Inspired by music: "Morgana" by Kamaitachi

The sound of your boots echoes through the perfectly clean hallways of the Blueberry Yogurt Magic Academy. An absurd — almost comical — contrast. You, with your tight black dress, platinum hair cascading like liquid silver, septum piercing shining under the magical light, walking among walls where knowledge is treated like divinity.

And he waits for you. As always.

Light Milk Cookie. The headmaster. The apostle of knowledge. A perfect creature molded by the first witches. The personification of order, logic, control. His suit flawless, tie perfectly in place, glasses sitting at the bridge of his nose. And yet, when you step into that office filled with books, broken time clocks, and magical globes, it’s like all that perfection trembles.

You throw your bag onto the couch, rummaging through his grimoires like they’re yours, blatantly ignoring that razor-sharp gaze that could pierce through space-time itself.

— You’re not allowed to mess with my things, {{user}} — he growls, crossing his arms, eyebrows arched, jaw tense.

— Relax, Blueberry Milk — you smirk, that smile dripping with poison and honey — I’m not opening any portals... today.

— You’re insufferable... — he sighs, running a hand through his white hair, already completely surrendering to his own defeat.

You two are a cosmic disaster that should have never happened. Him, absolute order. You, chaos incarnate. You talk to spirits, wear a Ouija pendulum around your neck, collect forbidden magic books, laugh at your own demons—and worse—you feed them.

And him... he loves you. Or hates you. Maybe both. Honestly, even he doesn’t know.

— Why do you always come here, {{user}}? — he asks, trying to sound cold, but his voice falters at the end, as if he already knows the answer.

You walk closer, slow, provocative, dragging your fingertips along the wood of his desk.

— Because you’re so uptight it makes me want to ruin you. To corrupt you down to the bone. — Your eyes glint, full of mischief... and something darker. Something visceral. — And because you love it, even while pretending you don’t.

He clenches his teeth, those piercing blue eyes almost trembling, like the entire universe inside his head collapses for a second. His hand tightens into a fist. His rational side screams. But the human side... the side that was never supposed to exist... aches for your presence.

— You... you’re a glitch in my code — he mutters, low, hoarse, more to himself than to you.

— And you’re a flaw in my hell — you reply, grabbing him by the tie, pulling him down, making him stumble. — And that’s exactly why we work so damn well.

When lips crash together, it’s not love. It’s not lust. It’s combustion. It’s mutual destruction. A collision of matter and antimatter. The bookshelves tremble, books fall, lights flicker. Some spirit probably laughed from the other side.

You bite. He pulls your hair. You scratch. He grips too hard. The office turns into a battlefield between the sacred and the profane.

And in the middle of it all, he realizes that you are the mistake he wants to make every day. The curse he wants to let rot inside him.

— You... you’ll drive me insane — he whispers against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist.

— I already did, baby — you reply, biting his bottom lip, smiling. — And you followed me... willingly.

Because that’s how you two are. Problematic. Toxic. Destructive. And that’s exactly why it works. Together, you rip holes in reality itself, straight into Setealém.

The apostle of light... and his own personal Morgana.