#yes i’m learning latin

[ekingston]

Is your real name Easter?

yes my dad misspelled the name my mother meant to give me when he reported my birth and instead of dealing with the hassle of dutch bureaucracy they decided to just run with it. emblematic of my upbringing honestly, provided i was telling you the truth just now

#i’m not i’m lying #it’s fully a pseud #because i am an elder millennial who received very clear instructions about never telling the internet the truth about who you are #am i however fully tempted to start using it as my legal name once i emigrate? yes #my mother gave me a scientific latin name not commonly given to human beings #and it took my wife years to learn to pronounce it properly #i’m not willing to go through the process of teaching every new friend i make that vowel sounds exist #and contrary to popular belief they don’t all sound like ‘uh’ #think ‘claudia’ #which is a gorgeous & powerful name until you put it in an american mouth and it becomes ‘clodyuh’ #ask me things! #anynomous

[herbaklava]

One thing that annoys me about most language apps is that the default for Spanish is always the Spain dialect! Latin American should be an option at LEAST.

#taking up learning Spanish once again omg #I’m using this app called Busuu and it’s actually so helpful omg #and yes I know there are many different dialects within Spain and Latin America

[arthur-r]

genuinely how does someone succeed in college when you’re so terrified of being incorrect or looking stupid that you can’t even say anything to begin with???? i was trying to go into this year brave and everything but i’ve already been laughed at multiple times by a class full of people older and scarier than me and i already feel like i’m being judged and underestimated for so many reasons that i don’t want to give anyone another reason to look at me that way. but it’s gotten to the point (in the less than one week that classes have been in session; maybe it’s always been at the point) where i’m failing to submit assignments because i know that my teacher is going to see it and think i’m stupid, and never listen to me again, and i’m going to lose all the credibility that i’m trying so desperately to hold onto. and i know from a logical standpoint that it’s the teacher’s job to meet people where they’re at and lift them up from there, but honestly is that much even true anymore?? isn’t college about figuring out who has what it takes and who is going to get left behind???? why did i enroll in fucking honors classes of course i can’t do this???? i’m really not feeling well and i stayed in tonight and missed dinner and i miss home and i miss being able to talk to my friends and not be actively ruining my future. i feel like i’m always good until i’m not, and i don’t realize i need help until i’m too far in and by the time i get it, i won’t need it anymore but i’ll have ruined everything back when things were worse. i’m isolating from my roommate (who hates me because he thinks i hate him) and losing every friend i’ve started to make at the same time as i’m losing all the real friendships that i already have. and my roommate is across the room right now as i’m quietly fucking crying. and i want to go home and i want to be safe. and why is everything so unfamiliar and simple and wretchedly complicated.

#im really not feeling well. i want to go home and im not used to that at all #i miss my little sister. i miss my teachers and i miss my friends. im not used to this #what prompted all of this: i was trying to do my linguistics homework and i made it about an hour in coming up with faulty hypotheses #and i realized that far of the way through. that the only dialects i’m fucking familiar with are all fucking variations of north central #‘whoa somebody talks similar in anchorage as they do in taylor’s falls?? it must signify a deep linguistic thread traceable over generations #they’re just both right next to fucking canada???? of course they fucking sound similar???? the fact that i don’t know anyone from the east #or the south and even the people i know in the west are still the same fucking thing we all talk the fucking same #i know village english that’s a little fucking interesting but it’s not like i have any INSIGHT i don’t KNOW anything!!!! #told my french teacher i’m learning latin he asked me if it’s fucking ecclesiastical because once you’re in college it’s just normal i guess #i just feel like. yes i’m here because some part of me stood out from my peers. but in this group of special people?? i’m nothing!!!! #so i’m really struggling. and i want a hug and i wish things were different. i want to be here but i don’t feel like i deserve it #and i’m not going to get anything done if i keep feeling like this #i dont know. i hope everyone is doing well. sorry for the extra stress it’s just really difficult and strange #i hope everyone has a good night - i’m heading to bed soon #me. my post. mine. #friends only #vent cw #delete later #and everyone here speaks fcuking MANDARIN or something and all of a sudden my five years of french feels fucking basic. #kids who have been in advanced programs since birth. the imposter syndrome is fucking PALPABLE!!!! i want to go home and i want to forget #okay i’m done. im done!!!! everything is fine. hope everyone is well

[shcherbatskya]

i wish i could be normal about this but im NOT it just seems impractical to me…… not understanding it also makes me feel stupid!!! guy who wants to be a classics major can’t even scan a line of hexameter???? eek…….

#yes i KNOW it’s a matter of practice and just because it doesn’t come naturally within the first week doesn’t mean i’m #pathetic and failing at everything HOWEVER nothing in latin (possibly in anything!) has ever been this #difficult for me. like it’s annoying because almost everything i learn about rome + latin comes soo easily like i don’t have to worry about #it but this i DO! i do !!! it’s so hard and it’s making me SO worked up #samael speaks

[loadsofcats]

Just so we’re clear, when I tag my thoughts with “it talks”, I see it in the way that Tumblr is Victor Frankenstein and I am the Creature who just said something incredibly eloquent

#oh! Eloquent can be a latinism for loquor! #yes i’m learning latin and yes that language is a bitch #it talks #thoughts #shitpost

[fatesundress]

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task." 

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it. 

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky. 

And you do it. 

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours. 

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not. 

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him. 

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?” 

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions. 

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation. 

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt. 

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you. 

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him. 

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

[sanzaibian]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The receptionist notices your embarrassment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Ohuihqui nimitz nequi. (I love you too.)”

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

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

#male transformation #male tf #twink tf #twunk tf #twinkification #twunkification #age reduction #latino tf #mexican tf #nahua tf #mental change #reality change #transformation #tf story

[waggledoogledoggle]

SOMEONE GIMME MULTI-LINGUAL JED AND OCTAVIUS PLEASE

I NEED IT.

JED AT THE VERY LEAST KNOWS SPANISH AND ENGLISH IF NOT ALSO MANDARIN BECAUSE OF THE RAILROAD. LIKE, Y’ALL, HE CANONICALLY ON SOME LEVEL ACTUALLY KNOWS SPANISH

“No comprendo, amigo!” HE SHOUTS THAT AT THE AUGUSTUS BUST. IS THE ACCENT SHIT? YES. BUT IM CHALKING THAT UP TO ACTORS CHOICE CAUSE GUESS WHAT. HE CONJUGATED IT FUCKIN CORRECTLY.

GIMME JED SPEAKING IN ENGLISH COMPLETELY NORMAL BUT THEN HIS BRAIN DECIDES TO FORGET THE WORD IN ENGLISH SO HE JUST STOPS FOR A MOMENT AND STARES AT NOTHING, SO HE JUST SAYS IT IN SPANISH AND OCTAVIUS JUST STARES AT HIM LIKE ‘…tf?’ BUT THEN THEY GO TO CARRY ON THE CONVERSATION AND LIKE HALF A BEAT LATER JED JUST SHOUTS THE WORD IN ENGLISH CAUSE HE REMEMBERS IT NOW. LIKE:

“I mean, I ain’t ever seen such a mess! Hell we even had to get a new… uh…”

“…”

“…”

“Jedediah?”

“…mesa…”

“…mesa?”

“I… can’t remember it in English right now… but I’m sure it’ll come back to me… uhm, anyways, yeah we had to get a new one of those, which sucks cause it was the only good one in that tavern! I ain’t ever seen such a brawl, I mean- TABLE!”

“Jupiter- Jedediah what the fu-”

“That’s the word! Table! Alright, we’re good now, as I was sayin-”

AND OCTAVIUS? DUDE IS A FUCKIN ROMAN GENERAL, SO NOT ONLY DOES HE KNOW LATIN, BUT HE IS ALSO LIKELY FLUENT IN GREEK. SO ENGLISH IS HIS FUCKIN THIRD LANGUAGE

SO YOUR TELLING ME, THERE HAS NEVER BEEN ONE SINGLE MOMENT IN BOTH CANON CONTENT AND NON-CANON CONTENT WHERE OCTAVIUS FORGETS THE WORD IN ENGLISH SO HE COMES UP WITH SOME BATSHIT CRAZY SOUNDING DESCRIPTION OR MAKES A SOUND EFFECT AND JED JUST HAS TO TRY TO FUCKIN GUESS WHAT HE MEANS.

“Hey Octy, did ya see where lil’ Ted went?”

“Yeah he went on the- the um- the horse tornado.”

“…what?”

“You know, the horse tornado.”

“…do you mean the ‘Carousel’?”

“That’s the word! Yes, the Carousel, yes.”

OR

“He went on the… Jed how you say *makes helicopter noises*”

“…oh! Helicopter.”

“Yes! That.”

AND I WANT IT TO GET TO THE POINT WHERE JED STARTS GETTING IT FIRST TRY NO HESITATION WHILE EVERYONE ELSE IS LIKE “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK DID I JUST WITNESS, HOW DID YOU GET ‘PEN’ FROM HIM SAYING ‘BLEEDING INK STICK’”

And even better. I want Jed learning Latin for Octavius once he finds out English is his third language. Because if Octavius learned his first language, then he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do the same for Octavius.

I BEG OF THEE, PLEASE

(Edit: yes I know that Jedediah Strong Smith irl knew some/the basics of Latin lmao, what I meant by 'learn Latin' was work to become fluent in it like how Octavius is fluent in English, my bad for not explaining more clearly lol)

#jedtavius #jedediah and octavius #natm jedtavius #natm jedediah #natm octavius #natm headcanons #natm

[undercoveravenger]

Motivators

Pairing: Isaac Lahey x Scientist!Male!Reader

Requested: Yes

Request: “okay for the spooky request could you write Isaac lahey x scientist reader who doesn’t believe in the supernatural but they are hunting a ghost and reader and Isaac make a bet where if they do find the ghost reader owes Isaac a kiss or something”

A/N: This is the third fic in the 2023 Spooky Month event! The next post will release on Tuesday, October 24th. Hope you enjoy!

-----

While your best friend Scott McCall and his pack were no strangers to your lab, you still found yourself a bit on edge with Scott’s beta, Isaac. You had known of him before he was turned, and he had seemed nice enough the few times you had interacted with him, but there had always seemed to be something off, even after Scott had told you the truth about his friends. You weren’t sure exactly why Isaac made you so uneasy, but the weight of his eyes, whether glowing their infamous werewolf gold or his pretty every-day blue, was ever present and unreadable. 

Even now, with the rest of the pack off investigating the most recent victim of a vengeful spirit, Isaac lingered, perched on one of the spare lab tables pushed against the wall and watching you intently. 

“You didn’t have to wait here,” you say, ardently refusing to look at him, studying the strange glowing sample they’d brought you through the viewing lens of your microscope. “You heard Scott- He thinks he’s got a lead. You could’ve gone with him to check it out.”

A soft huff escapes Isaac and you can hear him shift behind you, moving from his seat on the opposite table to come lean against the one you’re working at. “No,” he says quietly, “I needed to be here.” He’s silent for a minute and you almost think to press him further when he continues, “I know you don’t need me to be here, but I need to be.” He clears his throat awkwardly when you look up at him, but he presses on, in spite of the thick blush clouding his cheeks. “I worry about you a lot when I’m not around you, y’know? Not just that you’re just a human, but that you’re you.”

You studied Isaac for a long moment, a sort of self-satisfied amusement creeping through you as he fidgets under your gaze, clearly having said more than he meant to and exposing his emotions in the process. 

“You really think that you’re going to catch this ghost?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest as you watched him. 

He nodded, grinning shyly, “Yeah. With you and Scott working together to find it? No way we don’t.”

Whenever you’d caught Isaac looking at you in the past, the look in his eyes was always intense, but he was unreadable in the same way that the old Latin tombs that Allison had swiped from her family’s archives for you had been. But in the same way you had learned to decipher those ancient books, you were starting to see the meaning behind those lingering stares and Isaac’s looming presence. He’d never seemed malicious to you, not even before he’d joined Scott’s pack, but now you could see that determined distance for what it was.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to your sample, but couldn’t stop the edge of your lips from quirking up as you spoke. “You find it and I owe you a kiss.”

While you were no longer looking at him, you could pick out the exact moment Isaac realized what you’d said since you could hear his sneakers squeak against the floor as he struggled to catch himself from falling. “I- I, uh, I-” he stammered and you could practically hear how flustered he was. “I’m- I’m gonna go call Scott and see if his lead panned out. Y’know, we uh, we really need to get rid of this ghost thing before it hurts someone else. We should- We should really do everything we can to catch it as soon as possible, right?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as he hurried out of the room, and you laughed even harder when you were able to pick up the excited whoops echoing in from outside of your lab from Isaac and Scott over the phone line.

#isaac lahey x male reader #isaac lahey x male!reader #male reader x isaac lahey #male!reader x isaac lahey #male reader x teen wolf #male!reader x teen wolf #teen wolf x male reader #teen wolf x male!reader #teen wolf x reader #reader x teen wolf #teen wolf reader insert #male reader insert #male!reader #x male!reader #x reader #x male reader #male!reader insert #male reader

[anadiasmount]

HEYY fellow Latina here (Mexico) can you do something with like helping jude with his Spanish

HAII! 🤍 i’m from colombia 😋!! and ofc ofc! i did a fic sorta based with the idea of slightly teaching him spanish here!

“jude you have roll your r’s,” you say then show him again with your tongue. “rhss…” he attempted that made you grimace then laugh. “stop making fun of me! i’ll never get this!” he groaned and got up from his seated position headed to the kitchen. “yes you will! just watch how i do it, it’s simple just be kind sassy with it.”

“rrrrr,” he tried again slowly, taking a sip from his water bottle. “they’re you go! okay now slowly say this, ‘la rosa es roja’,” you motioned with your hand for him to say it slowly and to feel the r in his tongue. “la rosuh ez rrrojuha,” he moved his head while saying but getting wrong, making you smack your forehead.

“rosa has one r not a sassy r,” you reminded him hearing a ‘blah blah’ drop from his lips.

“try that again. and then we will say ‘me puedes ayudar a encontrar este restaurante’, okay?”

while your move to spain was a easy and smooth transition for the two of you. jude insisted and found it hard to communicate in spanish, already knowing and learning the basics like “hola. cómo estás? muy bien. gol. buenos dias, tardes, noches.” he just wanted to jump in and already know the language.

jude had not known you had latin/hispanic decent till you told him your full name and background. if he wasn’t in love then, he fell for you more. wanting to know about your traditions, beliefs, culture, food and dance. he would ask you later on to teach you spanish. but the spanish you spoke was slightly different to the one in spain. he didn’t care, he just wanted to communicate with the media, but most importantly one day with your family.

jude did not anticipate for the lessons yet to come. you taking it completely serious and printing papers of the alphabet and numbers, and some sentences to repeat over and over again. your afternoons that are once filled with cuddles and movies, now we’re sitting in the kitchen and going over the material.

you found his accent absolutely adorable, the cheeky grin he would have, how his íntense gaze stared into yours, his index finger guiding him as he pronounced the sentence and going over the words. “let’s make a deal. for every sentence you say right, i’ll give you a kiss. but if you don’t, then we’re going to repeat it in another way. so focus.”

this was way better than duolingo jude thought, paying attention to how you said every sentence and keeping in mind which words you said with power and aggression. out of the five sentences you wrote down for him he got three right. but you couldn’t stand the small pout so you just gave him a kiss to feel better.

over the next few months he could understand you, either asked you to slow down or repeat it, and you would try your best to make him understand. “okay jude, para la cena quieres carne o pollo? también puedo hacer una ensalada?” you said in spanish hearing jude’s footsteps follow you to the kitchen.

jude thought about his answer before slowly responding back to you, “yo quie-e-ro pollo con ensalada. per-r-ro no lechugaaa, mejor espinaca.” you gave him a shocked looked before peppering kisses all over his face.

“LO HICISTE AMOR! ESTOY ORGULLOSA DE TI!”

jude’s heart warmed when you called him “love” and told him you were proud of him. “gracias a ti,” he thanked you before going over and retrieving the chicken and spinich to make dinner.

if you thought his spanish was better then, it was even better now. seated at your parents anniversary, jude’s leg bounced up and down. “relájate, todo saldrá bien,” you reassured him, jude giving you soft eyes and placing a kiss to your temple. “segura? mi español todavía no bueno.”

“eso no importa. ya te aman, y vas aprendiendo.”

when you started dating he couldn’t understand anything you or your parents said. he felt left out and often wondered what exactly you were talking about but now? here he was talking in complete sentences in front of your whole family. your cousins staring at him in a daze, your mother smiling at him, your dad talking to him about football.

“if it wasn’t for you, i wouldn’t be able to do this. this was all i wanted. to communicate with your mom and dad. so thank you so much princesa, te amo de aquí hasta la luna si no mas,” jude whispered along your lips, making you bite your lip as you teared up.

“te amo a ti, mi bello.”

#judey thoughts 5️⃣ #jude bellingham x reader

[awyeahitssam]

“What’s with the lolly?”

“I was eating it when I died,” Harry said slowly. “I’d never had a lolly before. I suppose it just... came with?”

Harry frowned. “Magic? That’s what I could do?”

Voldemort inclined his head. “Yes, child. No muggle is strong enough to leave behind an imprint.” Especially such an odd one. 

“Huh,” Harry murmured thoughtfully. “So my family wasn’t just awful, then. They had a reason for calling me a freak.”

“What?” Voldemort said softly. His voice was cold. Dangerously so. But... if Harry was already dead, he really had nothing to fear, so there was no harm telling him. 

“The Dursleys,” he explains. “My aunt, uncle and cousin. They all hated me - treated me like a servant, more than family - called me a freak. I’m just saying, I suppose it makes sense now.”

The man hums thoughtfully. His eyes are a bright red, intent and gleaming, when they meet Harry’s. “You were a magical child,” he says softly. Then, “Where was it that you lived with this family of yours?”

Never tell strangers where you live was right up there with never tell strangers that we lock you in a cupboard. Harry hesitated, the rules ingrained. “Why?”

“You were magical,” the man repeated. “Every drop of magical blood is special. And they spilled it, didn’t they, child?”

“All kids bleed,” Harry says. Dudley had scraped his knees plenty. 

“Most kids are given bandages,” Voldemort said softly. “But you are no longer able to accept them. So consider this a kindness from your Lord, child. I will kill the filthy muggles who dared harm you.”

...

“I’m busy, Potter. Run along and play now.”

The boy squints at him in confusion. “Play?”

“Yes. Play. Or lounge, stare at the sky, whatever you please - just cease pestering me.”

When Voldemort looked up again the brat was gone. 

He wouldn’t see him again for weeks. 

“You know, when I said stop pestering me, I didn’t mean I didn’t want to ever see you again. I just didn’t wish to be distracted by you.”

Harry shrugged, legs swinging back and forth. “It’s all right, I’m used to being alone.” 

“As am I,” Voldemort said. “Hence my annoyance at your continued presence.”

“So you do want me to leave,” Harry concludes, pushing himself off the couch. He lands on the hardwood soundlessly.

“Is that what I said?”

“Sometimes the answer is in what people don’t say,” the seven-year-old said wisely. 

“Harry,” he snaps, before the boy can vanish again to Merlin-knew-where. “You can stay.”

Harry blinks at him dubiously, but then shrugs and settles back on the sofa. “Alright. Should I be quiet and pretend I don’t exist?”

“No,” Voldemort says definitively. “You will listen to me. You wish to know about magic, do you not?”

Harry visibly perks up. “I’m allowed to learn?”

The more of these seemingly innocuous questions the boy asks, the more Voldemort wants to murder his relatives. One day, he thinks, he will convince the boy to slip. To give him the address. 

“You are expected to,” he says shortly. “I will ask questions at the end.”

Teaching was different than he expected. The boy raised his hand often, and once Voldemort finished his thought and nodded his permission, he asked a question—sometimes several at once. What did a word mean, or why did wizards use Latin for spells, or why did people need wands.

“Your wand is an extension of yourself,” Voldemort lectures. “It is a tool used to channel magic. People can learn to use magic without a wand, but it is never so powerful.”

Harry’s lolly was hanging loosely in his hand. He stared down at it thoughtfully. “I’ll never have a wand,” he says thoughtfully. “I have this, though.” 

He meets Voldemort’s eyes briefly before pointing his lolly at the cushion and mimicking Voldemort’s wand motions perfectly. “Wingardium Leviosa,” he says firmly.

Before Voldemort can tell him that such a thing would hardly work, the cushions shot into the air. Harry watches them with open delight, moving his lolly to and fro like a conductor. The cushions follow his antics smoothly, before slowly sinking back into place on the couch. Harry turns to Voldemort, expectant.

The man is watching him cooly, eyes analytical. “Just what are you, Harry Potter?”

What. Not who.

Harry shrinks, but then puffs himself up and glares back. “Just the same old freak,” he snaps, and then vanishes.

When he comes back a month later his hair is longer.

He’s incorporeal, but he’s growing. Ageing. Able to do magic.

Voldemort is fascinated by the phenomenon.

#Mentor Voldemort #'dead' Harry #Discontinued #my writing

[prismatic-bell]

So I’m helping to do research for a Fallout 4 mod, and I’ve found yet another fun new way Africa has been fucked over by colonialism.

Said mod is a book-finding mod, and I’m researching literary fiction (so: no biographies, no histories, no memoirs, no textbooks, religious texts must be in the form of a story or allegory rather than praise hymns). I started with Western literature as requested and then went “hm, you know what could be interesting from an immersion/lore perspective? Including some Chinese texts” and from there to “you know, the divergence didn’t occur until the mid-to-late sixties and the whole learning-Buddhism-and-Hinduism-to-‘find-yourself’ thing was already underway by then, I should really put the Bhagavad-Gita on this list” and from there to “why should I leave anyone out? Let the main author pick from a bunch of texts, I’m just giving him resources.”

So to abide by US copyright laws because they’re stupid, I have to find texts where the author died before 1953. And in America, Western Europe, China, and Japan, this has proved to be no problem. You can’t throw a rock at a shelf of literature from these countries without hitting a long-dead author. The literary traditions are long and robust.

I’m currently working my way through African literature before swinging back around to Latin America. I’m using Goodreads as my starting point.

I have gone through over two hundred titles.

I. Have. Found. THREE.

Three African authors of fiction who died before 1953. Two of them are white South Africans. One of those two was a missionary during the Boer War.

If I expanded my criteria to include memoirs, I could add two more. Also both white.

There are almost no Black African authors at all before the 1980s. Not “Black African fiction authors,” mind you. Just Black African authors. Nonfiction too. Almost none. I think I’ve counted five.

And I can’t find a single collection of African folktales that was put together before the 1970s. Like I understand much of the story tradition across the African continent was oral until the 20th century, but you’d think surely someone at some point wrote down SOMETHING just to have it documented. That does not appear to be the case. It’s all either stuff like “History of Ethiopia” (ask me if I’m willing to bet a plug nickel anything in a book written by a white dude in the 1890s and titled “History of Ethiopia” is correct) or “hey, we’re missionaries, listen to our harrowing tale of trying to bring Jesus to the savages!” (WHY. I mean we know why. But WHY.)

I was hoping to find 100 books, fifty from the northern part of Africa not including the MENA region (which is its own section in this research) and fifty from the southern. If this sounds extremely sparse, yes, I know it is, but I came into this already expecting to have trouble finding African works due to colonialism and the prioritization of white texts. I figured 100 would be doable and if I found more I could be pleasantly surprised and divide the continent into further subsections. (I also chose not to do it by country because the borders within Africa have changed so much. It seemed more relevant to sort them by mother language and rough geographic location because so many places and kingdoms no longer exist under the names and borders they once held.)

I didn’t expect to find NOTHING.

I expected something to at least EXIST.

The continent that brought us the entire human race has had its stories basically stripped away by white people.

I am grieving for a history that isn’t even mine, destroyed by people who assumed the second-largest land mass on earth had nothing to offer except what they could rip out of the ground.

The stories are gone. That’s fucking horrifying.

[m0rbidmacabre]

The Latin Professor

You are a student of his, the cardinal… your crush seems to be getting out of hand and your embarrassment begins to rise as the cardinal offers to help you study for your upcoming Latin test.

1110 words

(Hey guys, I know it's been a long time since I have written anything… i guess this me trying to get back into the flow of writing. This part isn't very long.. But I wanted to introduce the characters, and how they are with each other before switching. This is probably only going to published on tumbler as my confidence is shot at the moment. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: none so far…

The Latin Professor

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part three

Cardinal Copia had never been the most popular of people, even when he ascended to cardinal in his early adulthood. People always saw him as uptight, scholarly and tiresome. You however… You didn’t see him that way, you saw a handsome, knowledgable man with an undeniably strong work ethic, but you kept your opinions to yourself, afraid your peers would jeer at you for your crush on the cardinal.

This particular day you were working hard in the library, studying for your upcoming language assessment in Latin. You were starting to think that taking the extra course wasn’t the best of your ideas. It wasn’t that you were inept of learning, it was the fact the Cardinal taught the latin class, while you admire him for his efforts in trying to teach you... The class always ended with you daydreaming about him. He would be stood teaching you, making sure your pronunciation was perfect, and all you could think about was how you would like his hands all over you and his perfect mouth in places that would make lucifer himself blush. This often leads to you losing your train of thought and embarrassing yourself even more in front of him. The cardinal most likely thought you were ditsy, a poor student, but if he did… he never let you think that. His praise was never something he kept to himself around you.

As you were flicking through the pages of Latin for dummies, your head in your hands as you struggle to take in the words on the page in front of you, you hear a small cough from behind you. You let out a big huff in annoyance, the last thing you needed right now was siblings bothering you when you needed to study. you slam the book closed and turn in your seat. Your anger quickly turning to embarrassment the moment you notice that it wasn’t a sibling, but the cardinal stood behind you.

“Are you studying hard for your test Sorella?” the cardinal said to you as your face turned a beetroot shade of red.

“I am cardinal, yes. I’m sorry, I thought you were a sibling” you quietly reply shifting in your seat and tidying up your hair... Anything to keep yourself distracted from the awful truth you had just huffed at him. Keeping your temper in check was never your strong suit and you had just shown that to the person you admire most.

“Si, Si… Why don’t you take a break from your studies? You seem frustrated. I hear the gardens look beautiful this afternoon. Would you like to take a walk? I could help you with your studies.” The cardinal offering a small smile to you, his attempt at comforting you, not once questioning your temper.

“Oh, erm… are you sure? Are you not too busy? You quickly answered him, in an attempt to remind him of his duties, in another attempt to avoid him.

“Oh Sorella, I could take some time for my favourite student, si?” he beamed back at you. You felt your stomach grow warm the moment he called you his favourite student, how could you say no? you simply couldn’t.

“Okay…” you smile at him picking up your books, and then offering him your hand to help you up. He obliges and as you stand up, he tucks your arm into his keeping it effortlessly close to him.

Walking though the ministry you both barely say more than a few words to each other. Both of you happy to walk in comforting silence. You steal a glance at the cardinal as you both reach primos gardens, his eyes firmly on the path in front of you both... You couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked when he walked with purpose. “The gardens do look beautiful today, maybe a little more because you’re here…” you thought to yourself as the smile eclipsed your lips.

“How about we sit here Sister?” the cardinal asked, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Erm... Sure, sure” you quickly answered, hoping he didn’t notice the fact you were completely lost in thought.

You both sat down under the willow tree together, the sun making its presence known, casting shadows on the ground that dance though the low-hanging leaves of the tree.

The cardinal turns to you “et soror, ubi incipimus?” (so sister, where do we start?)

You smile at him; you love hearing him speak Latin, he always speaks with such passion. You pull out your book and flick though the pages, looking to formulate an answer for him.

“lets 'legere cardinal” (let's read Cardinal) you goofily answer him. Your answer made him smile so sweetly at you, he always liked your willingness to try.

“Perfect, Sorella!” he answered you. You smile at him, his praise sending you a little pink.

You carried on flicking the pages of the book, and the cardinal sat close by, his legs crossed under his cassock. Your eyes darted the pages as you both sat together.

“Now sister, tell me, how do you say beautiful”

“Pulchra, Cardinal” you answered him, quickly.

“Si… Sister, now can you write it for me?”

You take out your pen and set about writing out the word beautiful, the cardinal shifting in closer to watch that you are doing it correctly. You spell out the word on your pad, saying the word as you write... Mimicking each letter as you spell it. The Cardinal smiles at your efforts and leans in “you see this here Sister? It should be written like this… if you don’t mind...”. Taking your hand, he corrects the word you had just written, lovingly moving with you as you both spell out the words together. “Like this…” he adds, smiling at you. Your eyes drift to the pen and your hand, his hand is placed around yours… and all you can do is look with the embarrassment slowly setting in. You quickly remove your hand, the pen falling to the page and the cardinal removing his just as fast as both of your eyes meet.

“Sorella, I’m sorry... I was only trying to help” the cardinal said to you shyly, his own embarrassment setting in. His face hinting at a pink tint as he waits for your reaction.

“No, cardinal… it’s ok... I have to go... I’m sorry...” you collect your book, slamming it shut and getting to your feet. Running away from the scene before you die of embarrassment. You ache to look back, but your heart won’t let you as you quickly run through the ministry and slam your dorm room closed behind you.

#the band ghost #ghost #ghost fandom #ghost bc #ghost fanfiction #cardinal copia #papa copia #papa emeritus 4 #fanfic #copia my beloved #popia copia #copia emeritus #copia x reader

[mishwanders]

HEYYYY THEREE, first of all blog on fire like actually I LOVE IT! Second idk if u takin request or not, if u arent ingnore this and srry! If u are, can i request a hispanic reader with anyone in the chain cause uhhh i havent seen at ALL a hispanic reader I HOPE U HAVE A GOOD DAYY OR NIGHTT, U ARE AMAZING DONT U FORGET THAT ❤

Hi nonnie! Thank you! Also, I guess I’m taking requests again now? I haven’t like formally put anything out, but @skyward-shade been sending me some good ideas, and I couldn’t resist writing them 😂

As for this one - yes! I can! I will preface though that I am not Hispanic, but have grown up around Latin culture/family, so I can do my best with what I know!

Characters: The Chain x GN! Hispanic Reader

A/N+Warnings: N/A, safe for everyone. Written by Mishwanders - pls do not repost.

If you speak Spanish (or where I’m from, Spanglish), I feel like the number one person who would love to learn would be Time. He’s a Link, he’s curious about all things, but in my mind, he loves to learn different languages. I feel like he’s can learn more easily orally versus actually trying to read something on paper. So if you ever get the chance - teach him a few words or phrases - if anything heel keep absorbing it until he’s able to hold a full on conversation with you in your language!

If you don’t speak Spanish - that’s okay too! Learning anything about your culture and your family traditions no matter how varied they may be would make any of them happy because it makes them feel closer you.

Do you have a favorite food?! Wild wants to know - he wants to make it for you! He’ll try his best with the ingredients he has in Hyrule, but if he ever gets the chance to meet your family, he’s definitely finding his way for he kitchen to watch whoever is cooking work their magic and learn (he will most likely be leaving with a new pack of spices in his bag if your family is anything like my in-laws and love to share lol). Honestly he will probably always be dragged that direction or to the grill during family gatherings/parties because he loves to cook so much lol.

Speaking of parties - YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME THAT TWILIGHT WOULD NOT BE THE BEST DANCE PARTNER (2nd would be Time, 3rd would be Warriors)! So much that I’m afraid the aunties might attempt to steal him away to keep the party going lol.

I also think Warriors and Sky would be the best ones to have apart of a quinceañera - respectful, could easily follow along with the traditions and would definitely ensure that nothing goes wrong for such a special day! Honestly I can see all of them becoming “the protection chain”, the security - they will be giving the princess Zelda treatment lol.

Did you grow up a bit more superstitious or with ghost stories? I can definitely see them following along if you tell them about it, even if its much different than what they’re used to (like the mal de ojo huevo treatment - someone please do that for Wild, he out of all of them needs that done). As for ghost stories, campfire will be the perfect place to tell them! But be warned, you might have a Link (or a few) in your bed roll - especially if you tell Wind about La Llorona and y’all are camping near a river. Poor guy will need some comfort (an maybe Hyrule too).

Grow up more religious/spiritual? I can definitely see them finding interest in it, no matter the deity/god/goddess/saint/revered figure you bring up - again, they want to know more about you and what you’ve grown up with, plus they have the goddesses, Hylia, Fierce Deity - they would all find it nice to learn about the ones you might have been associated with all of your life too! If you have a rosary or some other religious item you like to carry on your person that might get broken via fight with moblin or wear and tear - can definitely see Four making you a brand new one! He may even get Sky in on it to help him whittle some wooden pieces into it!

Did you grow up with traditional medicine/home remedies (even mixed with modern medicine)? Hyrule is your guy! If there��s something you need (especially if you get sick on the road) he’ll go get it/make it/find a Hylian equivalent of it! However, if you grew up with Vicks (aka Vapour according to my mil) for everything, I would be careful with him and that. I’m afraid the smell alone might knock him out the first time he opens a jar of that.

Have you told them about la chanlca? Time would be the biggest user of that - not against his brothers in arms - no, Ingo would be the victim of la chancla. Hey, that may even be the thing that keeps him away for good.

Music? Have a favorite song or play an instrument? Oooohhh buddy Legend and Time have an arsenal of those and would LOVE to hear you sing/play it! Also, since Time easily learns through listening, I can see him learning your favorite song to play/duet with you (maybe even sing you to sleep with it)!

#writing: the chain #linked universe x reader #linked universe #linked universe headcanons #lu time x reader #lu twilight x reader #lu warriors x reader #lu sky x reader #lu four x reader #lu hyrule x reader #lu wind x reader #lu legend x reader #lu wild x reader

[mixelation]

For the sleepover game! I’m going to be teaching English abroad later this year. Do you have any advice from your own teaching experience?

Oh, cool!

For teaching:

Students will match your energy. Try to be high-energy and excited as much as possible. Yes, even if you are teaching bored teenagers at 8 AM.

Kids are usually interested in talking to people from other countries, even if they don't like learning English. Use that. If you speak the local language, then pretend you don't (or suddenly "forget" it if you have to use it for, eg, classroom management) so they have to ask you their questions in English. Scale this to their level, obviously. I used to hold classrooms supplies hostage unless asked for them in English (prompting/helping kids who struggle, ofc).

Pay attention to what vocabulary they've already learned and use it. It's very frustrating if you learned the word trainer and your new teacher suddenly starts talking about sneakers or running shoes.

Know that weird things happen and that kids will do weird things. You will make mistakes you did not anticipate would be mistakes. That's normal. You'll learn quick. For example, you might hear a student say "but my dog is a girl dog!" and then you will suddenly unlock the ability to teleport across the room to stop her from typing "perra" into google translate.

Have fun with it! Kids respond better to fun lessons. I used to carry cards and dice around with me everywhere. If you're playing a game and tell kids you'll give 1000 points to anyone that can spell Massachusetts, their brains will kick into turbo mode and make them finally be able to spell yoghurt.

On that note, I've heard people advise bringing stickers and stamps to give out (especially ones with English words in them). The year I did this, the kids didn't really care.... except they went wild for stickers of US currency? For some reason??? If you can afford them, Gamewright has a bunch of children's card games that you can easily just slip into your bag.

Don't assume your students will have learned the same things as you in the same order. Basically, don't assume the average third grader has learned something just because you knew it in third grade.

For living abroad:

Focus on what you have, not what you don't have. You will make yourself homesick if you can't stop thinking about how you don't have access to [eg, favorite food]. Try to focus on [eg, cool new food you like].

Explore, explore, explore! Walk around your new city. Talk to locals. Ask your co-teachers for recommendations on what to do in your free time. Try new things even if they don't seem like they'd be up your alley.

Learn the local language if you don't speak it already. Learn the version locals speak. This will just make your life easier and enrich your experience. For example, I know a lot of US Americans who just refused to learn vosotros (informal plural you, basically only used in spain) when living in Spain and like.... children will literally not understand you are addressing them if you use ustedes (formal plural you in spain, used informally across latin america).

Try to make local friends. I think the best way would be to engage in hobbies, but most cities have like... language exchanges you can sign up for.

#ask meme answer

[evilwriter37]

I noticed that Hiccup speaks very eloquently. Hopefully that’s the right word to describe him. He uses words that none of the riders use to express things. Such as indeed, plus some other words that I had forgotten.

I kinda headcanon that he speaks this way is because of his upbringing; also Stoick bringing him out of the island for some meetings since he’s an only child. I doubt the riders are the only people he speaks and hangs out with. He speaks with people who are around his status, likely older heirs or chieftains which is why he uses these elegant expressive words.

Fun little headcanon, because I also noticed Viggo using such expressive words. Their expressive language that seems to be used in their status circle.

Yes! I absolutely agree with you on that! I also like to headcanon that movie franchise Hiccup also knows some other languages, like French and Latin, probably also learned due to his status as a chief’s heir.

Remember Snotlout not knowing what mercurial meant? (That was super funny.) “Viggo taught it to me! I don’t know what it means!”

Oh god, now I’m just imagining Viggo as some poor English/Literature teacher stuck with the Dragon Riders. 😂

#asks #httyd #hiccup haddock