wanted to come staring into her eyes. With her legs wrapped around his waist. His name was on her lips as he pounded into her relentlessly.

“Will you tease me again?” He asked her, his eyes searing.

“Yes.” She gasped out.

“You’re my little fuck toy.” He was a mess. “Mine to fuck and fill with my cum. Reward you for your hard work in my class. Make you come every time you pass.”

“All yours.” She breathed out, desperate to get him there. “I’m your dirty secret, professor.”

“Can’t fucking stand how you make me feel. Filthy fucking girl. Tell me you want my cum.”

“I want your cum, professor.”

“How bad do you want it?”

“I need it so bad. Please, fill me up with it.”

He growled out her name, burying his head in her neck and biting on the skin. His orgasm rocked through him, and he fucked her through it, not caring when she cried out in discomfort.

He wanted this. To fill her. Claim her. Stake his mark seeing as she’d sought after him. Teased him and poked until he gave in. He’d rip every one of those sundresses off her for a taste of how magical she was.

Like visiting all seven wonders of the world and discovering millions of new ones all at once.

***

I hope you enjoyed x

[dalishious]

About Davrin's little blurb on the official website for Dragon Age: The Veilguard...

"Though he was raised in a Dalish clan, he craved excitement and adventure. He'd rather make history than reflect on it."

There's actually a lot to unpack about these two sentences.

First off, placing the word "though" in front of being "raised in a Dalish clan", gives such a thing a negative connotation. The word "though" is used in a way that sounds like "despite", as in, somehow wanting excitement and adventure must go against being Dalish. This correlates with sentence that follows. "He'd rather make history than reflect on it." The word "rather" is yet again used to separate Davrin from his Dalish origin. All together, this promotional description of Davrin is insisting that he is "not like other Dalish".

Now, obviously the game is not out yet, so we do not have total confirmation on what the nature of Davrin's relationship to his culture is really like. But there is absolutely something to be said about promoting the character this way, regardless of however he actually turns out in game. There is absolutely something to be said about how, as @/the-eldritch-it-gay put in their tags here, why do writers feel the need to make fantasy minorities hate or distance themselves from their culture? As a selling point?

Maybe this is completely misleading bullshit, maybe it isn't. All we have to go by, is what BioWare chose to say here, and their past track record with elves:

Zevran may talk about his mother in a font way, but he still has the line, "Too many of our kind think we deserve pity simply because we have failed to defend ourselves."

Velanna is one of the two elves we've had who is overtly proud of her culture, yet she is treated like she is unreasonable and too angry because of it.

Merrill too, is proud of being an elf, and of being Dalish. The story punishes her left and right for this, treats her like a child, and in the end she is either ostracized from her clan or they end up dead because... she cared too much?

Fenris has pretty much zero engagement with elven cultures, and spends his time ridiculing Merrill for being proud of hers.

Solas complains about the Dalish from the start, and says plainly that he does not see himself as having anything in common with elves of current time. "Oh, you mean elves" he says, when the Inquisitor asks how he feels about his people; the thought does not even occur to him.

Sera is... Sera is a character who could have been a really interesting examination of overcoming internalized racism, if she was written by someone competent with the subject. Instead, she just cringes at everything "too elfy" through the entire main game, and only has a single line in Trespasser that hints that she may have a personal struggle going on. But it's still left unresolved.

That's a lot a lot of negativity. So of course seeing a suggestion that more is to come with Davrin has people wary and tired.

Let us also consider the fact that Davrin is overtly Black as well, and what that means. Acting as if one must disregard history in order to make it, as his description so claims, is bullshit. It sounds too much like promoting gentrification/assimilation in my opinion; the idea that you cannot keep your culture if you want to be successful.

I also think that it goes even deeper, on a meta level - I think that BioWare is afraid people will not be able to like or relate to Davrin, if he is "too ethnic". I think that BioWare is taking this Black character and instead of questioning how he can best represent marginalized fans - particularly Black fans - they are questioning how to make him more relatable to white fans. And the only answer to that is to, of course, make him seem like he is an exception to marginalization through separating him from his people.

I am still holding onto hope that Davrin will overall be an interesting, well-written character. And I sure as hell will still be defending him from the people who are already hating on him or ignoring him completely because of their racialized biases. But that does not exempt BioWare, and specifically his writer, John Dombrow, from any criticism. This is not about Davrin the character, this is about BioWare the company's handling of Davrin the character. And in that regard, they're not off to a great start with this.

[genericpuff]

Ive read a few of your LO esaays (all of which are really well written!) But I was wondering something.

Many people talk about how Rachel loves the story Lolita, and has talked about it before, but nobody has ever shown screenshots. I was wondering if you had any or knew where to find any. This is just being curious, not doubting your statements

Ah so I actually responded to a comment just like this a while back on reddit with all the receipts (it was particularly someone who was claiming it was all "made up" because like you, they couldn't seem to get any proof of it, which is totally valid) so I just had to go and dig those back up haha

DISCLAIMER: I want to make it clear that a lot of people tend to run amok with these suspicious pieces of evidence towards Rachel either "thinking Lolita was a romance" or being a pedophile. I want to make it clear that I do not think any of this is proof towards either of these claims. I do not think that she blatantly thinks Lolita is a romance, or that she was trying to perpetuate pedophilia in any sort of way, just that she may have wanted to have her cake and eat it too by acknowledging the age gap but embracing it anyways as she does throughout LO. I think, at best, she's a terrible writer who's still using the things she liked when she was a teenager / young adult as inspiration without actually going back and re-analyzing those things with an updated 38-year-old viewpoint (as she does this with a lot of things, not just Lolita). Claiming that the following receipts is 'proof' of Rachel being some kind of sex pest / pedophile is at best not constructive at all for the real discussions to be had concerning LO's subtext, and at worst, a serious claim that can ruin someone's life if thrown around without cause. Let's please be responsible and level-headed in how we approach this topic.

Old MySpace + DeviantArt bios with her interests listed:

Her old art site where she labels herself as a "lolita vamp" artist:

Her intro post from a lolita-themed forum she ran:

She does express that it's not THAT kind of lolita, which I'd like to think she never intended in the first place, but it's really telling that LO still manages to be that kind of lolita in a lot of ways, to the point that there are many scenes in LO that feel a little too similar to scenes from the 1990's Jeremy Irons adaptation, such as seen here.

(the above image are song lyrics written about the book, Lolita)

Also despite Rachel saying it wasn't "that kind" of lolita, she still made it clear back in the 2017/2018 run of the comic on Tumblr that Hades is, indeed, a "grown ass man", and that Persephone is a teenager.

And of course the proof is in the pudding, the comic itself is well aware of Persephone's age:

(either Rachel has been using Apollo as a mouthpiece for criticism for years, or she seriously thought this was supposed to make Hades look like the better partner for Persephone because "look at how mean Apollo is" when... he's deadass spitting facts LOL)

As I mentioned in my disclaimer, I don't think Rachel herself is in any way a sex pest or a pedo or whatever you might jump to assuming. Rachel has a history of being inspired by things she watched when she was a child without ever actually going back to re-analyze it or ask herself if what she read was credible or real-

(this isn't the only proof there is of her behaving this way, there's also the fact that she was clearly a huge Disney fan as a child but never asked herself why those movies worked as a piece of written media).

So again, I think at best she's just sort of dated herself by not going to the effort of researching the things she was into when she was a child, she tends to just throw things in that she likes haphazardly without a single thought as to why they worked in the first place or whether or not they would work in LO. Though this is a bit of a saltier opinion, I think when it comes to the Lolita thing specifically, I have a feeling she never actually read the book, just sorta did that thing where she watched the movie adaptation from the 90's and assumed that counted as reading the book and so she put it down as her favorite book / Nabokov as her favorite writer.

But none of that speculation really makes much difference because the evidence is 20+ years old. What does matter is that despite her tastes being what they were 20+ years ago, they're still present in LO and it's not even subtle, there are so many times Rachel has outright said both within the comic and outside of it that Hades is a "grown ass man" and Persephone is a literal teenager. Her fans, of course, will still go to the effort of explaining it on her behalf ("they're gods! ageing isn't a thing for them!" "how old you are doesn't matter when you can be immortal!" "well she probably doesn't mean LITERALLY 19, just like, the god version of it..."), but you can't deny what's coming from the horse's mouth - Hades and Persephone are in a relationship based on an intentionally massive age gap. Regardless of what completely speculative parallels we can draw between H x P and that of Lolita's Humbert Humbert and Dolores using 20 year old MySpace bios as evidence, Hades and Persephone having a massive and intentional age gap is undeniable fact made canon by the creator herself, no matter how you try and slice it.

[raeynbowboi]

Playing a Heroic Necromancer in DnD 5e

Necromancy is one of the most evil-skewed powers in just about any fantasy setting. However, unless you're running a villain campaign, most DnD parties are made up of heroes who won't like having an evil character in their midst. You want to play a necromancer, but you also realize that DnD is a very collaborative game. So, how do you make your party more amicable towards the thought of you raising a family? Here's some possible backstory ideas that can fuel a heroic necromancer for your next campaign.

The Scholar

The taboo, illegal, or forbidden nature of studying necromancy drew your interest. Whether you studied with a secret sect, uncovered a grimoire of necromantic magic, or made a deal with a devil for profane knowledge, you were driven by a desire to study magic. The sparse availability of necromancy forces you to remain mobile, making party formation easy. You may be hunted by law enforcement, clerics of Kelemvor, or other necromancers angry at you for stealing their arcane secrets. And now that you know what so many tried to hide from you, it's your choice how to use it.

The Chronicaller

History is written by the victors, the rich, and the powerful. But every life holds valuable knowledge and secrets. Ancient bones know things lost to time. Knowledge that was never written down. Stories which have not been spoken in centuries. Opinions of the common people during a historical event. Experience with phenomenon that can no longer be encountered. The Chronicaller wishes to unearth the secrets of the past already laid to rest.

The Physician

The Frankenstein of Necromancers wishes to understand the medical and scientific elements of life and death itself. To understand the body by inspecting it and digging into it. They may study how to cure diseases or how to spread them. Try to find a way to slow or even halt the slow decomposition that turns the body elderly and frail.

The Thayan Rebel

Once a Red Wizard of Thay, you have left Thay and the Red Wizards, letting your hair grow back slowly as you seek to expand your arcane talents beyond the limitations of Thayan conquest and oppression. The Red Wizards and Szas Tam become personal antagonists for your character and party as a result.

The Undead

Be they a Revenant, a Dhampir, a Vampire, a Lich, or something else, they are already imbued with undead power. They simply embrace their anti-life energy already flowing through them, channeling a power most others would avoid. You may be undead, but you desire to staunchly defend the living from other undead who are less compassionate.

The General

A wizard with a soldier background and optional martial multiclassing, your undead horde is your army of loyal soldiers, putting their lives on the line again and again to serve their general. An Oathbreaker 7/wizard 6 adds your CHA mod to undead within 10 ft, and proficiency bonus to all undead you control. But the steep dip into paladin locks you out from higher level spell slots for stronger undead minions.

The Noble

Similar to the general, the undead serve you out of loyalty, not fear or force. But where the general commands their soldiers, the Noble may command their staff of servants, their commoner citizens, their knights and soldiers, or their own noble ancestors. The Noble utilizes their horde to fulfil the services and duties of their noble house. They're just as likely to conscript skeletons to pave a road or build a bridge as they are to form a wave of zombies to break up a smuggling ring in their city.

The Immortal Guardian

You have or want to become immortal not out of power hunger or greed, but to protect the innocent forever as an unwavering guardian against evil. Everyday people can't protect themselves, and even legendary heroes die eventually. Only an immortal protector can be an eternal defender of the people.

I hope if nothing else, this gave you some ideas for some good and noble necromancers you could bring to your next table. Did I miss any Heroic concepts that you thought of? Let me know, and help make the world a more morbid place.

[peargor]

Not quite sure if sent the message cause bad internet connection so i'll just paste the whole thing here again incase:

Hey peargor!(donno if you're still using tumblr bt whatever) Let me Congrats ya for your coming completion on Touhou project first (yay恭喜)

Here's the wandering dude from mainland china(typical netizen lol)and randomly clicked into ya website while visiting webrings & link collections.Lotta ideas jump through my head and letme say a few words below: BoTWR's really a good series from my perspective,like,Dispite having gaps when understanding the lore,i still can kinda understand the characters,from core to spirit(Cantonese's partly cognizable for mandarin viewers so it kinda fun when lookin' zoey swearing lol)I guess a variety of mainland audience would like it too.Like,it even inspired me to have a look back into the history and mess 'n hongkong on the "great firewall" and made me sorta think deeply about all these mess……but anyways,here's imaginary non medal stickers：

"Mandarin approved"and

"i concerned for la nation"(just kidding),

and i'll keep focusing on the series(actually the others' quite adorable too,sure it took me a while to realize that you actually deeply involve in internet meme culture,after the shock when i found you do made the pogchamp meme gosh)

Btw Just wondering,did the reading disorder cause you to use more english in written form stuff?

Looking forward for the upcoming new chapters yet a few more words:

1:LIT ' O TOMMIE DESERVES ＢＥＴＴＥＲ Yo

Poor tommy,hope he 'll get a chance to be a man

2:mmm how and what would zoey's dad be…… He's sorta a villain for now but i hope he's just a dude who failed to correct his own fault by force or "internal error"?

3:that color can be some exposure of one's emotion thing.yeah classic "into head" thingy but perhaps it means more deep than what it seems?Maybe Blue represents the sadness,niche thoughts,hopeless rational thinking,Yellow's cheerfully craziness,Red's cruelly dialectical greedin' justice,and BLACK's something unresist-able unless you learn some real floyd's philosophy thing?

You can get some new referencing idea from the old HK's TVB show like "大时代"(The Greed of a man),also some new from mainland that accidentally have more coverage report on hk which apple dailys' doesn't(?),Trust me,gotta be good for setting both character and lore

Whatever,Best wishes on not getting perished by cops!(pretty sure you won't be cause you probably haven't spoke something politically for at least 2 years on the public internet and you won't be caught for drawing "china virus girl?" and political comments too early haha)

PS:Try to get yourself a fan-base besides the old social meida the X,patron,like a mewe,discord group somethin' alike for a better place for talks 'n discussion i suppose?

Hi fellow netizen! I'm sure the mainland would like to read the comics but that really opens up a can of worms that I'm not prepared to deal with yet, so for now I'll refrain from translating the comics.

1: Tommy has the happiest life compared to the rest of the main cast I wouldn't worry too much about him lol

2: mm it's much more complicated, I also think my audience expects a political opinion from me. It ties to my own experiences with asian culture in general. I am very critical, but I think the public expectation to what I'm critical of is kinda skewed at the moment. There's so much nuance to this story I hope people have a healthy discussion over the conclusion of Zoey's arc in the future.

3: Yellow, Blue and Red are the key colours. What they represent is up to your own interpretation. To me yellow is the self/your values, blue is career/ambition, and red is religion/community/family. There's more colours down the road but these are the most important ones. If there's going to be discussions over the story please feel free to create those spaces! I haven't done so because I am the main writer and I would like these things to happen naturally in the future. It feels wrong for me to create a space as someone with complete authority over the story.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts on IWBTWR! Sorry it took so long to respond, I've been trying to find the words to convery my thoughts properly.

[veliseraptor]

April Reading Recap

Stars of Chaos vol. 2 by Priest. I'm not quite grabbed by this one yet. I'm not not enjoying it, but the main relationship doesn't quite have me compelled, and the politics aren't quite sharp enough to get me either. I'm not totally sure I'll keep buying the published volumes, at least not at this time, and just read the rest online to see how I end up feeling about it as a whole before making the financial commitment.

Medea by Eilish Quin. Listen, I'm a Medea apologist, but I'm a Medea apologist who is very much of the "she absolutely did all the awful things she's accused of and she is valid" and the author here is going "she did all the awful things she's accused of but it's not as bad as you thought it was because she didn't mean it!" and I'm just. I'm not mad, just disappointed (again). I was so hoping for a book that would do something interesting with a Medea retelling but I probably should've known better than to think it'd be this one. Why, you may ask, do I keep reading myth retellings about my problematic faves when all I do is complain about them? Hope springs eternal, I guess.

She Who Became the Sun and He Who Drowned the World by Shelley Parker-Chan. Exceptional. Might be my favorite books I read in April. I'd already read She Who Became the Sun back when it was first published and knew I'd enjoyed it (was rereading to refresh my memory for the sequel), but I felt like I enjoyed it more the second time around, and I might've liked He Who Drowned the World even more than its predecessor. If you're looking for works of just-barely fantasy with delightfully fucked up queer characters, come get 'em here. I won't say most of them are happy (they're not) or that things end well (they don't), but boy is it good reading.

The Death of Jane Lawrence by Caitlin Starling. Decent horror but not particularly outstanding, in my opinion. I liked The Luminous Dead more.

Untethered Sky by Fonda Lee. I continue to struggle with novellas. This was a perfectly good novella but it felt like it could've been a stronger short story, which I guess is better than the other way I usually come out of novellas, which is "this was a fine novella but it should've been a novel."

The Mountain in the Sea by Ray Nayler. I really liked this. It has more of a thriller-ish edge than I expected, but for all that I think it's a thoughtful book with some interesting things to say, and I feel like it's one I want more people to read so I can talk to them about it. It's set in a sort-of spooky, near-future dystopia, but a lot of it is about, like, the nature of thought and consciousness. Anyway, I found myself compelled.

Islands of Abandonment: Nation Rebounding in the Post-Human Landscape by Cal Flyn. I found myself reading this thinking a lot about The World Without Us, a book I read many years ago and would kind of like to reread, and which I think I liked more than this (at least in my memory). I was hoping for more analysis than I got from this book, which was beautifully written but more nature/travel writing than science. One thing I did appreciate was the attention paid to the human cost of the "abandoned" places examined in this book - the pain that abandonment often signifies, and the trauma it indicates, in spite of the beauty that may come after.

Emperor of Rome: Ruling the Ancient Roman World by Mary Beard. I really liked the way that Beard chose to do this one - namely, taking it by theme rather than by emperor, and breaking down different areas of the emperor's life over time rather than trying to tell a linear narrative. It also let her do some of the better "skeptical" reading of sources that I've read in a popular book on ancient history, where she was actually digging into the "rather than what this says about what this person may or may not have actually done, what does it say about expectations, beliefs, and tropes that people had" kind of reading. And after some of the other popular histories of Rome I've read, thank god for that.

Metamorphoses by Ovid, trans. Stephanie McCarter. Continuing on with my "reading new translations (by women!) of classical epics" run (started with The Odyssey, The Iliad is on my list). It was fun to reread Ovid! As usual one of my favorite parts of this was reading the translator's note and introduction, and I wanted about 500% more of that through the text (tell me about the assonance you're preserving in the Latin!) but did get some of (thanks for the information on the penis/pubic hair puns!). Overall would recommend as a good translation of Ovid that very much does not flinch away from - and makes/keeps appropriately uncomfortable - the sexual assault.

Dark Rise by C.S. Pacat. Slightly more YA than I usually like, but I enjoyed it! I was a little :\ about it for a while, very much feeling the YA cliches of it all, but the late hour twist got me interested again, and I will be picking up the sequel. Did miss the full balls-to-the-wall iddy joy of Captive Prince, though, since I probably wouldn't have picked this book up without the author recognition.

Subversive Sequels in the Bible: How Biblical Stories Mine and Undermine Each Other by Judy Klitsner. I really liked this one, particularly for its commentary comparing and contrasting Eve, and the other women of Genesis, with later Biblical narratives. I don't know how much I buy all of her arguments when it comes to intentionality of all of the comparisons she's drawing, but it certainly makes interesting food for thought, and a good sampler for me of what literary-based Biblical scholarship can look like (and an indication that I'm interested in trying more of it).

Use of Weapons by Iain M. Banks. I read most of my way through this book continuing to really appreciate what Banks does with the Culture novels and planning to continue on reading the next one, but not enjoying this specific one as much as I did The Player of Games in particular, and then I got to the very end of it and went "hang on what the fuck???" but in a decidedly good way. And I'm still kind of thinking about That even though it's been a while, which I think is a positive. Anyway, I don't think I'd recommend this as a starting place for anyone to read the Culture novels, or as a must read, but it was on the upper end of a three star rating.

Juniper & Thorn by Ava Reid. I wanted this to be more gothic horror and less romance and it ended up being more romance and less gothic horror, was my feeling. Not necessarily the book's fault, but if anyone else is eyeing it wondering...now you know.

A Deadly Education by Naomi Novik. I really enjoyed this one! I was kind of skeptical going in - I'm not a big magic school person, as a rule, and the more I feel like something is hyped to me the more I tend to drag my heels about it - but Naomi Novik is really good at what she does and she clearly had a lot of fun here. It's tropey for sure, but I enjoy the narrative voice (very important, in a first person narration), and the action moves along with what I felt was pretty good momentum. The other thing I was worried about - that it'd feel too much like this was just ~commentary on/against Harry Potter~ without saying anything for itself - didn't materialize for me. I'm looking forward to reading the next ones.

The Monster Theory Reader ed. by Jeffrey Andrew Weinstock. I'm so rusty on my academic/theory reading and I felt it reading this collection, some of which was definitely better than others. Kristeva's essay on abjection was particularly rough as far as "I'm reading words and I know all the words but something about the order they're going in is just not making sense to me." Overall...it was a decent primer? There were a few very interesting essays in there; my favorite might've been the one on tanuki in modernizing Japan's folklore, but there were a couple on "monstrous" bodies that made me wish I had someone to discuss them with. That's probably my main problem reading academic works these days: I want a seminar to dissect them afterwards and I just don't have that.

The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man by Abraham Joshua Heschel. I'm trying to read something Jewish on Shabbat now and finally getting around to reading some Heschel after years of meaning to. I thought "oh, I'll start easy with something nice and short" - yeah, no, Heschel's got a very particular style of writing and there's a lot of theological depth packed into a very short volume. I'm looking forward to reading The Prophets, though.

The Husky and His White Cat Shizun vol. 5 by Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou. I think we're juuuuust about caught up now with the official translation to where I started reading the machine translation, so I'm very excited for (a) things I don't remember as well (b) reading it not in machine translation. Also looking forward to everything about what happened with Nangong Liu and Nangong Xu making more sense this time around, on account of not reading it machine translated, because I didn't follow it so well on my first read and I feel like I'm already doing better. (Though that could also be because it's a reread, no matter how different an experience of one.) Still feel real bad for Ye Wangxi, on so many levels. Mark that one down for 'characters I'd love to know more about what they're thinking.'

The Water Outlaws by S.L. Huang. I really enjoyed S.L. Huang's other work with the Cas Russell series, and I liked this book a little less than those. It felt like an almost winner, for me. Certainly I read through it quickly enough, and I can say I enjoyed it, but I'm not sure I'd give it an enthusiastic recommendation. It falls somewhere in the middle between "a fun action/adventure story" and "something I can sink my teeth into" in a way that didn't quite satisfy either itch. Still, it did make me curious about the source material, which is one of the Chinese classics (Water Margin) and I might go and find a place to read that, if I can; if I'd had that background going in I wonder if my experience of this work would've been more edifying.

--

I'm currently rereading A Memory Called Empire so I can (finally) read the sequel (A Desolation Called Peace); I also checked out from the library the next two Scholomance books so I'll be reading those. I'm going to try to throw some nonfiction somewhere in there (maybe The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman, which I also have out from the library, but maybe something else), but I've still got the sequel to The First Sister sitting on my shelf (also from the library).

Outside of that I've got no big reading plans - I'm working my way through some of the unreads on my own shelf (despite what it may look like, about the library books) and eyeing The Doors of Eden by Adrian Tchaikovsky or a reread of Foundryside by Robert Jackson Bennett so I can continue that series.

[alittlehatboi]

So, now that The Lake House DLC for AW2 has come out and threw some lore our way, I want to put my thoughts out there for the definition of Art per The Dark Place's/Presence's logic and what kind of Art affects reality (and how it affects reality) near Cauldron Lake.

Spoilers for AW2 and it's DLC and Control ahead.

So, firstly, the artform of the Art itself may not be as important as I (I do not want to imply that my opinion was the consensus) had assumed. As the Lake House implies through one of Diana Marmont's recordings, the emotions (in the case of Rudolph Lane and Alan Wake, distress/misery) of the artist has correlation with the amount of power an art piece has. An example within the DLC is Rudolph Lane.

The capital-P Painting that's the catalyst for the events of The Lake House is created after the painter (Rudolph Lane) had experienced years of abuse in the captivity of the Marmonts. He made a 'self-portrait' with his blood, literally pouring himself and the hatred for the Marmonts, the misery and pain that he had experienced up to that point into it. Rudolph dies immediately after creating this Painting from blood loss. This emotional act of creation resulted in reality changing.

This stands in contrast to the previous attempts by the Marmonts to reverse-engineer Art by having an AI replicate Wake's writing. This AI-Wake was not recognized by Cauldron Lake as Art.

We can reason that the lack of emotion in the AI's Art was the leading cause of failure in this endeavour.

So, we could draw a conclusion that it is not the artform that makes the Art, but the Artist, the raw emotion put into the work (Rudolph Lane, Alan Wake). The overwhelmingly negative emotions of the Artists (Rudolph's distress in captivity, Alan's 13 years in The Dark Place/Alice falling into the lake) should not be excluded as a factor here too, as it seems the Dark Presence latches onto dark and grim subjects and subject matters more often than not. (Night Springs DLC all being Alan's attempts to write, all having a much more light-hearted tone, all failing to come true.)

Though there is the outlier of The Old Gods Of Asgard, who seem to put positive emotion into their Art and still make it come true. But that being a part of Alan's/Scratch's story might be a variable. But then again, Control (at least, not entirely) isnt written by Wake, and an OGOA song has power there.

So Art, as per The Dark Place, is any (not sure about 'any') creation that the Artist has put considerable amounts of emotion into.

Now that we know what Art is, let's discuss it's effects.

Even before Rudolph Lane made The Painting, his art seemed to have prophetic ability. The FBC couldn't confirm the accuracy of this future-sight because they just couldn't know the events depicted won't happen, but we know at least 40% of these paintings came true. This poses the question: Is Art created near Cauldron Lake changing reality or merely predicting it? While we know it to be the former in the case of Alan Wake, literally changing the history and relationships of multiple characters during Return, but with Rudolph, it is a lot more ambiguous, as we don't have Saga, who can see through the story to confirm a reality shift. Same with the OGOA. Are they predicting that the AWE in Ordinary will happen, or are they making it happen? And while Alan does change reality in AW2, there are some cases in which he seems to predict or recap something that he shouldn't be able to (inner thoughts, FBC History), not outright change it. Diana Marmont raises this exact question when a page of Return concerns her history in the FBC and relationship with Jules Marmont. What came first? Alan's story or their own choices? While it is not confirmed that Alan didn't change reality to instigate conflict between the Marmonts, Diana herself seems to believe that her deteriorating relationship is her own/Jules' fault/responsibility.

So, the question is: would have the events at The Lake House happened if Alan hadn't written the story, or would they have still happened, just without Estevez (or in the case of the main story, Saga) to put an end to it?

[acotar-taylorsversion]

So for some reason I got lost in the Elucien side of tik tok and, of course, they are convinced they are endgame. They are the ones who think Elain avoids Lucien because she’s trying to suppress her attraction to him and what not, but I just think that’s silly. Even though I agree with them about how we don’t know what’s going on in her head, I just find that theory ridiculous, especially when you look at the overall text that surrounds Elain and Lucien.

I am an Elriel supporter and have been since 2017, but I always have that “what if” in the back of my mind because we all know Sarah can just completely forget about what she’s written and do something totally different. My biggest fear is that I won’t ever accept Lucien. Like, I only really support him when I read those tiny moments when he’s talking about or with Vassa, because I can see that. But I’m scared I won’t ever accept Lucien or Elucien because of what we know.

I’ve never truly connected with Lucien. I always saw him as the annoying one. I never could understand why everyone finds him attractive or charming. I moved on quickly when we learned about his history, it didn’t really affect me. He’s just annoying to me. And I know he’s not a bad guy, like I don’t hate him. I just don’t care for him. I literally forgot all about his character in acomaf until he showed up again to kidnap Feyre, and I was totally dumbfounded when he said Elain was his mate. It was the most random thing to me. I remember reading that part 3 times because I thought I was crazy. And I was so so happy when he volunteered to go search for Vassa because that meant he was going to be gone for a while in acowar, and then I forgot about him again unless he was brought up. He’s just a very forgettable character to me and it’s going to take a lot for my opinion to change. Like I honestly hate that someone like Elain got mated to someone like him. It’s the most random thing.

Like 3 brothers x 3 sisters just makes so much sense to me and it’s so perfectly even and symmetrical. 2 brothers x 2 sisters, 1 sister x random guy, 1 brother x random girl just doesn’t make sense at all.

I don’t think I could enjoy the series anymore if Sarah has planned for Elucien and gwynriel all this time because why spend all that time building up Elriel? And I’m sorry, but people who say that they didn’t see Elriel moments as romantic clearly didn’t read them. I know we interpret things differently, but y’all are just delusional if you can’t see that.

I’ll go ahead and say it. The main reason I support vassien is because it gives Lucien a happy ending while elain is free to love who she wants and not who she is told to by the cauldron or whatever. I hate that she is being forced to make a decision that she should never have to make. And it’s not like we don’t have a reason to support vassien, there are some cute little moments between Vassa and Lucien. But even, with a vassien pov, I don’t think I would enjoy Lucien’s part. Another thing, I could totally see him dying. I’ve always thought he would seeing how he was becoming feyre’s friend and what not. That usually happens to that type of character in fantasy stories.

Who knows, though 🤷🏻‍♀️. I’m just over all these things with the fandom here lately. From the doxx threats, forcing artists to quit creating art for us because of the hate they receive, the teasing from Bloomsbury, and this stupid ship war, I’m just mentally exhausted from it.

Sorry for the rant, guys. I’ll be more positive next time, hopefully lol 😆

Hope everyone is doing good after all that’s happened ♥️

[subzeroparade]

*chant* New fic! New fic! New fic!

So excited you’ve posted a new ER fic, and with a teaser for more to come! 🎉🎉🎉

Since it’s been awhile, maybe I poke your brain on what your thoughts on the DLC are (game play, lord, sceneries, anything you’d like to share with us really)? Has it changed your headcanon on any of the characters, or did you find ways to incorporate the new lores into your interpretations? Most importantly, did you have fun?

*tagged for spoilers but just in case - spoilers •‿•*

Did I enjoy it? YES. Did I have qualms with some gameplay bits? YES but I’m a filthy casual on NG+2 or something and generally Not Good at Game. But I beat it. 

As for lore, it’s really a mixed bag. There’s a ton of stuff I’m delighted to have new or expanded lore for - Marika’s origins, Belurat and the entirety of Hornsent culture, Godwyn’s Death Knights, BAYLE???? VILE BAYLE!!!! etc etc (sometimes I listen to Igon’s voice lines just to psych myself up for real life). There are things I need to adjust my headcanon for a little, as well - St Trina, for example, has always been a facet of Miquella himself to me, a sort of alter ego he willingly takes on, which is how I enjoyed writing her in fic. To have her elaborated here as a separate person means taking that a little further if I write him/her/them again, but I think the parallel it draws between Marika/Radagon is hugely interesting as well.  

iirc there are a couple of instances in the base game where lore almost contradicts itself, but I think in some cases the DLC got a little sloppy. The timeline is also way foggier to me now than it was previously. I was a big fan of the idea that Messmer was entirely unknown to his siblings, written out of history after the Crusade (predating Marika ushering in the Golden Age of the Erdtree), but that contradicts the lore we get on Gaius and Radahn as they’re both personally acquainted with Messmer, and makes me wonder which of the other demigods might’ve been aware of him, and under what pretences might they have met. It makes for a lot of fic ideation, but I’m of the opinion that if you’re writing fic, sticking too closely to (the sometimes unhelpful) lore will stultify the work; so I’m trying to pluck little instances of new lore that interest me to bolster the story I want to tell.  

Like most of the fandom I have a huge beef with Promised Consort Radahn, and I’m still struggling with how to work that into my headcanon. To me, there is simply no reason for it. There are no indications of it in the base game, and you have to tie yourself into continuity knots for it to make any sense - and that’s just bad writing. I’m not against retconning things if they serve a purpose, but this was neither useful nor necessary (nor well done), and that’s fundamentally disappointing for a Fromsoft game. The more people aggressively try and justify it, the more I feel like the potential explanations unravel. If we’re going along with the assumption that Miquella *needs* a lord to ascend, we’ve had Candidate #1 since the base game: Godwyn. Half of what we know about base-game Miquella is that he spent time and resources trying to grant Godwyn some form of peace, while his hideous fate hangs over the narrative in perpetuity. And we give Radahn closure literally in the first act of the game. I’m a firm believer in Miquella knowing 100% what he’s about, but in this singular instance blinded by love for Godwyn and an all-consuming desire to *fix this* by resurrecting some nightmarish, malformed version of him. There’s so much juicy story to be told in Miquella refusing to acknowledge the thing he brought back is not his brother, and for all that godhood and remaking the world into utter passivity can do, it can’t retrieve Godwyn’s irretrievable soul. All that to say, I’d even take Malenia as his promised consort - it would made more sense than Radahn, too.

Anyway tldr I don’t have to think about how disappointing that is now, because the fic I’m working on is around Marika’s ascension, and more specifically Messmer and Melina’s upbringing. There’s another on the backburner but I’m on the fence about it since it hasn’t reached an outline stage yet, and I don’t start anything unless I am 100% sure I know how to finish it, and finish it well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Ty for the ask! As is the case with me, the rest of my musings on the lore come through in fic writing, because those are the texts dumps I’m good at. Here’s a little (young) Melina and Messmer wip as thanks. 

[anjaelle]

The Next Great American Epic

Pairings: Professor!Oscar Isaac x Black Female!Reader

Warnings: Oral (f!receiving), Age Gap (Reader is in mid-late 20s), Student x Teacher Relationship, Unprotected Sex (strap up, people), implied infidelity

Summary: Professor Hernandez Estrada is a proven smartass and literary genius. As much as you can't stand the way he tears your work to shreds, you can't help but respect him and hold his opinion of you in high regard.

Word Count: 4.2K

a/n: Based on this post and the intense love I have for gray, studious looking Oscar. I started this in July 2022, and I'm just now finishing it. I'm semi ashamed but also not. Don't judge me.

(gif source)

Oscar treated every lecture like a performance, to some degree. You could feel the passion behind his words and knew he spent countless sleepless nights dissecting the language of the great intellectuals before him.

He was a nerd, thus, incredibly attractive in that "dad's best friend who's a museum curator and laughs at his own history jokes" kind of way. His written work was brilliant. You wanted to impress him. Not just because he was cute--though that was a bonus--but because he pissed you off with how incredibly critical he was of you. You were convinced he did it just to fuck with you, specifically, for shits and giggles. Every so often, you'd zone out imagining him cackling madly at your work, using his Red Pen of Death to hurt your pride. Sometimes you'd imagine a deeply passionate argument between you two, ending with you throwing things. Sometimes it ended with you splayed out on his desk. Again.

When that happened, you'd mentally return to the lecture and find him looking at you, curiously. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that he could read your thoughts.

He paced the front of the room in a heavy black sweater with the sleeves rolled up, occasionally pushing his thick rimmed glasses up his nose as he spoke. The brief pauses he took to sip water or ask a question were punctuated by the click-clack of keyboards throughout the room. Or, in your case, the shuffling of papers. Writing with pen to paper helped your scattered brain remember things better, though you couldn't help but feel largely out of touch for the archaic method of note-taking.

"Who decides what literary work is inherently American?" He asked to the class, "Where's the line? When the artist of color is placed into a box as an 'other' or designated as American with an asterisk, are publications and critics implying that the author is not truly American?

"After all," he said, removing his glasses to wipe them, "the cultural zeitgeist is shaped by an amalgamation of many experiences. Is the story of an immigrant from Colombia 100 years ago any less American than the tale of a farmer from Oklahoma during the Great Depression? When we ask for tried and true stories of American Grit, whose stories are we reading?"

Sure, he said that experiences mattered. But, god, was he anal about the details. The newest revision of your work peeked from behind your notebook, scarred in red ink. When you received it back earlier that afternoon, you resisted the burning desire to throw it back at him and tell him to eat a dick. The first couple of times he shot your writing down, you could understand perfectly what he was looking for. This time, you were sure that you were following his advice down to the letter, and it still wasn't good enough for him.

He absentmindedly pushed his salt and pepper curls from his forehead and you wanted to flip a table.

Oscar paused his pacing in front of your desk as you scribbled your thoughts down. You chanced a glance at him to find him already looking over your notes.

"Huh," he had the audacity to smile at you and mutter softly, "Nice handwriting."

Your cheeks warmed at the praise of your neatly looping cursive. The eyes of your peers burned into your back.

He gently tapped your desk with his calloused knuckle and continued on with his lecture, as if his little comment was just a natural part of his daily performance. It was the first time in a while that you'd interacted with him in a way that didn't involve him explaining why your marked up thesis was shit. You could appreciate the compliment, even if it had nothing to do with the quality of the work you put blood, sweat, and tears into.

And now you were annoyed again.

You knew that Oscar wasn't surprised to find you standing outside of his office. A polite smile graced his lips, though something else flickered across his features that you vaguely recognized. You plastered your own polite smile on your face and waved your thick stack of paper at him.

"Explain, Oscar."

Without another word, he tiredly unlocked his office door and motioned for you to enter the roomy space. Numerous large bookcases lined the wall parallel to his desk, and stacks of newspapers and literary journals decorated the ottoman rug that spanned the width of his office. A small fridge and espresso machine sat on a desk in the corner. Above it was a fading portrait of a young looking South Asian man with neatly combed hair and a trimmed mustache, wearing a smart looking suit. The first time you saw it, you surmised by the aged clothing and studious expression that it was a portrait of the university’s very first professor of color, Benjamin Kapoor.

The office was nearly the size of your studio apartment. Perfect for the department head, you thought. The minute he shut the door behind him, he sighed and ran his hand down his face.

"Well, first of all, 'Hey Oscar, how are you?' I'm great. Thanks for asking," He sarcastically quipped. “Would you like some coffee? Maybe some tea, if you’re cutting back on your habit, again?”

"Small talk is redundant," you handed him your papers, "you know why I'm here."

He plopped down in the plush chair behind his desk, and you followed suit on the couch beside it. His chair creaked as he leaned back and thumbed through the pages, reading his own notes. You couldn't quite get a read on his perception, but he hummed in thought. After a couple of minutes he handed your work back to you and shrugged.

"In simple terms: it's mechanical. You’re holding back on putting emotion into your characters. Your protagonist's factory worker father and merchant marine brother don’t feel real. It's too matter-of-fact. Too cold."

You shook your head in frustration, "I don't understand. First, you tell me that my language is too flowery. Now you're saying it's too mechanical. Which is it? Pick a criticism, because now it just feels like you're pulling it out of your ass."

The words slipped out before you could catch them, and your eyes widened in surprise at the venom laced in your tone. But, to your surprise, Oscar just laughed.

"Look, find a middle ground. I don't know how else to state it any plainer than I already have."

You wondered if you'd get expelled for throwing his briefcase out the window.

"I'm glad you think your bias is funny."

His expression changed at the implication, and he stared at you in confusion.

"Bias? Jesus, is that what you think?"

The words you'd been holding in for the majority of the semester came spilling out of you.

"I feel like you don't really respect me as a writer," you crossed your arms, "You think I'm stupid. Or incompetent. But this right here," you motioned to the paper in your lap, "This is just ridiculous. It's nitpicking and tearing my work to shreds. Do you get something out of this? This story means a lot to me. It's the story of my family. Do you understand the level of research and reading it took to bring this work into fruition? With all due respect, it's fucking hard, Oscar. I'm doing the best I can."

He merely stared at you with furrowed brows, "With as long as my tenure has been—for as long as you’ve known me, you think I don't know this?" He stood up from his chair and sat on the edge of his desk in front of you, "You think this problem is unique to you? I aim to challenge all of my students."

You laughed humorlessly, "I've seen the notes you write on other people's stories. It's nowhere near the same level of harsh."

"To you, it may not be."

"I still don't understand what you want from me. More details. Less details. More emotion. Less emotion. Descriptors, but not too descriptive. Make your characters realistic, but oh no, not too mundane. It's all bullshit--"

"It's missing the essence of you." He confessed, scratching his bearded chin, "Your story reads like something anyone could write. The only personal touches in your story--and if you notice, the only things I haven't edited much--are your letters and journal entries. They give a clear idea of how your characters interact with one another. And I think you add a little bit of yourself to them, outside of the narrative.

"Your voice is prevalent in everything you write. Unique and intuitive. Your work isn’t you, Bee. I miss...that."

There was a pregnant pause. Your stomach swooped at the slip of your old nickname, and you crossed your legs to stop the nervous fidgeting. He swallowed hard, and toyed with the watch on his wrist.

"I think..." you began, meeting his eyes for the first time, "I think I'm subconsciously trying to sound like you. Even though you piss me off."

He barked out a laugh, "I don't know if that's a compliment or a testament to how I can improve."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. He soldiered on.

"You're a brilliant writer. I just know you can do better," he drummed his fingers on his desk. Suddenly he grinned at you, "You've read my writing? You like my writing? And you're admitting it freely? And here I was thinking you hated me." Now it was your turn to furrow your brows in confusion. Catching your expression, he explained, "Every time I look at you, you either look bored, lost in your own thoughts, or like you want to murder me. And then there's the arguing--"

"I don't hate you, Oscar. You just exhaust me." You said, standing up to meet him at eye level. "You'd argue with you, too. You can't always be the only sarcastic asshole in the room."

He looked at you with a mix of amusement and what you could only describe as relief. He leaned forward, letting out a deep breath he seemed to be holding the entire time. You were close enough to smell his favorite dark roast coffee and his signature cologne--something bold, but warm and comfy. Kind of like him.

"Did you have any other questions? About the thesis or...something? You know you can ask me anything." he crossed his arms over his chest. Was he flexing? The thought tickled you.

"Just one. But not about the thesis." You asked, gently, taking a step towards him, "You said every time you look at me, I look pensive. How often do you look at me?"

He eyed you slowly. Fire danced behind his gaze, despite his calm demeanor. It reminded you of the look on his face when he read a moving sonnet or recited romantic prose. The sight of him looking at you like his favorite work of art made your belly warm. After a beat of silence that dragged on for ages, he licked his lips and shook his head, finally tearing his eyes away from you. He murmured, "More often than I should." Then he sighed, "We shouldn't be having this conversation. I'm not--it's..."

"No you're right," you began, feeling the rush of bravery trickling from your quickly beating heart, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You could never do that. It's just not professional--"

"It's SUPER unprofessional actually--"

"--you could lose your grant and--"

"--you JUST finalized the divorce--"

"--implicit bias and difficulty being objective--"

"--it's just a passing thought."

He pushed away from the desk, taking a step closer to you, and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"Maybe..." he cleared his throat, "you might want to...go."

You nodded, "I should leave."

"I could walk you out."

Neither of you made another move and his fingers tapped on his thigh. You watched his eyes travel from your face and down your body, as if he could see right through your clothes.

"Are you?"

He was so close that you could count every single strand of hair in his thick, coarse beard.

"Am I...?" He questioned, eyes dropping to your lips.

"Going to walk me out?" You finished. You could see him weighing his options. He glanced at the door, then back at you.

“I…it’s—” He sighed again, “I miss you, Bee.”

You wanted to get mad and tell him that he wasn’t allowed to do this. You felt stupid for being so easily baited by a smile and sharp wit. Instead of being smart and telling him to fuck off, you shook your head.

“You miss feeling wanted,” you corrected, “You don’t miss me.”

“You don’t know how wrong that is. Do you know how many times I’ve gone out with other women and found myself thinking ‘I wonder what Bee’s doing right now. Is she with someone else? Am I making a mistake?’” He removed a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed it on the desk, “I thought I was making a good choice. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.”

“A good choice for who, exactly?” You asked, eyeing him with skepticism.

“For both of us. For you.”

You could admit that hooking up with him while he was in the process of a divorce was messy. For the brief 3 months you were together over the summer, you couldn’t stop being doubtful. It blurred the lines of whether he was fucking his sadness away or if he truly had feelings for you. You felt your fingers twitch as if they wanted to reach out and grab him. Instead, you shoved your traitorous hand into your back pocket. You were petty enough to not be the first one to make a move.

“The thing is, Oscar, I’m a grown woman and I don’t need you to make decisions for me.” You countered, “I might be younger, sure, but I’m not a kid.”

“I know.” He agreed, quietly.

“You said you wanted time to process things—”

“33 Weeks,” he said, suddenly, “An arduous, sunless, painful 33 weeks without you. I never fully understood the pain of missing you until I was forced to see you and not touch you. Every time you speak or look at me or challenge me, I feel even more stupid for letting you go.”

You couldn’t help yourself, “You are stupid.”

You cracked a smile at him and he smiled back, eyes crinkling at the corners behind his frames. He reached out and caressed your face, tracing a calloused thumb along your cheek and resting his forehead against yours.

“Goddamn you’re beautiful,” he groaned, slowly closing his eyes. You could trace every wrinkle, freckle, and scar with a finger from memory, if you wanted to. The spearmint gum he favored between smoke breaks tickled your nose, and his hand slipped down to the point where your throat met your clavicle.

You were keenly aware that your pulse was thrumming rapidly under his pen-calloused fingers, and that your chest rose and fell in quick succession. You closed the space between you, pulling him in for a deep kiss. The traitorous hand that freed itself from the confines of your pocket curled into his sweater. Oscar's arm snaked around your waist and the hand near your throat tightened, pulling a low, strained moan out of you. He mockingly mimicked your moan and pulled away to kiss along your jaw.

"You need to be a little quiet, Bee," he nipped at your skin and you smiled, "you don't want the others to hear, do you?"

You opened your eyes to meet his gaze, and you knew he could see the devilish glint dancing in them.

"I mean, I can try."

When you stretched out over his tidy mahogany desk and he pushed your legs apart, hiking your skirt over your ass, you couldn't help the self-satisfied grin that pulled at your lips. You wanted this for so long. You craved it. None of the toys in your nightstand could compare to the feeling of his strong hands on your thighs and the feel of his tongue teasing you open.

"Oh my god...look at you," he sighed, burying his face deep between your legs. You giggled, running your fingers through his curls to grab a handful and pulling a soft groan from his lips. Your hips twitched when he pressed a firm thumb against the front of your panties. The way his breath hitched left a deeper feeling of longing that seemed alien to you. And as he peeled the fabric to the side and spread you open to him, his free hand gripped your thigh greedily and hiked your leg up with your knee to your chest.

You felt your heart thrumming in your ears with anticipation and the major thrill of someone potentially walking in on you with his head between your legs. He wrapped his lips around you, swirling his tongue in small quick circles in that same way you loved and could never quite get used to. Your mouth fell open as the haze of ecstacy started to cloud any thoughts that weren't about him.

"I needed you." You whispered, gently scratching his scalp, "I needed you so bad."

He hummed, moaning against you and tickling your inner thighs with the soft hair of his beard. You peered down at him to watch him devour you like a starving man's first meal. He'd taken his glasses off, and you could see the way his lashes fluttered in complete bliss as he dipped his tongue into you. He looked up at you and locked eyes just as a shrill moan threatened to burst from your lips. You quickly covered your mouth and you felt him smile at you. He pulled away, replacing his mouth with his thick fingers. With each flick of the hand he watched you arch your back off his desk and scramble to grab onto something...anything to ground you.

He sharply pulled you closer to the edge of the desk and hoisted your other knee up to your chest, leaving you completely exposed to him and anyone that could walk in the room. He teased you with the tip of his tongue, watching you squirm impatiently before he curled his tongue against your clit.

He'd been dreaming of seeing you like this. But even his dreams couldn't live up to the reality of how sweet you tasted and the look of nirvana on your face. He He could hear the sharp intake of breath and the small whimpers you earnestly tried to swallow down. He wanted to tell you to be as loud as you wanted. Fuck the rules and anyone who heard. But that'd be stupid.

And you didn't deserve stupid.

He found that perfect sensitive spot that made you smack the desk with your hand and try to wriggle away from his mouth, but he pulled you closer.

"Mm-mm, no running." He mumbled nipping your thigh. He returned his lips to you, sucking you slowly between his lips. Your chest heaved, and you scrambled to figure out what to do with your hands. When you reached down to press his face harder between your thighs, he let himself release a low, muffled groan. He needed you so fucking badly. He wanted to stretch this out for as long as he could, but he knew that was impossible.

He wanted to make the most out of the limited time he had with you.

He pulled his mouth away and dipped his fingers into you, coaxing you closer to the edge. And when he leaned forward to kiss you, you pulled him in hungrily, wrapping your thighs around his hips and undoing his belt with quick fingers. He pulled away to look you over once again: your hair was a mess, your lips were swollen, your eyes were glazed, and you looked fucking beautiful. You reached up to stroke his cheek.

"What?" You asked, scrunching your nose at him.

"Are you sure?"

"About?"

His hand remained splayed on your lower stomach and your fingers were hooked in the waistband of his boxers. You sat up and he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours.

Oscar murmured, "Bee, if we do this, I'm not going back to keeping my distance. I'm going to fuck you in every corner of this office. I'm going to want you again," He kissed you, "and again," another kiss, "and again."

You absentmindedly brushed your fingers against his lower stomach and traced the outline of his dick through his boxers. "And on the weekends?"

You dipped your hand behind his waistband, and pulled it down to wrap your hand around him. He hissed sharply, shutting his eyes.

"Shit, honey..." he groaned. "I'm all yours."

You slowly stroked him, watching him melt under your touch. For a moment you could see the younger version of him, just as handsome but not nearly as refined as he liked to present himself in public. His salt and pepper curls were no longer neatly styled and you saw the hint of flush peeking out from under his olive skin. His perfect mouth fell open as you traced the swollen head of him with your thumb.

When you finally took a breath and felt him guide himself into you, that familiar flutter in your lower stomach made you bite your lower lip. A deep shudder wracked both of your bodies like your first hit of a long abandoned drug. He kept the pace slow and steady, focusing on the way you felt around him and trying to keep it to memory like he'd never experience it again.

You pulled him down for another deep kiss, wanting a connection with him in every way possible. You noticed the brief way his strokes faltered, and the way he grabbed your thighs to pull them around his hips to push deeper into you and at just the right angle to make you cry out.

"Right there," you pleaded, arching your hips up to angle him deeper, "God, rightthere rightthere rightthere."

He grunted, dropping his head onto your shoulder as he picked up the rhythm of his hips. "You're perfect for me. You're fucking perfect, angel. I'm never letting you go again."

You tried to form coherent thoughts and words, but everything turned to a sludge of gibberish on your tongue.

You hated the way that he seemed to know you like a familiar map. It was so easy to drown in him. When you reached down to touch yourself, he grabbed your hand and pinned it to the desk, interlacing your fingers. He dipped his free hand between you, choosing to tease your clit with his thumb while he picked up the pace of his strokes.

"Did you miss this, Bee?" He murmured under his breath.

You nodded, allowing your eyes to drift closed.

"No, baby, look at me." He commanded.

You did as you were told, looking deep into his gorgeous dark eyes that seemed to read you from the inside out.

"Did you miss me?"

"I missed this so much." you moaned, feeling the warmth building in your lower tummy.

He thrust into you sharply and a shrill cry rang out that you were sure echoed into the hallway. You nearly slammed your head into the desk with the force that your body jolted. The sensitivity was almost overwhelming and when you tried to scoot away again, he gave you another smack on the thigh.

"What did I say about running?" He let go of your hand to pull your thighs tighter around him as he drove into you with renewed vigor. His jaw clenched as he focused on your building pleasure. Thumb returned to your clit. Your mouth dropped open, but nothing came out but a strangled gasp. His thumb sped up between your thighs and you let out a string of slurred words as your hips shook.

"Fuck, I love you so much, oh God, oh God. I fucking love you."

"This is yours, now. It's all yours. Nobody else's." He breathlessly whispered against your cheek.

You reached down to grab his hand almost begging him for reprieve that you knew he wouldn't give you. You tightened around him and he sucked air sharply between his teeth, which only gave him more determination to push you over the edge. You pulled him down into a kiss just as the wave of pleasure crashed over you and you drowned your cry into his mouth. His strokes grew sloppy and erratic as you rolled your hips against him with equal force.

"Come on baby," you cooed to him, curling your fingers into his hair and giving it a sharp tug. He buried his head into your shoulder and let out a low, deep grunt as he came. You felt him press small kisses along your neck, trailing them up your chin and to your lips. After taking a minute to get his bearings, he reluctantly pulled out with a low shuddering breath. He kissed you again, and you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders enjoying the feeling of his hands on you.

After some brief, very gentle aftercare, you helped each other get redressed, sharing kisses and touches along the way.

"So..." he leaned up against his desk, cleaning off his glasses to put them back on, "am I seeing you tomorrow?"

You gave him a slow, deep kiss and his hands traveled to your ass, "If I'm up all night revising with your stupid edits, we'll see how I feel. No guarantees, though."

[cinderella-ish]

How Labeling Characters "Good" or "Bad" Misses the Point of Fruits Basket

A few years ago, I decided to remove the words "good" and "bad" from my vocabulary as much as possible.

Why? Because I have OCD, and I was struggling with something called "splitting," more commonly known as "black-and-white thinking."

Beyond the benefits it would have for my mental health, I wanted to challenge myself to be more precise with my commentary, whether appreciative or critical. "Fruits Basket is soooo good!" may be a true statement (in my completely objective, unbiased opinion lol), but it doesn't actually say anything meaningful about what makes the story so "good." I'd rather say how it affected me, why I think it's absolutely worth watching or reading, what it made me think about, etc...

Something I see in a lot of Furuba fan spaces is a desire to label characters or relationships as "good" or "bad," and letting that be the focus of the commentary. This even happens without necessarily using those exact words; people will talk about whether Akito "deserved" redemption/forgiveness, whether certain relationships or even crushes are "okay," whether a certain character was "abusive," etc... and sometimes even more subtle ways of labeling characters "good" or "bad," but I think this entirely misses the point of the story, and beyond that, it's just not a helpful way to go about discussing media in general.

The thing that prompted this post was one of those much more subtle cases: a comment I saw claiming that it was out-of-character for Tohru to support Arisa and Kureno's relationship. My first reaction was, "are we talking about the same Tohru here?" because the Tohru I saw in Fruits Basket would absolutely support Arisa and Kureno's relationship. But my next thought was to wonder why that commenter would feel that way, and here's where I've landed on that:

In that commenter's mind, Tohru is "good," and the relationship between Arisa and Kureno is "bad," so it doesn't make sense that a "good" person would support a "bad" relationship.

But what a wildly simplistic take! It's one that misses so much nuance of Tohru's character; her personal history, her ways of relating to her friends, etc... To me, there's absolutely no way Tohru as she's written would ever not support that relationship, and here's why:

First, Tohru is rarely assertive, and when she is, it's in situations where one person is clearly being hurt and it must be addressed immediately. She almost seems to run on instinct in those situations. I'm thinking of when she pushed Akito away from Yuki, or when she told Akito to stop hurting Momiji, or when she told Kyo she would go against her mother, or when she chased after Saki and expressed a desire to remain friends.

On that note, with regard to Arisa and Kureno, the thing that stood out to Tohru was Arisa's heartache. She wanted to do whatever she could to soothe her friend's heartache, and that meant reuniting her with the man she'd fallen for.

It's also unclear whether Tohru knows Kureno's age, but even if she did, her own parents had a massive age gap, and she doesn't seem to be aware of the problematic power dynamic between them whatsoever. If anything, she seems to romanticize her parents' relationship.

Additionally, Tohru is basically the least judgmental person alive. I don't think she would have strong convictions about whether age gaps are "okay" even if her parents hadn't had a similar gap. Again, her primary concern would be whether her friend was happy, and if not, what she could do to make her friend happy.

In short, Tohru is not one to label things as "good" or "bad" and use those labels as a guide for her actions, but is more likely to try and understand people's motivations and work toward their happiness. This is central to her personality as an Enneagram SX 9w1/INFP.

And that last point is honestly the approach I think is most useful when it comes to critique and discussion of fiction. Rather than trying to delineate what's "good" or "bad," I find it much more meaningful to try and understand the creator's reason for depicting something a certain way, and how those creative choices support their overall creative vision (or don't).

So, with that in mind, I guess I'm going to start a series looking at the "why" behind the characters and relationships who are most often called "problematic," "bad," "abusive," or "not okay." Feel free to request topics!

[saxandviolins77]

What do the Constructicons like to watch in their free time.

Veeery self-indulgent, but if you follow me you aren't a stranger to that.

A little fan continuity fun fact: Cybertron does not have the types of audiovisual, written, and artistic media Earth has. The forms of entertainment that existed before the war were: theatre(telling histories of Cybertronian myths), traditional Quintessonian Orchestras, and Gladiatorial matches. As such, when coming in contact with Earth media, the Constructicons took a bit of time to learn about the concept of "fiction", because why would humans waste resources and time to tell untrue stories that have nothing to do with their practiced religion and cults? Nowadays they can more or less distinguish it, but they still find the concept silly, especially with sci-fi movies, which they avoid watching like the plague.

Scrapper: Discovered old human movies and never looked back. He enjoys movies from the 20th century, his favorite types of movies being screwball comedies and he's beginning to enjoy musicals too. His favorite movies at the moment are Hello, Dolly! (1969) and Grease (1978). The rest of the Constructicons do not see the appeal of watching humans execute their mating rituals in convoluted and unrealistic ways.

Scavenger: Doesn't like movies. Fortunately, he discovered documentaries. He's absolutely entranced by the concept of well-explained videos lecturing the audience about something, he'll watch just about anything, but his absolute favorite ones are nature-focused ones and the "How Is It Made" one. The Constructicons don't mind his tastes, but they do not care about biographical documentaries.

Long Haul: He doesn't like human media at all, like, why would he be interested in what the organics that inhabit the planet they're trying to conquer like to watch? It's probably not even worth his time... That's what he thought before he fell into the reality television pipeline; he's definitely embarrassed about this and considers it his worst guilty pleasure (he doesn't even like using the word "pleasure".) It's completely stupid media and a waste of time, but he can't help but keep watching to see his favorite contestant (urgh) push through. His favorite Reality Show is Big Brother (girl, your taste... Is awful.) The other Constructicons know he's embarrassed so they don't comment on it, though Scrapper likes to indulge him a bit and ask about his opinion at any given moment (he'll say it doesn't matter, but will start to defend a controversial contestant as if his life depends on it.)

Hook: You think Hook would waste his precious time watching HUMAN-MADE MEDIA?! That would be completely idiotic, his genius brain is too advanced to be entertained by such nonsense! Don't even make such baseless assumptions about him again!

...

He likes dramas... Medical dramas. I guess the fact that he doesn't know about human anatomy manages to grip him, but he pretends he isn't invested in the personal lives of the characters.

Bonecrusher: He's a very simple guy, a good action movie is enough to keep him interested. I do think he doesn't show outward emotions about what he's watching, preferring to shrug and say it's fine instead of saying he truly enjoys something. One of the ways you can know if Bonecrusher enjoyed a movie is that he'll want to watch it time and time again. His favorite movies are Kill Bill (2003) and Pulp Fiction (1994) (no, he doesn't know anything about this "Tarantino" guy.)

Mixmaster: Worst. Taste. Ever. (according to the other Constructicons.) This guy likes spoof movies from the 2000s and slapstick movies from the 1960s, you never know what you're getting with him, but he has a frightening ability to accurately choose the worst, unfunniest, and cheapest comedies ever. Looking at the bright side, the Constructicons can spend an hour pointing out how stupid and badly made the movie is, Mixmaster does, in fact, join in and honestly, he doesn't even care about movies that much.

Honourable mention:

Devastator: One day, the Constructicons tried to give live sports a try. They watched plenty of different American games that were airing at the moment but didn't get the appeal. However, SOMEHOW, the practices must've stuck hard into their subconscious, as Devastator developed the worst habit ever: adopting incorrect sports lexicon in his vocabulary and using his gun as a bat and/or golf club as a joke. It never stops being embarrassing when someone asks them about this.

[wildwinterlunas]

I think people see Kiriko and instantly misunderstand the point of her character, and I don't blame them, because it feels like there were two goals behind her creation. The first was to make a marketable character for the release of Overwatch 2, which is where the main problems with her writing comes up. The second was to show what the consequence of the Shimada clan dissolving was, to be the external consequence of Hanzo's actions to the same way that Genji is the internal consequence.

Kiriko, and the way she is written, is so interesting to me because there are obvious signs that her general story and role was thought through. Her and her family had to pick up what Hanzo left behind, with little preparation and little support. Not only that but Kiriko not only lost Genji and Hanzo, people she considered siblings, but her parents too, as after Hanzo left, Genji was killed and the Shimada clan dissolved, she was under direct threat from the Hashimoto. It's why her name had to be changed to Kiriko Kamori. It's obvious that she cares about her parents but there is also the fact that with Kirko being so much younger then the brothers (again I hc that chronologically she's around 26) it shows that she had to be raised by her grandmother after the Shimada clan fell.

There is also the fact that Kiriko in specifically Hanzo's story, fills a similar role that Cassidy does in Genji's, except she's the younger sibling while Cassidy is the older. They offer the brothers a second chance.

She's a lot more complex then a lot of fans and what the marketing team make her out to be. What a lot of her interactions make her out to be.

I see people complain that Kiriko shouldn't be as "mean" as she is, but honestly, her more hostile lines are the ones I think are most in character for her. I also think that with her interactions, she's interacting with the wrong characters. There are a couple more then just Hanzo and Genji's that I think are in character for her, specifically her interactions with Ana, Dva, Sombra, Pharah and Cassidy in her multi-interaction.

These interactions actually show interesting dynamics, even if they are more jokey, it makes sense for her to joke with them. With Ana, she's a lot like Asa, with Pharah and Dva they just share a lot of similarities so of course they would get along, with Sombra we see that she's a more morally grey character and with Cassidy we see how she could genuinely connect with other characters through her relationship with Genji. Those are the best interaction for her because they show use how Kiriko works as a character.

But with all the character's I listed, barely any of them have more then one interaction with her. Hell, she has one one-on-one interactions with Lucio then she does with Hanzo or Genji?

Listen I love Lucio, but why do those two interact more then Kiriko and Genji do. I would kill to see some of Kiriko's bitterness towards Genji too, how despite being with Overwatch he didn't try and help her family, help her. I would love to bring back Cassidy's guilt about Hanamura in a conversation between him and Kiriko. Even a conversation between her and Doomfist would be interesting as it's implied he and Kiriko's mum have some kind of history.

The point of the pre-game interactions is to get an idea of character dynamics and the character themselves that we wouldn't otherwise get. Yet whoever is directing the voice lines for Kiriko are using them to try and make her more marketable, and it's negatively affecting her character. She's a character who can be a bit goofy sometimes yes, but she shouldn't be a goofball character, which is what a lot of her in game dialog makes her seem like.

In conclusion, watch her cinematic, read "Yokai" and read "Where Honor Lives" to get good Kiriko characterization. In my opinion she's so much better in outside game content.

[bobbybutterfly]

How about the general weasel commander?

Oh yeah! Here you go!

I was about to post this when I remembered I should try to push myself a little bit again. So I tried the hard round brush. Every time I use it I hate the outcome. I just don’t know how to use it. This piece I would say looks okay. I like how it added a bit more 3 dimensionality to him. Especially in the face. This time I also thought specifically about from where the lighting is coming from. It looks like he’s practicing kendo in the early morning.

A while ago I started watching Revolutionary Girl Utena where I learned about it (I knew about it before vaguely). Amazing anime. 16 year old me would have loved it. I mainly made him do kendo because I like to imagine him fighting my OC Shiho Tenshi. Who would win? Kendo or fencing? I’m sure someone made a YouTube video about it.

Commander Jobgebi is from a royal family in my AU. Probably descended from that world’s samurais. He’s very traditional due to how he was raised. He also likes to read and is highly educated. Most weasels don’t like him, finding his views outdated. Because of that he’s lonely. His only friend being While Weasel who shares similar opinions. But with him working on Sturgeon they don’t get to see each other often. Lastly Commander Jobgebi has an off again on again relationship with my OC Shiho Tenshi. Their main conflict stemming from him wanting them to adopt a more feminine presentation and become his wife.

I thought I would also go into a bit of a history of my Squirrel and Hedgehog AU in this ask. It would be useful to have it somewhere written down.

SO! The land we know as Flower Hill used to be a bunch of separate villages. A lot of them with long standing conflicts. That was until the Mouse Kingdom occupied the villages and called the new territory Flower Hill. OG Mouse Kingdom was south of Flower Hill. I made up some sappy story that the mouse king named the territories Flower Hill because they were a romantic gift to his wife.

Now I dunno. That was about 500 years before the events of the show. 20 years before the events of the show Flower Hill liberates itself from the Mouse Kingdom. There’s a lot more detail I could go into about that as it involves the wolves. But in the end they managed to send the mice back to the south.

This caused a crisis for the Mouse Kingdom. All their agriculture was being done in the north while the south was industrial. Leading to the Mouse Kingdom suffering a food shortage. The workers stopped going to factories. Instead going to the streets to protest. Everyone is fed up with the monarchy. Even the military.

The weasels see a chance to heh weasel their way in. Sending COMMANDER JOGJEBI! Remember when this post was about him? He goes to meet with the mouse king. Along the way bumping into the crown prince Mulmangcho. The weasels offer aid with the unrest. Provided they get something in return…

The king isn’t stupid. He might be delusional, thinking he can solve the situation by himself. But he knows if he took the offer he would become nothing more than a puppet.

It didn’t amount to much in the end. The weasels backed the rebels who eventually over threw the monarchy. Bringing us to the time the show takes place.

Damn. Did not expect this post to be so long. Oh well. Hope you enjoyed what I wrote.

[kebriones]

I'm curious what you think of the late or Neo Platonists. You mentioned being disappointed by modern interpreters reading way too much into simple statements in Plato's works. In many ways, that was the default mode of operation for most Platonists throughout history. Reading elaborate esoteric meanings into the words of a man who claimed his teachings were freely and openly available to all.

Though, of course, their objective of theurgic ascension is a far cry from the goals of modern self-help gurus on social media. Do you find Theurgists as misguided as our modern grind-set influencers? Does their scholarly dedication and inquisitive nature make them more worthy inheritors of Socrates? Perhaps, even if they are not in agreement with Plato's record, the fact that they reached that point by rhetoric means they carried on the same work.

1. I need to preface this by saying that I am not qualified to answer this properly. My interest in plato is purely literary, and doesn't expand to neoplatonists or anything else.

2. I do have some beef with neoplatonists, as well as with how christianity deeply affected so much of the perception of plato. I see traces of it all the time.

3. I honestly have beef with so much of written philosophy it's not even funny. I can't stand to read most of it because of how upset i get. Plato writes wonderfully and my obsession with Alcibiades and Socrates is what attaches me to him. So I'm the wrong person to ask because most philosophers make me angry. And I even have beef with other types of analysis. I was insufferable when we did the iliad at school. I sent a letter to my teacher at the end of the school year detailing my problems with how we studied and interpreted the text.

4. I know next to nothing about the details of theurgy in neoplatonists. I also don't know anything about grind-set influencers. In my post I was talking about random dudes on twitter who think they're so wise and deep but they're just making up arbitrary stuff most of the time.

5. Inquisitive nature does make one similar to Socrates, and many many others. But in my opinion, the main thing that one needs to understand about Socrates is the erotic nature of philosophy. You have to be in love with it and long for it, the knowledge and truth that is his brand of wisdom. And that can be a very simple thing, again in my opinion. And a very personal thing too, that's not necessarily one for lengthy analysis. It is what it is, and it's about feeling it. Again, I haven't studied any of this in any capacity, I'm just reading stories.

6. I don't know if rhetoric is the right word to use here. Dialectic is what I'd use. Dialogue. Speaking to each other. That's what Socrates practiced. And I understand how this is superior to writing when it comes to philosophy. Speaking with someone is a living thing. It's invaluable for actually practicing your thoughts. I read philosophical texts and I get so upset i have to stop because the writer isn't there for me to argue with them. I do argue with them in my head, and that has its benefits.

That all said, I don't know if I can say who's a worthy inheritor, that's an extremely lengthy discussion that can go a billion ways. And who carried on the same work? I don't know. Whoever speaks with other people about philosophy and keeps the same energy of seeking the truth of the world and longing for it, I guess. That's also where Plato's philosophy differs fundamentally from others, in his treatment of what the ultimate truth is and what our stance towards it should be.

I feel like I'm digressing heavily, i wrote this while freezing at a bus stop. But these are my thoughts, please do not consult me for such matters, I am just here for my hot dead neighbor and his weird husband.