bbyg00rl

[bbyg00rl]

Odile updated I need to get back on Tumblr

[bbyg00rl]

Alright ITPOT fans have this alternate universe where MC and Shmilk actually get married, live in the Spire Of Knowledge forevermore without losing anyone through time or corruption and baked a kid together <3 (I'm coping)

Papa Shadow Milk Cookie <3

Ah yes, like Mother/Parent like daughter, but rest assured she also has traits just like her Papa maybe a bit more.

Anyways hope you like this! <3

Some of the doodles of the little cookie was from 2-3 months ago when I was still figuring out her design lol (you know it's bad when I start making a fanchild for a fic GHHHH)

Once again ITPOT belongs to our lovely poet @odileeclipse

[bbyg00rl]

~Cookie Run Kingdom?Y X Reader

Warning’s : None for the moment, interactive, bad writing.

Author note : This is an interactive story. At the end of each chapter, you’ll be given a poll, and your final choice will have consequences on the story. Play wisely and unlock illustrations based on your decisions. Be careful, not to reach a bad ending!<3

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You awoke slowly, as though surfacing from the depths of an endless ocean. Your mind, still submerged in the haze of unconsciousness, struggled to climb back toward clarity. The boundary between dreaming and waking remained indistinct, like fog drifting across the border of two worlds.

It wasn’t just your thoughts that lagged behind, your body, too, felt strange and distant. Limbs heavy. Muscles unresponsive. Your bones felt hollow, as though someone had carved you out and left you empty beneath your skin. The world around you existed only in fragments, shadow, scent, sound, none of it quite real yet.

Then, a sharp pain. Sudden and jarring.

It bloomed behind your eyes like a violent sunrise, radiating through your skull with a slow, pulsing ache. You winced. The sound of your own breath startled you, dry and faint, like wind scraping over stone.

You were lying down. That much was clear. And the ground beneath you wasn’t stone or wood. It was soft. Cool. Alive.

The tickle of grass brushed your bare arms. Stray blades curled along your jaw and throat, and somewhere close by, you could hear the faint chirring of insects, rhythmic and distant, like a lullaby played in reverse.

You didn’t know where you were.

You didn’t know how you’d gotten there.

But you knew, somehow, that this was not a place you recognized.

The air was unusually clean. Not sterile or cold, but clear, vibrant, charged with something unknown. Every breath tasted of wildflowers and moss, with undertones of damp bark and sun-warmed leaves. You could hear water trickling somewhere not far off, the babble of a hidden stream winding its way through unseen roots. Above you, the trees swayed gently, casting a dance of gold-dappled shadows over your face.

Then, a touch.

Featherlight.

Startling.

Something, someone, was brushing your face. A single finger traced a line across your temple, then swept a strand of hair away from your eyes. The movement was hesitant, careful, like one might approach a wounded bird or a fading flame.

You didn’t recoil. Not yet. It was too soft to fear.

Then you felt two fingers rest just above your pulse, pressing delicately into your neck. Checking. Measuring.

A heartbeat. Still steady. Still yours.

That single act, so quiet, so full of unspoken concern, brought your awareness rushing back.

Your eyes fluttered open. Immediately, light flooded your vision, searing and golden. You squinted, blinking rapidly, and slowly, shapes began to emerge from the haze. Trees, tall and ancient, their trunks wrapped in vines and lichen. Leaves stirred high above in a canopy so thick it let only fragmented sunlight through, casting the forest floor in a glowing mosaic of green and gold.

And then, you saw him.

At first, he was a blur. A silhouette leaning over you, haloed in sunlight. His form shimmered with the kind of brightness you didn’t often associate with people. Ethereal. Blinding.

But as your vision sharpened, the details resolved.

He was… beautiful. There was no other word for it.

His hair was pale blond, the kind of gold that seemed kissed by morning light, soft, subtle, and luminous. It reached the nape of his neck in loose, feathered strands, catching the sun like fine silk threads. His lashes, long and delicate, framed eyes set against skin that was far from pale, warm, rich, and full of life, glowing with a quiet strength that needed no light to shine.

He wore a long robe the color of the wool of a sheep, flowing and weightless, as though spun from silk and wind. Intricate embroidery in soft beige traced patterns along the collar and cuffs, elegant, curling lines shaped like frost or vanilla blossoms. The fabric moved with him, rippling faintly in the breeze, though there was no wind near enough to stir it.

But what held your gaze, what made you forget your condition entirely, was the jewel.

A large gemstone rested above his heart, cradled within the fabric of his robes as though it had grown there, fused into his very being. Deep midnight blue. The kind of blue that lives in the sky just before dawn or in the ocean’s deepest trench. It pulsed faintly, as if alive, catching the scattered light and reflecting it in slow, otherworldly gleams. Looking at it stirred something strange in your chest. Maybe awe, fear, recognition, but you couldn’t place why.

And then you realized, his hand was still on your cheek.

You recoiled instinctively, your back bumping against something hard and rough behind you, the bark of a tree, wide and ancient, gnarled with time. The jolt startled a flock of birds from a nearby branch. They erupted into the air in a flurry of wings and startled cries, vanishing into the canopy.

The man’s eyes, mismatched, soft, concerned, widened slightly at your reaction. But he didn’t move away in fear. There was no trace of offense in his expression. Only quiet understanding, tinged with something that looked almost like… regret.

He gently drew his hand back and placed it over his heart, right atop the glowing gem. His head dipped slightly, and his lashes lowered in an almost reverent motion, like a silent apology.

And then he spoke.

His voice was soft and smooth, carrying the warmth of honey and the softness of morning fog.

“Witches above… I feared I was too late.”

His lips curved into a gentle, cautious smile.

“But no… you’re here. You’re safe.”

You parted your lips, your throat dry and aching, but before you could ask the thousand questions tangled in your mind, his gaze shifted suddenly.

His expression darkened, not in anger, but alarm.

He was looking at your hand.

You followed his gaze, and froze.

A long, dark cut carved across your palm. Not fresh, but still angry looking. It wasn’t deep, but it had bled, a lot. The blood had dried into rough, cracked lines that trailed down your wrist and pooled in rusty patches along your forearm, stopping just above the elbow. It looked far worse than it probably was, but that didn’t matter now.

You didn’t remember the injury. You didn’t remember anything.

Before you could move, he reached for your hand again. This time, his movements were quicker, but still impossibly gentle. He took your hand in both of his, cradling it as if it were made of glass.

He said nothing at first.

Just looked. Examined.

His brows knit together, and a shadow passed through his mismatched eyes. Then, after a long breath, he murmured,

“It’s not as deep as I feared, thankfully. But…”

He hesitated, his thumb grazing just below the wound, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your skin tingle.

“You’ve been lying here too long. Exposure. Wild air. Untended cuts… they can turn.”

He looked at you again, brow furrowing with gentler worry.

“I fear that I might need to bring you to the kingdom. It will be properly treated there.”

The word snagged in your mind like a thorn.

Kingdom?

You sat up straighter, ignoring the dull throb in your temple, and looked him directly in the eye for the first time.

“The kingdom…?” you echoed, unsure if you meant to question him or yourself.

A soft flush rose on his cheeks, delicate, barely-there, and he chuckled quietly, a sound like snow falling over silk.

“Ah… forgive me. That must sound strange to you, how rude of me...”

He dipped his head slightly, brushing a golden strand behind his ear.

“I forgot how disorienting waking can be, even for I.”

Then, he straightened, meeting your gaze with gentle resolve.

“Please, allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Pure Vanilla, one of the main healer in the Kingdom..”

He offered a slight bow, one hand pressed respectfully to his chest, just above the gem.

“But truly, do not trouble yourself with formalities. Just call me Pure Vanilla, please. Nothing more.”

You stared at him, something distant stirring in your chest.

Pure Vanilla…

The name rippled through your thoughts like an echo. Familiar. Like a memory lost in fog. Like a word spoken to you in a dream, just before waking.

His voice continued, calm and melodic, but your mind was slipping again, not into unconsciousness, but into thought. Confusion. Wonder. Fear.

You didn’t know him.

You didn’t know this place.

The forest stretched endlessly around you. The trees were taller than any you remembered seeing before, ancient things, with bark the color of ash and roots that coiled above the soil like sleeping serpents. The light that filtered through the canopy was strange, gold, but tinted faintly lavender, as if the sky itself had been painted in twilight.

There were no familiar sounds. No roads. No signs of cities. No proof that the world you knew even existed anymore.

And yet… his touch was real. His presence was real.

His thumb, even now, traced soft circles over the back of your hand, slow and steady, like a silent promise. You’re not alone.

Then he asked, again, his voice lower now, more intimate.

“So please… Would you allow me to accompany you to the kingdom?”

The forest held its breath.

And so did you.

Pure Vanilla’s question hung in the air like a fragile thread of silk, delicate and shimmering, suspended between two worlds, the known and the unknown.

The forest around you remained still, as if nature itself was holding its breath, waiting for your reply.

Your eyes searched his, still kind, still patient. There was a softness to him that was almost unreal, like something out of a story. He looked like the embodiment of peace, of safety. There was no arrogance in his gaze, no coldness in the line of his jaw. If anything, he looked ancient. As though he had carried something heavy for a very long time. And yet, beneath that weariness, there was kindness, a quiet, unwavering light that drew you in like a hearth fire on a winter night.

His golden lashes cast shadows beneath eyes that still watched you gently, searching for fear, for trust, for something real.

You dropped your gaze.

The grass beneath you shimmered with dew, though the sun now sat high above the canopy, casting columns of warm light between the trees. Petals drifted lazily through the air, carried on an unseen wind, their colors pale and strange, whites tinged with blue, lilacs fading into silver. You weren’t sure whether they had fallen from flowers or if they simply existed here, as part of this place’s quiet enchantment.

A strange calm had settled over your body, but your thoughts remained tangled.

You remembered nothing.

Not your name.

Not your past.

Not how you’d come to this forest, or what had caused the wound in your hand.

And yet, here he was, this stranger, this king, speaking your language, treating you not as an intruder, not as a threat, but as someone he cared.

Why?

How had he known you were here? Was it just one of fate tricks?

Your heart gave an uneasy flutter.

What if this was all a trap?

What if he wasn’t who he claimed to be?

But then, why the gentle touch? Why the softness in his eyes when you recoiled? Why the look of relief when he saw that you were alive?

He said his name was Pure Vanilla.

He said he´s a healer in a kingdom.

A kingdom you’d never heard of.

A kingdom you might have once known perhaps.

He reached out again, this time more carefully, offering you his hand, palm upward, open, unthreatening.

A simple gesture.

But the moment was not simple at all.

His voice, when he spoke next, was quiet. Not demanding. Not urgent.

Just… hopeful.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” he murmured, as though he could feel your hesitation as clearly as the wind.

“But I could never leave someone there. Not here. Not like this.”

His fingers remained outstretched, motionless, suspended in the space between you.

And now…

The trees whisper around you.

The petals swirl.

And time waits for your answer, Reader!

⸻

Bonus ; First illustration interaction! Just a doodle, the next one will be better, hopefully..

Thanks for reading this first chapter, don’t forget to like!!🫶🍊

⸻

Omg it’s the first time that I use my iPad for drawing, I need to get use to it but I LOVEE it. Sorry for the illustrations, I like to draw but I lowkey hate to finish my drawing, so it’s usually just gonna be sketch!! I enjoy more the writing than the drawing for this concept👅 DON’T FORGET IT’S YANDERE GUYS, don’t trust too much huh 😨

[bbyg00rl]

"Don't you know I would have loved you the way you were whole?"

Song and extras under the cut!

To people who don't know centaurworld, this is,, a massive spoiler to it actually. So I don't suggest searching for the video or listening to the full song if you plan to watch it 😭

So— the context is, you are a souljam holder. Being the only one who hasn't been corrupted, the witches tasked you to kill the leader of the beasts, shadow milk, which is unfortunately your husband, due to the destruction he and the other beasts have done.

As much as you love your husband, he has done,, a lot of damage to you as well. He realizes that when it's already too late and this animatic happens.

It hurts you to be the one who has to kill him but you know it has to be done. He accepts his fate,, he's remorseful for what he has done to you.

[bbyg00rl]

Chimera Lily with little shamil biting off more than he can chew

[bbyg00rl]

SHADOWLILY ENJOYER SPOTTED 🫵 /pos

HIII ARE YOU KIDDING ME I'VE READ YOUR FIC ON AO3 IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITE SHADOWLILY FANFICS I'M KICKING MY FEET AND TWIRLING MY HAIR. HAIIII

[bbyg00rl]

MORE shadowlily AUs

[bbyg00rl]

SHADOWLILY SCP au 👩🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏼👩🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏼👩🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏼👩🏼‍❤️‍💋‍👩🏼

[bbyg00rl]

old ass shitpost dont even ask me what i was trying to do here i forhot

[bbyg00rl]

Hi guys..Yuri ShadowVanillla

[bbyg00rl]

i gotta be real w yall i got upset with the lack of mystic flour and burning spice merch I'm taking things into my own hands or however you say that

[bbyg00rl]

SHADOWLILY MENTION RAHBHH

YEEEE HAPPY BIRTHDAY BESTIE @licoryce BESTIE >;3

Happy birthday art dump for yyyou

Okay byeee have a nice day hour year )))))

[bbyg00rl]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 30

<<<Previous Next>>>

You leaned over the table with an intensity that rivaled pre-exam week, ink smudged on your fingertips and the edge of your sleeve. Parchment covered in hasty scrawl sat in front of you, each paragraph dripping with formal logic, magical ethics, a dash of heartfelt plea, and a surprising amount of literary flourish. 

You slid the page toward Chai Latte Cookie first. “Alright. I need you to… Chai-ify it. Make it poetic or profound or something.”

Chai, practically vibrating with glee, took the parchment in both hands. “Oh, yes. Let me just elevate this rhetoric.”

She pulled a quill from behind her ear like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “I’m going to add a line about the transformation of truth through form. And maybe a metaphor about moonlight as mutable identity.”

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at her. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Chai said, flourishing her quill. “But it sounds so convincing.”

You chuckled as she scribbled. “Make sure it still sounds like me though. I don’t want him to think I was possessed mid-sentence.”

Chai looked up with a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it your voice. Just slightly more dramatic.”

After she was satisfied, you passed the updated version across the table to Earl Grey Cookie.

He scanned it with surgical precision, eyes flicking left to right, pausing only to make corrections with his fountain pen that seemed designed to make every edit sting with dignity.

“Your thesis is strong,” he murmured. “But tighten the second paragraph. You’re leaning too much into emotional leverage. Balance it with academic precedent.”

“You say that like he isn’t already emotionally compromised,” you muttered.

Earl didn’t look up. “All the more reason to prove you’re serious.”

He handed it off with a final flick. “The final paragraph is surprisingly elegant. That must’ve been Chai.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, twirling a strand of her hair.

Then it was Hazelnut’s turn.

You slid the parchment over, watching as he read through it at a pace both cautious and skeptical. He frowned at a few spots but said nothing until the end.

Finally, he leaned back and scratched his chin. “Alright… it’s convincing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Hazelnut shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but if someone handed me a scroll like this, I’d be too impressed to say no. It’s half spell theory, half love letter to magical curiosity.”

“That’s the vibe I was going for,” you said, relieved.

Earl nodded. “Then I’d say it’s ready.”

You looked down at the page revised, refined, and full of lines like

Let this transformation not be a spectacle, but a symbol that even truth, immutable and enduring, has the capacity for grace in change.

…Yeah. You were definitely not getting out of this without compromising some dignity.

Chai grinned. “So… when are you giving it to him?”

You swallowed.

“Tomorrow.”

Your friends exchanged glances.

“Stars help him,” Hazelnut said dryly.

“Stars help you,” Chai added, practically glowing. “Because if he says yes… I need to be there.”

You covered your face with both hands, already regretting everything.

But also?

Kind of excited.

You peeked through your fingers, face still buried in your hands, and muttered, “I think he’d be a lot less convinced if there were an audience.”

Chai immediately gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “You’re not going to let me witness history?”

“Do you want him to say yes or turn into mist and vanish?” you deadpanned, lifting your head.

Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled. “They have a point.”

“Exactly!” You gestured toward him. “If I walk in there with all three of you breathing down his neck from the doorway, he’s going to think it’s a prank or some kind of social experiment.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea calmly. “It is a social experiment. But your hypothesis requires solitude.”

Chai groaned dramatically. “Fine. But if he does it if you have to tell me everything.”

“I will write a report. With citations.”

Chai brightened instantly. “Deal.”

Hazelnut smirked. “Just don’t die from embarrassment when you hand it to him.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a line. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take… for science.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “And unhinged curiosity.”

“And possibly love,” Chai added with a wink.

You groaned. “I hate it here.”

They all laughed, and Chai nudged your arm affectionately, you couldn’t help but smile again, nervous, yes, but genuinely excited.

Because the scroll in your bag might just be your most ambitious experiment yet. You twirled your spoon slowly in your cup, watching the last of the honey swirl into your tea before lifting your gaze, more hesitant than before.

The parchment containing your “essay” sat folded neatly in your bag, safe and final. But the laughter had settled, and the buzz of the dining hall had faded into the quiet hum of content students and clinking cutlery. For a moment, your thoughts shifted somewhere else somewhere more uncertain.

“…Hey,” you said softly, glancing around the table. “Can I ask something kind of serious?”

Chai leaned forward immediately. “Of course.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up mid-sip, nodding once.

But your eyes turned to Earl Grey Cookie.

“Do you think this is… love?” you asked carefully. “And I don’t mean that in a sad way I’m not trying to self-deprecate. I just… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

Earl Grey froze mid-reach for his napkin, caught completely off guard for what might’ve been the first time ever.

You continued before he could speak. “I mean, how do you know if it’s too soon? Like, maybe it’s just care. Or affection. Or something like love but not really it.”

He stared at you, brows furrowing slightly not in judgment, but in rare, genuine contemplation.

You gestured vaguely in the air, trying to explain. “I’m not unhappy. We’re… partners now, I think. He hasn’t said anything overly poetic since, which is weirdly comforting. It’s not grand gestures or dramatic confessions, just… quiet. Natural. Like we’re two close friends who occasionally kiss and study theory together. And that feels normal. But should it?”

The table was silent now your friends watching, not with pity, but with care. No one laughed or brushed it off.

“I just… don’t know if it’s supposed to feel like more. Or maybe it’s supposed to feel like this. Like something calm. Familiar. Comfortable. And I don’t know if that’s love or something else.”

You turned back to Earl Grey, eyes steady. “You always give me the most concise answers. So. Do you know what love feels like?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he set his napkin aside.

“I think,” he said, voice softer than usual, “that love doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it grows in quiet hours and shared routines. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s gentle. But in all its forms, it’s not about how much it feels like something.”

He looked at you directly.

“It’s about whether it makes you more yourself. Whether you feel safer, more curious, more seen. Not just when it’s easy, but also when it’s hard. When you're not at your best. If someone still chooses to understand you in those moments, even when it would be easier not to… that might be love.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

Earl leaned back again, adjusting his sleeve. “But even then, love is not static. It changes. Grows. What it feels like now may not be what it feels like in a year.”

Chai exhaled, leaning her chin on her palm. “That was… beautiful.”

Hazelnut frowned a little. “I mean, yeah. I guess I agree.”

You sat there, letting his words settle in the space between your ribs.

Not an answer. But maybe something better.

A starting point. You stared at Earl Grey Cookie, the words he had just spoken echoing in your chest like a soft chime struck in the heart of a quiet cathedral. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“Earl…” you murmured, eyes wide, “how did you word that so beautifully?”

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, he stared off slightly to the side, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, a distant look creeping into his normally unreadable expression. The tea in his cup had long since cooled, but his fingers remained wrapped around it like a tether to the present.

“…I thought once I felt it,” he said, his voice low not quite guarded, but measured.

Not for your sake.

For his.

You felt your heart still, your own breath quieter now as his words unraveled something more vulnerable than you had expected.

“Of course love changes,” he continued, almost to himself. “That’s what makes it so impossible to define. It grows, recedes, reshapes… But I know what it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

Chai, for once, didn’t fill the space with teasing. She just watched him with the same awe-struck softness you felt creeping into your own chest.

Hazelnut Biscotti lowered his gaze slightly, respectful.

You didn’t ask who it had been. You didn’t have to. Somewhere between the distance in his voice and the strength in his words… you knew the answer wasn’t meant to be named.

It just was.

And that was enough.

You smiled gently at him, not pressing further.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded once, composed again, the moment sealed away behind his usual mask but not gone.

Not forgotten.

And somehow… it made the question in your heart feel a little less impossible. The conversation had drifted, as all good ones did softly, like mist curling away from morning tea.

No dramatic shifts. No clean cuts between topics or time. Just shared laughter, the slow stacking of empty plates, the warmth of familiarity, and the comfort of being surrounded by those who knew when to speak and when to simply be.

Somewhere between Earl Grey’s quiet reflection and Hazelnut’s reluctant second dessert, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the dining hall’s stone archways. The air had taken on that dimmer, cooler quality that meant class hours had long passed, and free time had become scarce once more.

The anticipation of tomorrow left a sour taste in your mouth. You didn’t think anything bad would come out of it but who knows. The next day was like any other and the hours seemed to slip away from you. Even during lunch, you were absent, caught up in your thoughts that seemed endless. Of course, that didn’t go unnoticed by your friends, which is why Chai insisted they drop you off with the sage himself. Something about ‘Knights can’t go without their steeds”.

And now, here you were.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quiet again, washed in lantern light and the faint rustling of ancient banners. You stood before the carved door you knew too well, parchment scroll clutched in both hands like it was sacred, dangerous, or perhaps… deeply personal.

Chai Latte Cookie bounced on her heels beside you, practically glowing. “Okay, so remember shoulders back, voice steady, don’t crumple the scroll in panic”

“I won’t,” you muttered, eyes locked on the door. “Probably.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised an eyebrow. “If he doesn’t agree, I’ll eat the dining hall’s jelly meatloaf for a week.”

Earl Grey Cookie offered a dignified nod. “You’ve edited it thoroughly. It’s a compelling argument.”

Chai smiled softly, squeezing your arm. “And it’s very you. If he says no… it’s not because it’s not good. It just means he’s being cryptic and annoying. You’ve got this.”

You took a slow breath, nodding. “Right.”

This wasn’t just an essay.

It was your most current fascination with him. One that started with curiosity, twisted into wonder, and now shimmered somewhere on the horizon between truth and vulnerability.

You weren’t sure what he’d say.

But you were ready to find out.

You turned toward the door.

Looked towards your friends for courage.

And knocked three times.

You heard his voice from the other side of the door smooth, composed, as always.

“Come in.”

You stepped through the threshold before your nerves had the chance to revolt, before your heart could second-guess the weight of the scroll in your hands or the practiced way you had folded it three times to make it feel more formal than it was. You moved past the threshold, into the warm glow of parchment and starlight that always seemed to fill his office.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked up from his notes, one hand still curled around a quill, the other resting near an open book. His gaze lifted to you, curious but not unkind his expression expectant.

But before he could say anything, you moved.

With every ounce of the determination your friends had just poured into you, you strode forward and held out the scroll between both hands.

He blinked.

Your expression was steady. Unflinching.

Like you were handing him something that could very well decide the future of magic itself.

He set his quill down with slow precision and took the scroll from your hands. The parchment barely made a sound between your fingers, but in your chest, your heart thudded like it echoed across stone halls.

Then, without a word, you turned on your heel.

And marched to the chair across from his desk.

But instead of sitting, you bent down and grabbed the legs of the chair with both hands.

You began to drag.

The wood groaned in protest as you struggled to maneuver it around the polished corner of the desk and just as you were halfway through gritting your teeth and about to commit to dragging it all the way-

It moved.

Soundlessly. Cleanly. As though the stone beneath it had turned to air.

You blinked. Your hands hovered in the air for a moment before you looked up.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood beside his desk now, parchment scroll in one hand, a long-suffering sigh escaping through his nose.

He didn’t say a word.

You offered a grin and settled into the chair now neatly aligned beside his, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Thank you. You're getting faster at that.”

“I was trying to save the floor.”

“I was trying to make a point,” you replied, folding your hands with faux dignity. “That this is a co-investigator level interaction.”

He arched a brow, gaze lowering to the scroll.

You nudged him slightly with your elbow. “Now read it carefully. Every word. Analyze it like it’s critical spell theory. This is very important.”

He looked at you again, eyes narrowing slightly with a glimmer of suspicion. “For science, I assume?”

“Exactly,” you said solemnly. “For science.”

He exhaled softly.

Then, without another word, he began to unroll the scroll.

You sat beside him, doing your best to appear calm, collected, and completely unaware of the fact that you were sitting next to the most unreadable person in the entire Academy with a ticking time bomb of magical curiosity in his hands.

This was fine.

You were fine.

You just… might pass out a little.

But for science? Worth it. You folded your hands in your lap to stop yourself from fidgeting, but it didn’t help much. Your knee still bounced the smallest bit, your shoulders tense despite your best efforts.

There was something deeply embarrassing about having someone read your work always had been. Even when it wasn’t personal. 

Even when it was just a simple analysis on mana circuits or historical transmutations, there was always that flicker of vulnerability. That tiny voice whispering, What if it’s not good enough? What if they think it’s silly?

But this?

This wasn’t just coursework.

This was you asking the Sage of Truth to shapeshift.

This was every spiraling thought and late-night curiosity packed neatly into metaphors, magic theory, and if you were being honest at least two and a half emotionally compromised flourishes courtesy of Chai Latte Cookie.

And he was reading it.

Right next to you.

His eyes moved slowly down the page, calm and steady. His posture unchanged, expression unreadable. Not a twitch of an eyebrow. Not a quirk of his lips. Just the soft rustle of parchment as he unrolled a bit more, and the occasional pause that made your heart leap into your throat.

You tried to steal a glance at his face just a peek.

But there was nothing.

Not disapproval. Not amusement. Just… silence.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud your own thoughts were. Every second felt like it stretched too long, too wide.

Still, you waited.

Because despite the silence, despite the burn of embarrassment crawling up your neck… you wanted him to see it.

Because this wasn’t just for science.

This was yours.

And right now, that had to be enough. You waited.

Not the impatient kind of waiting, the fidgeting, time-checking, foot-tapping sort but the quiet, breath-held kind. The kind of stillness that only happened when something delicate was unfolding, and you didn’t want to move in case it shattered.

You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat as he reached the end of the scroll. His eyes lingered on the final line Chai’s idea, something about “truth reshaping itself not to deceive, but to reveal what curiosity dares to ask.” It felt too dramatic when you wrote it. It still did now.

And then he looked at you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just regarded you with that steady, deep gaze mismatched eyes so calm they made the silence feel like part of the conversation.

You braced yourself.

“This is…” He paused, folding the parchment carefully with deliberate hands. “Remarkably structured.”

You blinked. “Wait structured?” You knew it was but to hear it from him was another thing.

“A logical progression. Efficient use of magical precedent. Clear intent.” He placed the scroll down on the desk with reverence, as though it were a thesis submitted to a higher council.

You stared at him, unblinking. “That’s all you got from it?”

He turned to you fully now, his expression softening just slightly.

“And charming,” he added.

Your heart skipped.

“I did read every word. Including the parts where you tried to convince me this was purely academic,” he said, lips curling just faintly.

You opened your mouth to object but he held up a hand.

“No need to deny it. I appreciate the effort. And the… scholarly fervor.” He leaned back a little in his chair, gaze thoughtful. “You’ve always been curious. But this kind of curiosity is… different. More personal.”

You looked down, fingers twitching in your lap. “Well, yeah. I guess… I just wanted to see. To know. It’s not like I’d publish a paper on it or anything.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I am not dismissing the request.”

Your head snapped up. “Wait, really?”

His smile was small. But it was real.

“I’m merely considering my terms.”

You gawked. “Terms?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Surely, you didn’t expect something like this to be without cost.”

You blinked. “Are you saying I have to pay you to shapeshift?”

“Not in gold,” he mused. “But perhaps in kind. One trade of curiosity for another.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You huffed, slouching in your seat. “I can’t believe you’re making this into a negotiation.”

He raised a brow. “It’s what scholars do.”

You exhaled sharply… but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite yourself.

“Fine,” you said. “But I want it noted that this began with you withholding cosmic-level shapeshifting powers and me just wanting to observe.”

“And now,” he said softly, “we’re here. At the edge of something new.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet beat.

And, just beneath your breath, you said, “I can live with that.” 

You leaned in a little, eyes narrowing not with suspicion, but with the kind of sharpened curiosity that always surfaced when he dangled something just out of reach. It was like he’d placed a rare tome on the top shelf and was waiting to see if you’d dare climb for it.

“…Alright,” you said, voice low but certain. “What are your terms?”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked almost too pleased. Not smug. Not condescending. Just… quietly, profoundly satisfied, like he’d known you would ask from the moment you handed him the scroll.

He folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression measured but still touched with that unreadable warmth that always seemed to creep in when he thought you weren’t looking.

“My terms,” he repeated slowly, “are quite simple.”

You raised a brow. “Simple for you or for me?”

He inclined his head, ignoring the jab entirely.

“One; You must allow me to ask a question of equal weight.”

You blinked. “That’s… vague.”

“Precisely,” he said, tone maddeningly light. “You may not know when I’ll ask. Or what it will be.”

“So you’re setting a trap.”

“I’m offering balance.”

You gave him a long look. “Fine. One mysterious, possibly ominous question to be determined later. What else?”

“Two…” He reached for a quill, idly spinning it between his fingers. “You must promise not to run.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I run?”

He glanced at you not with teasing, not with challenge. Just… something steadier. Something deeper.

“Because,” he said softly, “when truth is given form, it often changes the one who sought it.”

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest tightened just a little.

Still, you nodded. “Okay. I won’t run.”

He considered you, as if weighing whether to believe you.

Then, slowly, he nodded once in return.

“That’s it?” you asked, your voice quiet now. “Just those two things?”

“Is that not enough?”

You hesitated then exhaled.

“…No. It’s fair.”

He said nothing for a moment.

Then leaned in just slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then the terms are accepted.”

And somewhere, beneath all the words exchanged between you, a quiet agreement settled. Not signed in ink or blood but in trust.

And maybe something a little closer to wonder. You stared at him, your curiosity prickling again, even sharper now that you’d agreed to his cryptic little bargain.

“…What is it you wish to know?” you asked, voice steady but soft. “If I’m agreeing to answer one question of equal weight… then what is it you’re so eager to ask?”

You expected him to deflect. Maybe lean back in his chair, say something evasive like in time or you’ll know when it matters. Maybe arch a brow and smirk like he so often did when you wandered too close to truths he wasn’t ready to name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you.

And then

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

That stopped you.

You blinked. “You… don’t know?”

He shook his head, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I will.”

You tilted your head, wary. “That’s a little unnerving.”

“I could lie,” he offered, lips curling slightly.

“Please don’t. You’re the last person I need lying to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You sat back, the weight of that truth settling into your chest like something warm and strangely grounding. There was no game here. No dramatic setup. Just honesty clear, rare, and a little too vulnerable if you thought about it for too long.

You looked down at your hands, thumbs brushing over each other.

“And when you do figure out the question?”

“I’ll ask it.”

“And I’ll have to answer.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

You met his gaze again, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I hope it’s something good.”

“It will be,” he said, and somehow it felt like a promise not of comfort or safety, but of knowing. Of being seen in a way that went past observation and into belief.

You nodded once.

And sat there beside him, heart full of stars and questions. You rested your elbow on the desk, cheek in your hand, still watching him carefully half wary, half fascinated. The scroll between you was no longer just a scroll. It was a pact. One sealed with curiosity and trust, and maybe a little too much emotional investment for your comfort.

“…So,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “does that mean I’ll only get to see you shapeshift after you ask your mysterious life-altering question?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took his time of course he did fingers trailing lightly along the edge of the parchment, as if rereading your words in silence.

You waited, trying not to fidget.

Eventually, he spoke, voice calm. “That depends.”

“On?”

His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“On whether I think you’re ready to see me like that.”

Your breath hitched.

“…Like what?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “As something unfamiliar. As something outside the image you’ve grown used to.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in his tone.

“I don’t want to unsettle you,” he added, more gently now. “That’s not the point of this. You asked out of curiosity. But if I do this, if I show you a version of myself that’s entirely unlike what you’ve known… I want you to understand it’s still me. That the truth doesn’t vanish just because the form changes.”

You swallowed, your voice barely audible. “I would still know you.”

He watched you a moment longer, as if searching for the depth of your certainty.

Then, finally, he nodded. “Then no. You will not have to wait until I ask the question.”

Your heart fluttered.

“But,” he added, with a glint of amusement now dancing at the edges of his lips, “I reserve the right to make you wait just long enough to drive you mildly mad.”

You groaned, slumping forward with your forehead on the desk. “I knew there was a catch.”

His chuckle rippled through the air like warm silk.

And somehow, the idea of waiting didn’t seem so terrible after all. You lifted your head off the desk just enough to glare at him, squinting like you were trying to set his robes on fire with sheer willpower.

“You’re being unfair,” you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I put together a well-researched, carefully-worded, academically sound paper with citations, by the way and you’re going to tease me? After all that?”

Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow, lips threatening the faintest smirk. “You also included a metaphor about truth wearing earrings.”

“Poetic license!” you snapped. “Chai said it was evocative.”

“It was certainly something.”

You groaned, slumping dramatically back into your seat with your arms folded. “I deserve better.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You believe scholarly diligence should be rewarded with spectacle.”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “I believe me being very nice, very respectful, and putting my soul into that scroll means I should absolutely get to see you shapeshift, like, today. Or now. Or, better yet yesterday.”

He watched you silently for a moment, a trace of that fond, unreadable amusement still hovering in his eyes.

“You truly are relentless when you want something,” he said finally.

“I’m a scholar,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s my job to question the universe. And also… you.”

“Then you’ve succeeded.” He set the scroll aside, folding his hands. “The universe is duly questioned.”

“And?”

“And I never said no,” he murmured, voice low and deliberately maddening.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You let out another sigh and leaned back against the chair, arms still crossed. “I’m going to file an academic grievance.”

“I’ll be sure to grade it personally.”

You shot him a look, but you were already smiling again, despite yourself.

Because as much as he was teasing you he hadn’t said no.

And that, more than anything, meant it was only a matter of time. You glanced sideways at him, still slouched in your chair, your arms crossed in a dramatic show of indignation. But after a beat after the laughter had softened and his smirk still lingered you let the question slip.

“…What if we run out of time?”

You said it lightly, jokingly, like it was just another thing to throw into the endless back-and-forth between you. Like you were still riding the high of teasing him. Like it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

The silence that followed was subtle, but immediate.

He turned his head toward you fully now, the low golden lamplight casting a soft shadow across the edge of his face. His expression wasn’t unreadable not this time. It was something else.

Still.

Quiet.

Serious.

“Then I will regret,” he said slowly, “not showing you sooner.”

Your breath caught, the shift in atmosphere pulling the words right out of your chest. The weight of his voice was different now, not sharp, not heavy, but true. Like something ancient being spoken for the first time in a very long time.

“I may live longer,” he went on, his gaze unwavering, “but that doesn’t mean I am exempt from time. Or from what it takes.”

You sat up straighter.

“…Takes?”

He nodded once. “Patience. Intention. Restraint. All things I wield because I have to because I must maintain control. Because if I give in to every impulse, then I become no different than the truths I’ve warned others about: overwhelming. Dangerous. Absolute.”

You swallowed.

He looked down briefly, folding his hands together again. “But if I ever did run out of time… I would rather be remembered by you as known, than as a mystery you never had the chance to understand.”

The quiet between you stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was reverent.

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.

“…You’re not a mystery,” you said softly.

He looked at you.

“Not to me,” you added, quieter now. “Not anymore.” This of course was a lie but it felt right to say.

He exhaled slowly, gaze warm and distant at once. “Then perhaps time is not the thing we should fear.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, unsure of what to say. What could be said, really?

So instead, you whispered “Then don’t wait too long.” The weight of the moment lingered in the air between you soft, thick, impossible to ignore.

His words still echoed in your chest. “Then I will regret not showing you sooner.” And the way he said it not with drama, but with sincerity lodged somewhere too close to your heart for comfort.

Which was exactly why you did what you always did.

You reached over, grabbed the scroll you’d painstakingly written and edited with your friends’ help, and waved it in the air dramatically.

“Well,” you said, voice suddenly bright, “if you do run out of time, I’m keeping this and publishing it under ‘Unfulfilled Magical Requests and the Tragedy of Teasing Professors.’ Subtitle; Why Saying ‘Maybe’ Is Emotional Warfare.”

He blinked, visibly caught off guard for a second not at the words, but at the sharp shift.

And then, as expected, he exhaled a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. Barely there. But real. 

Your tone only got more theatrical. “I’ll submit it to the Academy archive. It’ll become required reading in Magical Ethics courses. You’ll go down in history as the Sage of Selective Silence.”

He arched a brow, amused again, watching you with that knowing gaze of his the one that always saw a little too much.

“You always do this,” he murmured, not unkindly.

You froze mid-rant. “Do what?”

“When emotions get too close.” He tilted his head, gently, like he was observing you the way one observes the stars curious, fascinated, never quite needing to name what they are.

 “You run. Not with your feet. But with your words.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “I… I don’t run. I sidestep. Gracefully.”

He gave you that faint, insufferable smile. “You deflect.”

You threw your arms up. “Okay, fine, I deflect. But I do it charmingly.”

“And with purpose,” he said softly. “I’m not blaming you.”

That shut you up again.

Just for a second.

You looked away, hands lowering to your lap.

“I just…” you mumbled, “I’m not always sure how to hold things like that. The big stuff. It doesn’t sit right in my chest. It… gets too quiet. Too real. So if I make it lighter, I can breathe again.”

There was no judgment in his silence.

Only understanding.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, “before I show you.”

You looked up.

“Before I shift,” he clarified. “So that you’re not caught by something too heavy.”

You smiled, soft and crooked. “See? That’s why you’re the best mentor-slash-possibly-more-than-that-but-we’re-still-not-labelling-it.”

He chuckled under his breath.

And just like that, the weight in the room eased dissolved into something warmer, lighter.

Exactly how you liked it. He let the quiet linger a moment longer, eyes still on you not dissecting, not calculating, just… aware. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back slightly and tapped a nearby stack of parchment with the edge of his finger, drawing the moment to a gentle close.

“But,” he said, voice smoothing back into his usual scholar’s tone cool, calm, gently chiding, “as much as I enjoy doing nothing with you…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks. So romantic.”

He ignored the comment entirely. “...Your academics come first.”

You groaned, already slumping in your seat. “Nooooo.”

“Yes,” he said with a little more firmness now. “Your finals are approaching. You will need to revise elemental stabilization matrices, temporal layering, and the ethics of magical application Professor Almond Custard’s section in particular will be weighed heavily.”

You tried to groan louder, but he continued smoothly.

“You should also be prepared to interpret dream-sequence transcriptions and disprove flawed magical constructs. There will be case studies. And likely, one open-ended essay.”

“Can’t I just write about how emotionally repressed you are and pass with extra credit?” you muttered under your breath.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you can do so with proper citations.”

You let your head thunk against the back of the chair dramatically. “I miss when this was about shapeshifting.”

He smirked. “This is about preparing you for the world beyond me.”

You blinked, then squinted at him. “That… sounded way more ominous than you meant it to.”

He gave a small, amused nod. “Possibly.”

Still half-draped across the chair, you sighed loudly but turned your head to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Fine. Academics first.”

His voice softened just slightly again, enough to make it linger. “Always.”

You looked away, smiling faintly.

Always… but maybe not forever. And just like that, the mood shifted not in the jarring way, but with the smooth precision of turning a page in a very familiar book.

He began going over the foundational elements again: temporal layering and how unstable weaves behave when disrupted by external magical sources, the difference between intention-led spellcraft and reflexive casting, how to analyze illusory magic without being misled by form.

You sat up straighter, less slouch and more scholar now, drawn into the rhythm of it. It wasn’t like lecture. It was quieter. Closer. The kind of exchange where your thoughts could unravel safely where you could be wrong, get messy, ask without embarrassment.

He would correct you, sure, but never harshly.

You got through the key points on stabilizing enchantments, and you were halfway through the philosophy behind magical ethics debating the fine line between intention and consequence when something in your brain clicked into place.

“Oh! Wait!” you straightened suddenly, eyes brightening. “That reminds me of something Almond Custard said last week during lecture, about layered intention in temporal folds! I thought it was going to be boring, but it wasn’t it was actually kind of brilliant”

He paused mid-note, already familiar with your tone. “Go on.”

“Okay, so,” you said, already talking with your hands, “he was going on about the theory that when you perform a time-anchored spell, the intent you embed in it doesn't just affect the spell in that moment, it actually reverberates backward into the framework of the spell. It influences how the spell began forming even before you consciously made it! Isn’t that wild? Like, magic reaching backwards through your own process of thought!”

You barely registered that he’d stopped writing and was now watching you just listening.

“So technically, that means spells are always a little bit alive, right? Not just in how they act, but in how they echo. Which also made me think, what about spells that go wrong because the caster’s intent wasn’t stable to begin with? Not because they didn’t mean to do it right, but because their emotions were split? Can you even fix that if it’s embedded into the foundation of the magic before you even consciously realize it?”

You leaned forward, completely lost in your own spiraling fascination now. “And then I wondered does that mean if someone has really conflicting emotions, they’re always casting unstable magic? And what if the magic responds by changing in ways we don’t even detect because the system we use to measure it doesn’t account for the emotional resonance inp”

“You memorized all of this?” he asked, quietly.

You blinked mid-ramble, realizing you hadn’t taken a breath in quite some time. “Uh. Yeah? Sort of. Not intentionally. I just thought it was really cool, and I kept thinking about it, and then suddenly I was writing notes in the margin of my spellbook and-”

He nodded slowly.

You hesitated, glancing at him.

He was smiling.

Not his usual, teasing sort of smile. Not even the fond one he sometimes wore when you said something accidentally poetic.

This was softer. Subtler.

So you took a breath. Sat back.

And kept going. You didn’t mean to keep going.

You really didn’t.

But once the words started, once the thought had begun to spill forward, there was no stopping it. The idea kept unraveling, tugging at every half-formed theory you’d scribbled in the margins of your notebook, every late-night thought you hadn’t been able to let go of. And he just sat there, quietly, without so much as a breath of interruption.

“-and I mean, if magical intention does retroactively shape a spell’s formation, then that would explain why some spells collapse even when the mechanics are perfect, right? Because the caster isn’t emotionally consistent. So the spell reflects that instability, and maybe that’s why certain enchantments degrade faster in emotionally charged environments especially in collaborative spellcasting! Because two people means two layers of intent, and if they’re not aligned, then the foundation is compromised before it even stabilizes-"

You paused only to breathe, your hands gesturing in sweeping arcs as your brain tumbled faster than your words could follow.

"and what if that’s why ancient spells needed entire rituals to stabilize emotional intent? Like, not just precision of word or motion, but the actual state of the person casting. They knew it, right? That the heart informs the spell just as much as the incantation? What if that’s what we’re missing in modern instruction-”

You stopped.

Not because you’d run out of thoughts, stars, you had so many more but because you finally noticed the silence again. The kind that meant you were being watched, and not just watched, but heard.

You turned.

He hadn’t moved.

Shadow Milk Cookie sat beside you, one arm resting on the desk, the other relaxed in his lap. His expression wasn’t the usual calm, unreadable veil you’d grown used to.

He looked…

Content.

Not the fleeting contentment that came from a good book or a solved problem. No, it was something deeper. Something that settled quietly into the space between you. As if he had been waiting not for you to stop talking, but simply to be there while you did.

Not once had he tried to redirect you. Not once had he told you to focus or stay on topic.

He had let you speak. Let you spill, without judgment, without impatience. Just listened, as though every spiraling tangent was worthy of his time.

And when your voice finally trailed off, breathless and wide-eyed, he simply said “You’ve thought about this deeply.”

You flushed, suddenly self-conscious now that the adrenaline had burned off. “yeah. Sorry. I know I talk too much sometimes. When something gets stuck in my head, it stays there until I-”

“I know.”

You blinked.

He looked at you again, gaze unwavering.

“And I’m glad you shared it with me.”

The words hit soft, but true like all his truths did. Not loud. Not showy.

But deep enough to echo.

And for a moment, you forgot the embarrassment entirely.

Because being heard like that?

That felt like magic too. You shifted in your seat, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the desk as your thoughts, still fired up from your last tangent, began to circle back to something else you hadn’t planned on bringing up. You hesitated but only for a second.

“So… um.” You glanced at him. “Not that I was looking for your papers specifically, but I-sort of ran into a few. On purpose.”

His brow lifted slightly. “On purpose?”

“Not in a weird way!” you said quickly. “I just… yours were the most detailed. They cited things no one else did, and you reference primary sources everyone else avoids because they’re obscure or out of translation. So I kind of... leaned toward them. That’s all.”

He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth tugged in the faintest way that suggested he was either amused, flattered, or both.

You cleared your throat and pushed forward. “One of them the one on emotionally synchronized casting you mentioned that intention and magical efficiency increase when the spellcaster’s emotional state aligns with the elemental resonance of the spell being cast. I wanted to ask what you meant in the part where you talked about ‘harmonic temperance as a conduit of magical fidelity’ because I kind of get it, but also kind of didn’t. I think you were saying the more regulated the emotion, the stronger the anchor, but…”

You trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. “That’s a fair interpretation. But it’s less about regulation and more about clarity. If you’re angry and know you’re angry, and the spell is born of that emotion, it’s clearer than if you’re conflicted and trying to hide that anger while casting.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “Right. That makes sense. And I actually tried it.”

He blinked. “You what?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I tried using the same spell basic levitation but in different moods. I kept everything else consistent. Stance, intent, recitation speed. But one time I did it while I was really upset. Another time when I was focused. Another time when I was… not thrilled but not miserable. Just a little sad.”

He stared at you now, expression unreadable again but in the way that meant he was definitely reading everything.

“And I know I probably shouldn’t have,” you added quickly, panic creeping into your tone as you waved your hands. “I mean, I know it’s unstable casting while upset is basically asking for backlash. I didn’t do anything dangerous, I swear! But I just… wanted to see. I kept it small. Nothing got flung across the room! Just… you know. Some unexpected hover-jitters.”

You winced. “I forgot I didn’t want to tell you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean, I know you’re going to say it was reckless and dumb and you’d be right but-”

“I’m not angry.”

You froze mid-babble.

“…You’re not?”

He shook his head, voice calm. “Curious. And mildly exasperated.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh. That’s fine.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I’ve lived with exasperation before. I can handle that.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk as he studied you.

“You shouldn’t test unstable casting conditions without supervision,” he said, “but your observation was not without merit. And your control, evidently, was sufficient.”

“…So you’re not going to scold me?”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” His voice was sharp, but his expression softened again. “But later. For now…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Tell me what else you found.”

And just like that, you forgot you were supposed to be nervous.

Because there was something about the way he said it quiet, steady, and open that reminded you this wasn’t just your curiosity anymore.

It was shared.

So you did.

You told him everything. Of course, it didn’t last.

The moment the last of your excited words trailed off, the Sage of Truth went perfectly still. Too still.

You knew that stillness. You recognized it.

It was the calm before the storm, not the shouting kind, but the quieter, more dangerous kind. The kind that came with controlled words and an expression that said, You’re lucky I like you, because otherwise this would be a formal disciplinary hearing.

He closed the parchment he had been idly referencing, set it aside, and laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him.

“I want to be very clear,” he began, his voice calm too calm. “You’re telling me you willingly cast spells while emotionally compromised. Alone. Repeatedly. Without consulting anyone. Without recording your safeguards. Without a controlled environment. And without protective wards.”

You blinked. “...Okay when you say it like that-”

“Because that is exactly how I’m going to say it,” he interrupted, expression firm. “Do you know how many recorded magical accidents come from spells cast in a state of emotional instability?”

You slumped slightly. “Yes.”

“Do you know how often those spells backfire in ways that don’t harm the caster, but others around them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“I had wards!” you insisted. “Not strong ones, but I was careful! I picked a classroom no one was using! I triple-checked the threshold sigils!”

He gave you that look again the one that felt like he was peeling back every layer of your argument in silence.

And you did what you always did when confronted by well-earned disappointment.

You tuned him out.

Not fully. Not rudely. You just… let your focus drift. You knew the consequences. You knew it had been risky. You weren’t proud of it. You didn’t regret it either, but you knew it wasn’t something he could condone.

Still, as he went on listing magical theory, emotional resonance thresholds, the dangers of internal misalignment you found yourself staring at the edge of his desk, at the way his fingers moved when he spoke, the way his voice dipped not with anger, but worry.

That’s what stung most.

The fact that beneath the precise scolding and the well-structured warnings, what you heard clearest was: you could have been hurt.

“…And if anything had gone wrong,” he said, at last finishing, “do you think I would have forgiven myself?”

Your head lifted at that, a little startled.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But the weight behind those words that got your attention.

You blinked slowly.

“…No,” you said, a little quieter. “I guess not.”

His shoulders eased slightly, just enough to suggest he hadn’t even realized they’d tensed.

He looked at you. And now his tone was soft. Controlled. But not cold.

“Next time,” he said, “you don’t do it alone.”

You nodded, subdued now, guilt settling in with a quiet sort of ache. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like you’d aged him a century.

You offered a tentative smile. “You done?”

“For now.”

You smirked faintly. “You sure?”

“I could assign a research essay on magical misfires.”

You gasped. “Cruelty.”

He didn’t smile.

But his eyes did. You had barely begun to relax sinking ever so slightly into your chair with that tentative sense of okay, he’s done, I survived when you heard him shift.

Not a dramatic shift.

Just a quiet repositioning of his posture, the slight realignment of his spine, the way he folded his hands again with renewed purpose.

Oh no.

You straightened instantly. “Wait there’s more?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

You groaned. “But you just said-”

“I said I was done for now. That ‘now’ has passed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already on a roll.

“You treat magic like it’s something pliable,” he said calmly. “Something that will always bend around your curiosity. But it doesn’t bend. Not without cost. The difference between exploration and recklessness lies in preparation. You know better.”

You winced slightly, eyes darting away. “It was just levitation-”

“It could have been anything.”

You sighed and leaned your cheek on your hand, muttering under your breath, “Truth doesn’t punish the seeker for being curious. It simply demands they be prepared.”

He paused.

A long pause.

You slowly looked up at him.

His expression was flat. Deadpan.

“…Did you just quote me at me?” he asked.

You tried very hard not to smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

You gave him your best innocent blink. “You’re the one who said it.”

“And you’re using it to dodge accountability.”

“I’m using it to highlight that I was seeking knowledge with intention and poetic integrity.”

He stared at you.

You gave him a small, helpless shrug. “For science?”

“...You are infuriating,” he said, and somehow despite the words his voice was so fond it made your stomach flip.

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“I keep hoping it won’t be,” he muttered.

And then, because you were shameless: “You said hope was an enduring trait of scholars.”

He gave a slow exhale, leaned back in his chair, and covered his face with one hand.

“…Stars preserve me.” You watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers pressed lightly to his temple like you were the cause of every headache he’d ever had past, present, and hypothetical future. The silence stretched long enough that you dared to hope.

“...So,” you said, lifting your chin, daring to test the waters, “are you done lecturing me now?”

His hand dropped.

He gave you a look. The kind that should’ve turned you to stone if magical eye-rolling were a real curse. “No,” he said flatly.

You groaned. “Come on-”

But he was already on his feet, pacing behind his desk now not dramatically, not angrily. Just with that purposeful stride he got when his thoughts were lining up like dominoes ready to fall.

“You cast unsupervised magic while emotionally compromised,” he began, holding up one finger. “In an unsecured setting,” another finger  “without proper safeguards or documentation-”

“I had thresholds-”

“without proper safeguards,” he repeated, louder this time, “and you withheld that information from me until it accidentally slipped during a completely unrelated tangent.”

You huffed. “I wasn’t trying to hide it! I just… didn’t want to hear the lecture!”

“Then why would you remind me to keep going?” he demanded, clearly bewildered by your logic.

“Because I thought we reached the natural conclusion!”

“There is no natural conclusion when you treat magic like an emotional experiment and use yourself as the test subject!”

“I was safe!”

“You were lucky!” His voice was sharper now, not loud but edged. It cut more because it wasn’t fury. It was something closer to fear, pressed down into composure. “Luck is not a framework. It is not a shield. It is not something I want you relying on. You-”

He stopped.

Just for a moment.

Then, much quieter, under his breath but loud enough for you to hear:

“Stars, I could’ve lost you.”

You froze.

But he didn’t let the weight linger this time.

He turned back toward you, more composed now, drawing in a breath that steadied him like it had steadied you so many times before.

“I’m lecturing you,” he said, “because I care.”

He crossed his arms, the motion calm, firm. “Because you’re not just a scholar. You’re my scholar. And if anything happened to you because of something preventable because you pushed too far, too fast, without thinking I wouldn’t just be furious. I would be devastated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because he wasn’t being dramatic. Or manipulative. Or even theatrical.

He was being honest.

And that somehow hurt more than any scolding could have.

“…Okay,” you said softly, after a beat.

And you meant it this time.

He watched you for a moment longer, his jaw tight but slowly, his shoulders eased.

Still, he wasn’t quite done.

“You’ll come to me next time,” he said, voice even. “If you want to experiment. If something upsets you. If you need supervision. Or help. Or… anything.”

You nodded again, smaller. “I will.”

He exhaled.

Then sat back down beside you.

“…Good.”

And for a few seconds, neither of you said a word.

You just sat there. Both a little overwhelmed. Both still holding onto the edges of something fragile. The rest of the tutoring session passed with a kind of soft, deliberate quiet.

You returned to the notes event manipulation, cross-channel mana resonance, comparative theory between willed enchantments and reflexive charmcraft. Nothing too complicated. Nothing too simple. Just enough to fill the space between you, to let things settle without pressing too hard on what had just been said.

He explained things clearly, as he always did. You asked your questions, less playful now, but no less curious. He corrected your diagrams with gentle precision, sometimes conjuring a flicker of light to demonstrate, other times just guiding your hand across the page.

It all felt normal.

Mostly.

But not entirely.

The echoes of his words from earlier still clung to the edges of your awareness. Not in a sharp or stinging way but like the faint warmth of a fire that had already burned through its most dangerous heat. That lingering feeling of something having mattered.

And you knew he felt it too.

Because even though he returned to his composed rhythm, he didn’t move quite the same. He sat a little closer than usual. Watched you a little longer between your thoughts. And when your brow furrowed at one particularly dense passage, his hand came to rest gently on the edge of your parchment steadying, grounding without comment.

By the time you reached the end of the session, you’d covered more than you expected to. You’d understood more than you thought you would.

And yet, underneath it all, that earlier moment still pulsed.

As if some invisible line between you had been redrawn.

Not a boundary crossed.

But something acknowledged.

As you gathered your notes and slid them back into your bag, he said nothing but you could feel his gaze on you again.

You glanced up at him, offering a small, tired smile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said quietly.

He inclined his head. “And I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and looked toward the door. Then back to him.

“I guess we’re even.”

He didn’t smile, not really.

But the look he gave you then the soft glint in his eyes, the way his head tilted just so, like he was considering something precious was more than enough.

“Until next time,” he murmured.

You nodded once.

And left with more than just your notes. By the time you made it to dinner, the smell of baked cheese rolls and grilled rosemary vegetables hit you like a sigh of relief.

The hall was already buzzing with familiar chatter, forks clinking, laughter echoing between rows of stone pillars and there, in your usual corner, sat your friends. Chai Latte Cookie was already waving frantically the moment she spotted you, nearly knocking over her cup of tea in the process.

“You’re late,” she said the moment you dropped into the seat beside her. “We were this close to staging a recovery mission. Again.”

Earl Grey Cookie looked up from his notes, though his expression betrayed only mild concern. “You missed the raspberry lemonade. It went fast.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, across from you, handed you a roll before you even asked. “Rough tutoring session?” You sighed, resting your arms on the table. “You have no idea.”

A/N So apparently this didn't get posted I clicked post now yesterday night but I checked my page and it's not there... So late upload MY BAD GUYS

also I just want to note there is no reason why mc would run my thinking for why I did that is just because he's making sure to cover all his bases because quite honestly the reasoning he provides isn't great if I'm being honest.

Also just completed my first work week woohoo!!!

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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[bbyg00rl]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 29

<<<Previous Next>>>

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie was in the middle of telling Earl Grey Cookie something about their lab report’s spell diagrams being mislabeled when Chai Latte Cookie slammed her hands on the table with a dramatic gasp that made all of you jump.

“You won’t believe what I saw this morning!”

Earl Grey didn’t even flinch. “Romantic scandal or magical catastrophe?”

Chai Latte leaned in, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Romantic scandal.”

You blinked, your spoon hovering mid-air. “Is this about the professors again?”

“Oh, you bet it is,” she said, practically vibrating in her seat. “You remember Professor Star Anise Cookie and Professor Frosted Clementine Cookie?”

Hazelnut groaned into his teacup. “You never let this go.”

Chai Latte ignored him. “So. Apparently Professor Star Anise is going on leave for a while.”

Earl Grey raised an eyebrow. “Leave? Voluntary or sabbatical?”

“I don’t know,” she said, waving her hand, “but-and this is the good part I saw him this morning with a new accessory on his hand.”

You blinked. “What kind of accessory?”

Chai Latte smiled like she was about to drop the most important discovery in all of magical academia.

“A ring. On his left hand. That kind of accessory.”

Hazelnut Biscotti dropped his fork.

You sat up straighter, eyes wide. “No way.”

“Oh, yes way,” she said, drawing out the words. “It was gold with a tiny starlight enchantment. And I know it wasn’t there before because I have been watching. Closely.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea. “You need a hobby.”

“I have a hobby,” Chai Latte said proudly. “It’s observing forbidden romance unfold in real time. Speaking of which…”

She paused dramatically, making sure she had everyone’s attention. You all stared, begrudgingly invested.

“Two weeks ago,” she said, “I saw them on a walk. Just the two of them, near the eastern conservatory. Holding hands. And I forgot to tell you!”

“You forgot?” you gasped, scandalized.

“I was distracted!” she whined. “I got caught up with an essay, and then I ran into Hazelnut near the dueling court, and-whatever, the point is, they looked happy. Like, genuinely content. And now he’s leaving the Academy for a while and wearing a ring? Come on. It’s happening.”

You couldn’t help it you laughed. The sound came out lighter than you expected, and it loosened something tight in your chest.

“They’re really doing it,” you said, smiling despite everything. “A real forbidden love arc.”

“I still can’t believe you saw them first,” Chai said, turning to you with a warm smile, “but I’m so glad you did. If you hadn’t told me, I never would’ve looked. And now look at us we’re tracking an actual secret relationship. This is the kind of drama that keeps me alive.”

Hazelnut groaned again, muttering into his plate. “You’re all emotionally unstable.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t see it first,” you teased.

Earl Grey looked contemplative. “The ring is new… and she did avoid his gaze during faculty council last week.”

Chai gasped. “You noticed that too?!”

“Unfortunately,” he murmured.

You laughed again, this time genuinely. And for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. The warmth of their voices, the sparkle in Chai’s eyes, the utter absurdity of it all it washed over the quiet ache still settled behind your ribs.

You still had so many doubts. Still didn’t know if the people who’d tried to break you would succeed in the long run.

But you had this. You had them that always made everything feel a little more bearable. You leaned forward, squinting suspiciously across the table at Earl Grey. “Wait. How do you know what happened at faculty council?”

He didn’t even blink. “Observation.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Observation from where?”

Chai Latte turned slowly toward him, her expression dawning with theatrical disbelief. “Hold on. You were there?”

Earl Grey calmly sipped his tea, not even bothering to deny it.

“Are you saying you’ve been secretly spying on the faculty meetings too?” you asked, half-joking, half-horrified. “Is this what we’ve become?”

“There’s a difference between spying and… academic curiosity,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down with a faint clink.

“There isn’t,” Chai declared. “You mean to tell me I was in the ventilation hallway above the east stairwell and I didn’t see you?”

You blinked, startled. “I’m sorry-the what now?”

“The vents,” Chai Latte said, matter-of-fact. “There’s this open space just above the stairwell landing near the old astronomy wing. If you climb up and wedge yourself between the beams, you can hear everything.”

Hazelnut Biscotti groaned. “I am begging you to choose sanity.”

“You were in the vents?” Earl Grey asked flatly.

“I had perfect line of sound,” she said proudly. “And you still haven’t told us where you were.”

Earl Grey glanced toward the high windows of the dining hall. “Third-floor maintenance corridor. There’s a warped tile. You can see through the gap if you know what angle to lean at.”

You and Chai both stared at him.

“What?” he asked, unbothered. “It’s a structural flaw. I simply… utilized it.”

“This is insane,” you muttered, grinning despite yourself. “So you were both watching the same council meeting and didn’t notice each other?”

“I was busy taking notes,” Earl Grey said.

“I was busy almost falling out of a vent!” Chai snapped. “Which I would’ve mentioned if someone had made noise, but noooo, apparently someone was just lurking in the shadows with their perfect angles.”

Hazelnut Biscotti put his head down on the table. “I don’t know any of you.”

You were laughing now, really laughing, the sound bubbling up in the pit of your chest half from amusement, half from sheer relief that something, anything, could still feel light.

“You two are unreal,” you said, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Honestly. The real secret relationship here is the one between you and the Academy’s air ducts.”

Chai grinned. “You joke, but if I hear wedding bells between Frosted Clementine and Star Anise, you’re all going to thank me.”

Earl Grey calmly reached for his tea. “And I will document it with precise academic detail.”

You shook your head, still smiling.

And in that moment, it almost felt like the ache in your chest had never been there at all. As the laughter settled into a comfortable hum around the table, Chai Latte Cookie turned toward you, resting her chin in her palm with a knowing smile.

“So… are you going to tutoring today?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Huh?”

“Tutoring,” she repeated sweetly. “With our ever-enigmatic, robe-draped scholar of the stars.” She batted her lashes with exaggerated flair. “You know who I mean.”

You resisted the urge to groan. “Shadow Milk.”

“Shadow Milk,” she echoed dreamily in an attempt to jest. “Mmm, yes. His voice could read me the theory of mana convergence and I’d still call it poetry.”

Hazelnut Biscotti pointed his fork at her, frowning. “You say that, but the moment he asked you to cite your sources on magical ether depletion, you’d start weeping.”

“Dramatically,” she said with a nod. “But I’d still do it.”

Earl Grey didn’t look up from his notes. “So. Tutoring. Are you going?”

You hesitated, spoon pausing halfway to your mouth.

That pause didn’t go unnoticed, not in your own head, anyway but your friends didn’t push. They must’ve chalked it up to nerves. Of course they would. After all, if you were going to meet with the Sage of Truth after what had happened this morning even they would be anxious.

You nodded once, not quite able to meet Chai’s eyes. “I… think so.”

“If it’s cancelled,” she said lightly, “we should all go to the library. Chill out, get the pre-lab done, maybe snag one of the quiet study rooms before they fill up.”

Hazelnut grunted. “We’re going to be in the library either way. Might as well work on something.”

Chai gave you a small nudge with her elbow. “But hey, if you do end up at tutoring and don’t get pulled into some philosophical debate or have your soul gently realigned by a single, piercing comment” she winked, “just meet us there after. No pressure.”

You nodded, managing a small smile.

And they didn’t press further. They didn’t question the hesitation in your voice or the flicker of something raw that passed through your expression when the word tutoring was said. They didn’t notice the slight tension in your shoulders or the way your hand gripped your spoon just a bit tighter.

Because to them, this was nerves. Flustered affection. The butterflies before you saw the person who made your life academically and maybe emotionally unpredictable.

And maybe that was true. But not all of it. Because today… today was different.

Today, you weren’t just nervous about seeing him. You were scared of what he saw in you now. Or worse what he didn’t. You twirled your spoon absentmindedly, watching how the light from the dining hall chandeliers danced on the curve of the metal. For a moment, you didn’t say anything just let the murmur of your friends fill the space like a buffer, soft and familiar.

Then, you looked up at them and smiled easy, casual, just the way they’d expect.

“If I don’t show up,” you said lightly, “dinner will be as usual. Like always.”

Your voice was smooth, practiced. Your expression relaxed, touched with just enough humor to pass as entirely genuine. 

And it worked of course it did. 

Chai Latte Cookie gave a bright hum of agreement, already moving on to discuss which table she planned to claim in the library. Hazelnut Biscotti grumbled something about seat-stealing first-years, and Earl Grey Cookie made a dry remark about bringing noise-cancelling enchantments.

None of them asked if you were really okay.

None of them pressed.

Because your smile had done what it was meant to do dispelled any lingering doubt, quieted any unspoken concern.

You could play the part. You’d learned to wear it well.

Even if inside, the thought of seeing him again made your chest feel like glass held under too much pressure.

Even if, for just a moment, you weren’t sure what would hurt more if he looked at you the same way he always did…

…or if he didn’t. Lunch passed in a blur of half-listened conversation and the occasional half-hearted laugh. You kept your plate mostly picked over, your smile mostly in place, and your voice low enough to seem calm, high enough to pass as fine.

When your friends got up and tapped your shoulder looking at you with worried expressions, signaling the end of break and the start of the next rotation of classes, you moved on autopilot. Shoulders back, head up, books under your arm.

You didn’t let yourself think.

Not about what had happened that morning. Not about what might happen this afternoon.

Just get through the day.

The History of Food lecture hall was as warm and dim as ever, the air perfumed with faint traces of cinnamon and aged parchment. Professor Brambleberry Cookie, a soft-spoken scholar with a deep affection for ancient culinary texts and restorative teas, was already mid-monologue when you slid into your usual seat in the back corner.

“…and of course, the Honeyroot Pudding Riots of the Mint Age were not, in fact, a response to pudding taxation,” he was saying with serene conviction, “but to the mass replacement of traditional clove-based spice blends with imported golden cardamom.”

You blinked slowly.

Your quill slipped from your fingers.

And before you could stop yourself, your head dipped into the crook of your elbow.

Sleep crept in gently, as if it knew your body had already surrendered. You didn’t fight it. Not here, not in this cocoon of old legends and drifting spice lore. Brambleberry’s voice became a lullaby of lost recipes and sweet-root trade routes, his words washing over you in soft, uninterrupted waves.

You didn’t dream. You didn’t need to.

You just rested.

For the first time that day, your mind went quiet.

It wasn’t peace, not really.

But it was a pause.

And that was something.

By the time chattering became known again, your body jolted slightly, muscles stiff from being folded awkwardly for nearly an hour. You blinked, stretched your fingers, and wiped the crease from your cheek.

Professor Brambleberry was already collecting his notes, his voice fading into a gentle reminder about next week’s reading on ceremonial feast magic.

You gathered your things slowly.

Because you knew what came next.

It was time.

Tutoring.

Your legs felt heavier than usual as you walked, each step toward the Scholar’s Wing ringing louder than it should have. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The earlier sting of words still echoed at the back of your mind.

But you kept going anyway.

Because no matter how uncertain your heart felt…You wanted to see him.

Even if you were afraid of what his eyes might say. You walked the path to his office like you always did.

The corridor was quiet too quiet, like the world had pressed pause. Golden lanternlight stretched long shadows along the Scholar’s Wing, the familiar weight of carved stone and hushed magic resting on your shoulders like a cloak.

You passed the same sigil-inscribed window panes, the same soft scuffs of centuries-old footfalls carved into the floor. And then, there it was his door. Ornate. Familiar. Carved with constellations that shimmered faintly at your approach.

You stopped, inhaled once, then knocked.

Three times.

Just like always.

The ritual felt grounding. If you stuck to the rhythm, maybe everything would stay in its place.

The door opened silently, smoothly, as though it had been waiting for you.

He was already at his desk, sleeves drawn back just slightly, ink drying on the edge of a scroll he’d been annotating. His quill was poised mid-thought, and for the briefest moment, he didn’t look up. Not right away.

And that small beat of silence it let you decide.

If you just… pretended it didn’t happen, maybe he would too.

No confrontation. No pity. No soft, measured voice asking you if you were alright when the truth was that you weren’t, and hearing him say it would undo you all over again.

So you stepped in.

You sat down.

You said nothing about the morning.

And neither did he.

It was almost convincing, the way he moved through the motions reaching for a second scroll, placing it before you, his voice as composed as ever when he finally spoke.

“There was a question you had last week about binding glyphs and elemental temperance,” he said, as though nothing in the world had shifted. “I found a passage that expands upon the tension between the two. You may find it enlightening.”

You nodded, replying just as evenly, “Thank you.”

And for a time, it almost felt normal.

He let you off the hook. Or maybe he was letting you pretend you were. The difference didn’t matter, not right now. Because you were already playing along.

If he wasn’t going to say anything, neither were you. You could survive this. You could be fine.

At least… for now. You pulled out your notes with practiced ease, laying them carefully on the desk between you both. Your fingers hovered at the page, hesitating for just a moment before you tapped the section in question runes underlined, a messy margin note scrawled beside it in a rushed half-thought.

“This part,” you said softly. “From Professor Almond Custard’s lecture. I think I missed something about the elemental delay between the aetheric influx and sigil anchoring.”

The Sage of Truth no Shadow Milk Cookie, in this quiet, familiar space shifted in his seat, folding his hands with gentle purpose as he leaned slightly closer to scan the page. His eyes flicked from the notes to you, back to the notes again.

“You’re referencing his lecture on inverse layering,” he said thoughtfully. “Here-” he reached for a nearby sheet of fresh parchment and began sketching the rune sequence, his ink strokes as precise and fluid as breath. “The delay isn’t a flaw. It’s intentional. It allows the spell to settle before the second layer amplifies its effect. If you tried to bind both at once-”

“The structure would collapse,” you murmured, watching the runes unfold beneath his hand. “Right.”

But you didn’t move your gaze back to your notes.

Because he was smiling.

Not the small, cryptic smile he often wore when entertaining a clever question or watching you slowly reach the answer on your own. This one was… softer. Fuller. Lacking that edge of performative elegance he usually carried like a second cloak.

And the way he looked at you, even as he continued explaining there was no theatrical flourish. No showmanship. Just warmth.

Too much warmth.

Your brow furrowed slightly. And after a long pause of silence on your part, you finally said, “Okay, no, hold on.”

He stopped mid-word, blinking once.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, eyeing him with mild suspicion. “You’re being weird.”

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you said, pointing a quill at him like an accusation. “You’re being… smiley.”

His lips twitched. “Is that a crime?”

“Not inherently, no,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “But it’s weird on you. Not bad weird. Just…” You trailed off, thinking, trying to place it.

 “It’s like uncanny valley. You’re not supposed to not have your usual Sage-of-Truth aura of restrained amusement and long-suffering composure. I’m used to the, you know, you version of gentle condescension.”

“I do not condescend,” he replied mildly, though amusement shimmered just under the surface.

“Not openly,” you shot back.

He looked at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly higher.

You swallowed. Then because the thought wouldn’t leave you added, “This doesn’t have anything to do with what happened this morning… does it?”

He blinked. For the briefest second, something flickered behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not surprise.

Just knowing.

But when he spoke again, his voice was as calm and composed as always.

“I am merely glad you’re here,” he said simply.

And though the words were soft, they landed in your chest like a weight not heavy, but grounding.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead, you looked back down at your notes and muttered, “Still weird,” even as your lips betrayed you with the faintest upward curve.

But your heart was still unsteady.

Because something had changed. And you didn’t know what it meant yet. You didn’t look back down at your notes.

You couldn’t.

Not when he said it like that so simple, so casual, so infuriatingly sincere. Like it was just a fact, no different than a rune structure or elemental law. “I am merely glad you’re here.”

Your gaze snapped back up to him.

And you stared.

Hard.

Not in a confrontational way, but like someone trying to squint through fog to see if there was something hidden in the distance. Your brow furrowed. 

You tilted your head slightly, as if changing the angle would shift the meaning of his words. As if there had to be more.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Not the way he said it. Not the quiet warmth that lingered in the room long after the words had left his mouth. Not the way he was looking at you now hands folded, posture relaxed, absolutely radiating smug satisfaction.

“What?” you asked, suspiciously.

He blinked once, slowly, like a cat basking in the sunlight.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, though his tone was all too pleased.

“No,” you said, pointing at him again. “Don’t do that. Don’t look all…” You gestured vaguely at his entire face. “Like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly. “That’s hardly new.”

You scowled. “Okay, yes, but you’re enjoying it.”

A beat passed.

His lips curled not into a smirk, not into his usual amused half-smile, but into something far too pleased. Like he’d just won a debate you hadn’t realized you were having.

“I often enjoy our conversations,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

You squinted harder, trying to read him, really read him, but it was like trying to make sense of constellations in a storm. There was something there, you just couldn’t see it clearly enough to understand.

Still, he said nothing else. Didn’t explain. Didn’t elaborate. Just sat there, utterly composed, like a scholar content with a theory they’d already proven.

And he looked so pleased with himself.

You exhaled slowly, dragging your hand down your face in mild defeat. “You’re going to be like this the whole session, aren’t you?”

“That depends,” he replied with maddening grace. “Will you be staring at me the whole time?”

Your eyes widened.

He smiled again barely but it was there.

Unapologetic. Warm. And completely unreadable. It’s as though he lets you peer through the cracked window, enough to let the breeze in but keep animals out.

You turned back to your notes, muttering under your breath.

“Unbelievable.”

But your heart was doing strange things again. And this time, it had nothing to do with anxiety. You stared at your notes, though you weren’t really seeing them. The glyphs blurred together, your own handwriting a tangle of half-sentences and frantic loops, but none of it mattered right now not when you could still feel his smile.

That same quiet smile that hadn’t left since you stepped into the room.

It was throwing you off.

He was always composed, always kind in his own exacting way, but today… he was soft. And warm. And pleased. Like someone who knew something you didn’t. And worse he clearly wasn’t going to just say it.

You tapped your quill once against the page.

Then again.

And then, finally because the curiosity was gnawing at you and pretending it wasn’t wouldn’t help. You turned to him fully and asked, earnestly

“Alright… what is it?”

He glanced up from the diagram he was annotating, brows raised ever so slightly. “Pardon?”

You squinted at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “What’s got you in such a good mood today? You’re being way too... gentle.”

He said nothing at first. His eyes those mismatched, thoughtful eyes held yours like he was studying something delicate. And then, slowly, he set down his quill and folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression entirely serene.

“Would it surprise you,” he said, “if I said it’s because you’re here?”

You blinked.

Your breath hitched just slightly nothing dramatic, just enough to feel.

“No? But…You’re not usually this” you gestured vaguely in his direction again “smiley.”

“I smile often.”

“Not like this.”

His head tilted just a fraction, as if amused by your insistence. “Should I frown instead? Return to my cold, unreachable demeanor? Speak only in cryptic riddles and ancient quotes?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “That’s literally your default.”

“Ah,” he mused, the corner of his mouth pulling just a little higher. “Then I suppose today must be unusual.”

You huffed, crossing your arms loosely. “Seriously, though. What is it?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not in silence, but in quiet. The kind that settled rather than filled, as if he were letting the space between words speak for him.

“You came back.”

The words struck so gently that they almost didn’t register at first.

You felt your chest go tight, your shoulders still. Your mind flashed unbidden to the morning to the hallway, the scholars, the way your voice had failed you under the weight of doubt. The way you’d stared at the ground, too afraid to look him in the eye.

You opened your mouth then closed it again.

“I thought,” he said softly, “that you might not.”

You looked down, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands. “I almost didn’t.”

“I know.”

His voice wasn’t smug now. It wasn’t proud.

It was relieved.

You bit your lip, staring hard at the glyphs again. “You’re still smiling.”

“I know,” he said again. “I think I will be for a while.” You stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words still echoing softly in your chest. “You came back.” And maybe that alone was enough for him.

But still your thoughts wandered. To the hallway. To the memory of those voices dripping with veiled cruelty. To the way his own voice, when it rose, had trembled not with uncertainty, but with controlled fury.

He hadn’t just reprimanded them. That much you knew.

You remembered the tone. That barely leashed steel, the subtle poison woven into his words. You remembered how they went with him no hesitation, no argument. Just obedient silence and the faint stench of fear trailing after them.

And now he was here. Smiling. Soft. Pleased in a way that made your skin tingle with uncertainty.

You narrowed your eyes, thoughts circling.

“…You’re not just smiling because I came back, are you?”

He raised a brow, entirely unbothered. “Am I not allowed to find joy in your presence?”

“That’s not what I meant.” You leaned forward slightly, suspicious. “You’re looking really… pleased with yourself. Like someone who’s either won a very long argument, or buried a body in the faculty archives.”

He hummed, the sound lilting and amused. “A curious set of options.”

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes gleamed faintly beneath the lamplight mismatched and unreadable. He didn't respond, not right away. Just tilted his head slightly, as if letting your question hang in the air to see what shape it might take.

“I only did what was necessary,” he said, eventually.

That should’ve comforted you. But the way he said it so calm, so sugared with finality it made your spine straighten.

“…Define ‘necessary.’”

He gave you a look so sweet, so gentle, so maddeningly fond, it sent a shiver down your back.

“I don’t think you’d like the answer.”

You squinted at him, unsure if you were more concerned or impressed. “Do I want to know?”

“That,” he said delicately, “is entirely up to you.”

You stared at him for another second, then sat back in your chair with a groan. “You’re impossible.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, taking up his quill again, “I am perfectly within reach.”

You covered your face with both hands, muffling a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a slow descent into madness. “This is definitely worse than burying a body.”

He said nothing.

But the smile that lingered on his face was as soft as the light between stars. You dropped your hands from your face, staring across the desk at him, your curiosity gnawing at your insides like a worm wriggling through parchment.

You tried to focus on your notes tried but your eyes kept darting back to him. To the way he seemed suspiciously at ease. Not smug, not gloating… just quietly content. And that was somehow worse.

The Sage of Truth was never loud about anything. But when he was this calm, this serene?

It meant something had already been decided. Handled.

 Concluded.

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, seriously… what did you do?”

He didn’t look up from the scroll he was annotating. “Nothing that wasn’t already overdue.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He dipped his quill, continued writing. “That is precisely the point.”

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your seat. “Because I keep thinking about it. About what you said. About what I heard. That wasn’t just a lecture in the corridor.”

He glanced up at that briefly but didn’t deny it.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt them,” you added, brow furrowed, “but… what did you do? I’m not asking for every detail, just… something. Anything.”

A beat passed.

Then, slowly, he set the quill down. Folded his hands. Looked at you.

“Let us say,” he began carefully, “that a few names will no longer hold the weight they once did within the Academy.”

Your breath caught.

“You… you didn’t get them expelled, did you?”

“I didn’t need to,” he said, calm as ever. “They merely reminded the Dean why favor and power are not the same thing. The former can be revoked. The latter must be earned.”

You blinked. “So you… humiliated them?”

“I corrected a misperception,” he replied, almost gently. “They believed they could harm something precious to me without consequence. I allowed them the opportunity to discover they were wrong.”

Your heart stuttered at the word precious, but you pushed past it, still too caught on everything else.

“And they just… took it?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No one takes a lesson willingly. But I made sure it would last.”

You stared.

A mix of horror and awe welled in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was good that he didn’t raise his voice. That he didn’t need to.

“What did you say to them?” you whispered.

He leaned forward, just enough for his voice to fall into something softer, something meant only for you.

“I told them they had overstepped,” he said, “and that I was not nearly as patient as they believed me to be. I told them that reputation means very little when standing before truth. And then I reminded them what it feels like to be seen truly seen not as they wish to be, but as they are.”

A long, quiet breath left your lungs.

And then, in a voice just above a whisper, you said, “Stars above.”

He tilted his head. “Do you regret asking?”

You swallowed hard.

“No,” you said. “But I don’t think I’ll ever ask again.”

You reached across the desk before you could think better of it fingers brushing lightly over his hand, just enough to anchor yourself to something real. His skin was warm, steady, the weight of him calm as the stars he so often invoked.

He stilled at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you expected. “I really don’t.”

His eyes met yours soft, unreadable, and ever watchful.

“But I do think,” you added gently, “that you’re excluding some truths.”

He was quiet.

Not surprised. Not guilty.

Just… pleased.

His lips curled, faint and indulgent. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But only because some truths do not need to burden you.”

You stared at him.

He smiled a little more smug and satisfied in a way that was far too elegant to be smug at all.

“I promise,” he said, voice rich with certainty, “it was nothing they didn’t deserve.”

You opened your mouth to respond but didn’t.

Because in that moment, something changed in his gaze. He was still looking at you. Still listening. Still here.

But his thoughts… Drifted.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

The room was cold.

Not in temperature, but in tone too clean, too polished, too politically precise. The walls were lined with curated paintings and golden-framed certifications of magical tenure, each artifact placed with such careful intent that they betrayed the very nature of their owner.

Dean White Sorrel Cookie sat behind their curved desk, fingers laced. Silent. Patient.

The three stood across from him, still composed, still dignified, but no longer confident.

Camellia’s jaw was tight. Serrano's hands were folded neatly, like they didn’t dare fidget. Fennel Drizzle was pretending to look at the bookshelf behind him, as though ignoring the moment would excuse it.

Shadow Milk Cookie did not sit. He loomed not by raising his voice, but by refusing to lower it.

“I am not here to protect my name,” he said, each word precise. “I am here to protect what I have chosen to nurture.”

The Dean shifted, speaking only when the silence had stretched thin. “Your words carry weight, Sage. But this… this cannot be handled solely on sentiment.”

“Sentiment?” His voice did not rise. But something underneath it sharpened. “I spoke not from emotion, but from observation. They saw something unguarded and tried to destroy it. They wielded status like a weapon. I am only returning the blow.”

He turned toward the three students, and when his eyes found them, they no longer stood with pride they stood with tension. With fear.

“You call yourselves scholars,” he said, tone like frost beneath velvet. “Yet you act as children. Petty. Jealous. Cruel. You believed I would look the other way because you’ve studied the same texts I once did. Because your mentors once walked beside mine. But I assure you lineage does not impress me. And your names will not shield you from consequence.”

He stepped closer. Calm. Exact. Like every syllable was carved in marble.

“I will not call for your expulsion. I have no need to.”

Camellia’s breath caught.

Serrano’s composure cracked, just barely.

Fennel swallowed hard.

“Because by the time your names are reviewed for research approval, for mentorship under any tenured scholar they will remember this. Every conversation, every panel, every recommendation… will be colored by what you’ve done.”

He turned to the Dean. “That is all I request.”

The Dean said nothing at first. Then nodded slowly. “Noted.”

Shadow Milk Cookie bowed just slightly. Not in deference, but closure.

And when he left the room, not one of them dared look him in the eye.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

He hadn’t spoken for a while.

He was still holding your hand, his thumb gently brushing along the ridge of your knuckles in an absentminded motion. Present. Thoughtful.

But his expression had gone distant like he’d wandered somewhere, just for a moment, to remember something that didn’t belong to this space.

Then his eyes returned to you clear again, anchored in now.

You tilted your head slightly. “You drifted.”

He hummed. “Only for a moment.”

You squeezed his hand lightly. “Was it one of the truths you didn’t want to tell me?”

He smiled again sweet, unreadable, still so pleased with himself.

“I think,” he murmured, “you’d rather not know.”

You opened your mouth then hesitated.

And for now, just for now…You let it go.

Because some truths, even from him, could wait. The warmth of his hand lingered against yours, steady and deliberate, but his gaze was no longer distant. And when he finally spoke, his voice had shifted.

It was no longer teasing. No longer full of quiet triumph or veiled mischief. It was something slower. Heavier.

“I was… angry.”

The words settled between you like soft thunder.

You blinked, caught off guard by the confession. He rarely if ever admitted to emotion so plainly. Not without cloaking it in metaphor, or in distant philosophical tangents. But not this time.

“I saw your face,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “After they said what they did. That expression… you looked like someone who had forgotten how to stand tall.”

You looked down, eyes burning at the edges. You hadn’t realized he’d seen it so clearly.

“I would’ve burned them,” he said, voice still low but sharp with restraint. “In another life, in another time, I would have used every tool at my disposal to dismantle the pedestal they so proudly stood upon.”

You looked up sharply, eyes wide. He met your gaze calmly.

“But I didn’t,” he went on, gentler now. “Because I must choose logic. I must remember who I am not only for the Academy’s sake, but for yours. Because I will not shame you by being reckless in your name.”

Your breath caught.

He took a moment. Looked at you like you were something he was still learning to fully understand. Still memorizing, as if the shape of your heart was something he needed time to master.

“I hope,” he said carefully, “I have made it clear how much I care for you. That it is not obligation. It is not pity. It is not anything so hollow.”

You stared at him, your heart thudding so loudly it felt like it echoed in your ears.

“I heard what they said to you,” he added softly. “Every word. And I hated myself for not intervening sooner. For not standing between them and you before their poison reached you.”

He reached up, thumb brushing the back of your hand.

“But I was too late.”

You didn’t mean to cry.

Not again.

But the tears welled anyway slow, silent, and sharp as glass. His words didn’t hurt. That wasn’t what made them fall.

It was because someone saw it all. Not just your struggle. Not just your effort. But the weight of what it cost to carry it. And he cared. Enough to be angry. Enough to show it, even when it fractured the mask he wore so well.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to”

“Don’t,” he said gently. “Don’t apologize.”

You lowered your head, shoulders trembling.

And then, in the only way he seemed to know how, he comforted you.

Not with grand gestures.

Not with poetic promises or borrowed stardust.

But by reaching forward quietly and sliding your chair next to his. He turned his palm up, letting yours rest in it fully. No tension. No demand. Just presence.

“I cannot fix what was said,” he murmured. “But I will make sure they never dare again.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

He tilted his head. “And if you ever forget how to stand tall,” he added softly, “then I will stand with you, until you remember.”

The tears fell harder at that but you didn’t hide them this time.

Because you were already seen.

And you were already held.

You let your weight shift slowly, carefully, until your shoulder rested against his. He didn’t move away.

If anything, he adjusted just slightly so your head could lean more comfortably against the layered fabric of his clothes. Warmth radiated from him, steady and unshifting, like the calm pulse of a lantern flame untouched by wind.

You closed your eyes.

There were no more tears left, but your body still trembled with the exhaustion of having held everything in for so long. Here, against him, it felt easier. Softer. Like the ache in your chest could fade if you were quiet enough, still enough, close enough.

You breathed in, slow. His scent, as always, was something unplaceable: clean parchment, moonlight through old stone, and the faintest trace of starlit citrus. You could never quite describe it. But it was his.

“…Hey,” you mumbled, voice sleep-heavy, barely more than a whisper.

He hummed in response, low and quiet.

“Would you… just this once…” your words slowed, the question already beginning to blur, “...would you become a woman?”

There was a pause. You didn’t open your eyes. Your cheek was too warm against his shoulder, and it was nice there. Too nice.

“I just think it’d be cool,” you continued, more dream than thought now. “Like. What would you look like? Would your voice still sound like truth but, like, softer truth? Maybe lilac truth. Or… velvet truth? That sounds fake. But like… could you do long hair? I feel like you’d be elegant. You’d be like... beautiful but terrifying. Like a goddess who lectures you for mispronouncing runes…”

He said nothing.

“Or wait. What if you were really short. No taller? Would you still wear robes? Oh no, wait, wait what if it was, like, a cloak but with... with earrings. You seem like you’d wear earrings. Ones with little enchanted…”

Your voice trailed off, your sentence never quite finished.

And he watched as your breathing began to slow, your lashes still damp but fluttering just once before stilling.

You were asleep.

Not gently, not gracefully. You had slipped into slumber like a feather dropping through water slow, unsteady, but sure.

Of course, what you didn’t know, what you wouldn’t feel was the faint shimmer of light that passed beneath your cheek, where it pressed against his shoulder. A near-invisible pulse of white magic, drawn with care and cast with precision. Not coercion, never that. Just comfort.

A spell laced with peace.

A spell that whispered you are safe.

He let you rest.

Your questions faded into the hush of the room, unanswered but heard.

And even though he had said not today, his gaze lingered on the crown of your head, and something fond something almost wistful glimmered quietly in his eyes.

He would not show you now.

But perhaps… one day.

When the weight in your heart was lighter. When your hands no longer trembled. When you no longer asked as a way to stay close.

Then maybe he would become the truth you imagined. Just once. The dream took shape like mist weaving into something solid, slow, seamless, sweet.

You didn’t realize you were dreaming at first. It felt real. As real as sunlight on your face and the weight of a leather-bound tome in your arms.

You stood at the Sage of Truth’s side as his equal. Your name etched beneath his on the grand research plaque that glowed in opalescent script above your shared workspace. The Spire of Knowledge, as you imagined it, was impossibly tall, stretching far past the clouds, with halls of crystal and gold, runes etched into every surface, the air humming with possibility.

The sky outside its arched windows shifted with the stars. Time had no meaning here. Only discovery did.

You wore robes now long, refined, detailed with the colors you always liked best, enchanted thread glinting at the seams. A scholar’s seal marked your shoulder. Your seal.

And he was beside you, pouring over texts you had helped uncover, his hands ink-stained from hours of study.

He looked at you not like a student.  Not like someone learning. But as a partner. A companion. A mind that walked beside his. And you turned to him, heart full of a strange, wild joy, and said

“I found it.”

He looked up. “Found what?”

You grinned. “A way to stay.”

His eyes narrowed faintly, curious, gentle. “Stay?”

You nodded, breath catching. “To be immortal. With you. I found a way.”

The light behind him flickered like starlight. “Truly?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’ll never have to leave. Not even time can take me from you now.”

And in your dream, he smiled radiantly, impossibly full of pride and wonder and warmth. His hands reached for yours, steady and sure.

“Then we will have forever,” he said, voice echoing like music, like truth made whole.

Your friends were there too, in the background Chai Latte spinning through the archives, teasing you about proper citation formatting, Hazelnut Biscotti muttering over a spell scroll that wouldn’t align, Earl Grey calmly sipping tea while writing an unnecessarily dramatic thesis title.

And everything was perfect.

There was no fear. No doubt. Only happiness, and the feeling of belonging so deeply that it left no room for insecurity.

Forever was yours.

Until-

A gentle touch on your shoulder, warm and grounding, stirred the edges of that perfect vision.

“…Time to wake, little star.”

You stirred, breath catching as the light of the Spire faded.

And when your eyes opened, you were no longer in robes of woven light, no longer immortal or infinite. You were in his office, head still resting against his shoulder, the soft paper scent of his robes filling your senses.

His voice was quiet, close. “Dinner. Your friends will be waiting.”

The dream clung to your skin like dew, sweet and slow to vanish.

You looked up at him, and he was watching you with a rare tenderness one that said he knew. Maybe not the contents of your dream, but the peace it had brought you.

You sat up slowly, blinking away sleep, your heart still full of stars.

“…Thanks,” you murmured, voice hoarse but genuine.

He gave the faintest nod. “You looked content.”

You didn’t say what you’d seen.

But a small part of you still held onto the dream tucked away behind your ribs like a secret.

Because even if it wasn’t real…

It could be.

You nodded slowly, the last traces of the dream still curling gently at the corners of your mind like lingering starlight. Your voice came out soft, still touched with sleep.

“It was a good dream.”

His gaze didn’t shift, but something in the air around him seemed to pause like he was giving space to the words, honoring them in his quiet way.

You offered a faint, sheepish smile as you sat up fully, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders. “As much as I want to stay asleep forever,” you murmured, “I can’t risk Chai Latte launching a search party.”

That earned you the smallest tilt of his head, the barest amusement rising in his eyes. “You believe she would?”

You gave him a knowing look. “She once tracked me across three buildings and two restricted stairwells when I missed one dinner. She would not hesitate.”

“Formidable,” he mused.

“She would drag Earl Grey and Hazelnut into it, too,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “Hazelnut would complain the whole way, and Earl would pretend he wasn’t involved while definitely being involved.”

He said nothing, but the curve at the corner of his mouth deepened, pleased, not amused. Like seeing you like this tired but smiling was its own reward.

You gathered your things slowly, lingering a beat longer than you needed to. The dream still hummed somewhere under your skin, gentle and golden.

He stood as you did, ever the scholar, but his movements slower now. Intentional.

As you reached the door, you paused and glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Thanks… for letting me rest.”

“Always.”

And with that, you stepped into the hall, the warm light of evening spilling across the stone, ready to return to the friends who would be waiting… and the quiet dream you’d carry, still nestled somewhere in your chest, just for you.

It was well into dinner by the time Chai Latte Cookie finally dropped the question right in the middle of you recounting a story about your nap-turned-fake-shapeshifting-plea with the Sage.

You had been laughing truly laughing for the first time since this morning. The soft clinking of utensils, the steady buzz of the dining hall, the flicker of enchanted lanterns warming the air around your small table… for a moment, everything felt light again.

And then Chai leaned forward, lowering her voice but not her intensity.

“Okay, but what happened today?”

You blinked, the shift in tone pulling you out of your haze.

Chai glanced around to make sure no one was listening too closely then looked directly at you. “I heard something happened earlier. Something big.”

Your breath caught just slightly but before you could respond, she barreled on.

“I wasn’t going to say anything at first, but… people are talking. Like, serious whispers going around. Stuff about the Sage. Something he said in the halls? I don’t even know if I trust the sources, but apparently, it was loud.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised a brow. “The Sage? Loud?”

“That’s what makes it so unbelievable!” Chai hissed. “You know how he never raises his voice? Well, someone said they were in the stairwell above the Scholar’s Wing and they heard him say something that made their knees go weak. Like, not even magical, just pure ‘I-am-a-force-of-the-cosmos’ kind of power.”

Earl Grey glanced up from his plate, utterly composed. “I heard something too. Supposedly, he told them something like ‘truth does not tremble beneath your legacy.’”

Hazelnut let out a low whistle. “If he did say that, I kind of want it printed on a banner.”

“I know, right?” Chai whispered excitedly. “And another person swears and I mean swears they saw him looking furious. Like, visibly furious. Not yelling. Just… cold. Eyes narrowed, mouth tight. Like he was disappointed on a level that could shift tectonic plates.”

Earl Grey added with a slight nod, “There’s a rumor that he made them apologize to the Dean personally. Not just in writing. In person.”

Chai’s eyes widened. “See, that’s what makes me think something really happened. I’ve never even seen him speak to someone like Camellia Pith Cookie, let alone get involved in whatever drama those three pull. And if he stepped in? It must’ve been serious.”

You stared at your food, not touching it, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around your fork.

“What did they do?” Chai asked suddenly, turning to you. “Do you know? Because I have no idea. No one does. The rumors are all about him, but nobody knows what they did. Not a word of it.”

You hesitated.

Her voice softened. “They didn’t do something to you… did they?”

You shook your head, too quickly. “No. I mean I don’t think so.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. You weren’t ready to say what happened. Not yet.

Chai didn’t press, but she still looked deeply curious. “It just… it’s so weird. No one’s defending them. Even the Scholars’ Circle’s being quiet. It’s like everyone’s too scared to ask.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “Perhaps we should be,” he said plainly. “Whatever they did, it earned something most scholars never see the Sage of Truth setting aside diplomacy.”

Hazelnut Biscotti, who had been silent until now, crossed his arms. “Look, I’m not one to gossip. And I don’t like wishing ill on anyone.”

You glanced at him, grateful for his usual steadiness.

“But after what they’ve said to you before,” he continued deliberately avoiding specifics, “they probably deserved it.”

Chai nodded solemnly. “Absolutely.”

She leaned her chin on her hand, looking thoughtful. “Still… I want to know. I need to know what they did. Someone has to find out. They must’ve done something really awful. That’s the only reason I can think of that would make him” she waved her hand in the air dramatically “unleash cosmic disappointment.”

You forced a small smile, heart still tender, mind still echoing with the memory of him saying “I hated myself for not arriving sooner.”

If only they knew.

But for now… you let them theorize. And you said nothing.

The theories began flying faster than spoons scraping empty dessert bowls.

Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward over the table, hands animated as she recounted every dramatic line she’d collected like shiny gems in the past few hours. “Okay so someone definitely heard him say, ‘You are not worthy of the legacy you inherited.’ Isn’t that the coldest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Earl Grey Cookie nodded, adjusting his cuffs calmly. “It’s circulating in the Scholar’s Wing. There’s also that other one ‘I do not suffer liars, and I do not suffer fools.’ Apparently, someone dropped their satchel when he said it.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie frowned thoughtfully. “I heard something too, walking past the eastern study corridor. Didn’t catch the whole thing, but it was quiet. Too quiet. Like… unnatural. Everyone said it felt like the air got heavier. You could hear a pin drop.”

Chai gasped. “That’s what Meringue Whip said! That it felt like the magic around him paused. Like it was listening. Like even the runes on the walls were scared.”

Earl Grey folded his hands with precise grace. “It’s rare. But I’ve seen it once before, during a symposium when someone tried to publicly challenge one of his older texts. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just… looked at them. And that look was enough to make the entire room fall silent.”

“That’s exactly what people are saying,” Chai said, voice breathless. “He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. He just… stood there. And spoke so calmly.”

Hazelnut added, “Someone said it wasn’t even what he said it was how he said it. Like it wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. The kind that makes your bones rattle.”

You sat silently, listening to all of it, every whispered secondhand quote and magical theory spun around your quiet presence.

“Anyway,” Chai continued, visibly buzzing with energy, “some people think they tampered with research. Others say they stole theory work from someone else. Someone even said they misrepresented their citation matrix in a journal draft.”

“They’d be expelled for that,” Earl Grey noted.

“Exactly,” Chai said, eyes gleaming. “But none of that’s been confirmed.”

Hazelnut shrugged. “They’ve been too quiet. Like, eerily quiet. For people that loud? That’s never a good sign.”

Chai folded her arms on the table, still glancing between you and the others. “Whatever they did… it must’ve been horrible. Something really personal. Because I’ve never heard of the Sage of Truth being like that. Ever.”

There was a silence, all three of them turning over their own theories, the last echoes of his supposed words still hanging in the air between them.

You poked at your food, quiet but listening, heart a little heavier despite the warm hum of voices around you.

They didn’t know the truth.

They didn’t know it had been about you.

And still, a small, stubborn part of you clung to the dream from earlier where you were beside him in the Spire, where everything was safe and forever and whole.

You swallowed gently and said nothing.

Because they might never guess.  And a part of you… wasn’t ready for them to.

You felt the weight of their speculation pressing closer to each whispered rumor, each lingering gaze pulling the truth closer to the surface. Your fingers tensed slightly around your fork, your throat tightening in that telltale way it did whenever something felt too close.

So you did what you always did when things turned too sharp, too serious.

You pivoted.

“He was really happy this afternoon, though,” you said suddenly, lifting your gaze with practiced brightness, your tone light and easy. “Like, weirdly happy.”

Chai blinked at the change in direction. “Wait what?”

You shrugged, stabbing a piece of fruit with your fork. “Yeah. Just… smiling. A lot. Way more than usual.”

Earl Grey tilted his head slightly. “The Sage?”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked skeptical. “You sure it wasn’t an illusion spell?”

You laughed. “No illusion. Trust me. He looked… genuinely happy.”

Chai leaned in again, eyes wide. “Okay, that’s almost creepier than the rumors.”

“I know, right?” you teased. “But in a good way. Like... soft. Like if starlight could give you a blanket and a cup of tea.”

Hazelnut groaned. “Please don’t start romanticizing starlight.”

“But also,” you went on, barely holding back a grin, “you know he can shapeshift?”

That got a pause. All three of them stared at you.

“…What?” Chai asked slowly.

You nodded eagerly, taking full advantage of the sudden attention shift. “Yeah. He totally can. He hasn’t shown me, obviously, but it came up.”

Earl Grey raised a brow. “That… does make sense. The level of magic required would be advanced, but certainly within his range.”

Chai’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you lead with that? That’s so cool! He could turn into anyone.”

“I know!” you said, leaning into the energy. “Can you imagine? Just deciding to wake up one day and be, like, three inches taller or have different eyes or oh my stars, what if he gave himself a beauty mark?”

“Why would you want a beauty mark?” Hazelnut asked, baffled.

“I’m just saying! The possibilities!”

Chai rested her chin on her hands, dreamy-eyed now. “He’d be such a beautiful woman, wouldn’t he?”

You waved a hand vaguely. “Longer sparkling hair, silver earrings, a cloak made of light. Something dramatic.”

Earl Grey hummed. “I suppose it would be an ideal tool for blending in… if he ever wanted to not be recognized.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, smiling to yourself, “good luck with that. He practically glows.”

The conversation moved on from there, scattering like dandelion fluff caught in the wind. They tossed around ideas of magical disguises and wild illusions, delighting in the absurd, the impossible.

And just like that, the whispers from earlier about cold glares and academic disgrace drifted quietly into the background.

You leaned back in your seat and let yourself breathe.

Not because you’d forgotten.

But because, for now, you'd bought yourself a little more time. You leaned forward again, resting your elbows on the table and clasping your hands like you were about to propose a classified magical expedition.

“Alright,” you said, eyes gleaming with quiet determination. “New mission.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up from his drink, already wary. “Oh no.”

Chai Latte leaned in, immediately intrigued. “Yes?”

You grinned. “Help me come up with a convincing, airtight, irrefutable argument like an essay to get the Sage of Truth to shapeshift. Just once.”

Earl Grey blinked slowly. “…You’re seriously making this academic?”

“I am a scholar,” you said, holding back a smile. “And this is a question of both magical theory and practical curiosity. I’m just saying he can shapeshift. I know he can. And I’ve already asked once, but he deflected.”

Chai tapped her fingers excitedly against the table. “You’re right he has long hair already. And that face? Easily elegant in either direction.”

“Exactly!” you pointed at her. “He’d be stunning. But! I’m not trying to flatter him into it. I want to reason with him. Use logic. Like he always does with me.”

Hazelnut frowned. “But… why?”

“Because imagination,” you said, utterly serious, “is not the same thing as reality. And I need to know.”

Chai leaned back dramatically, hands in the air. “Alright. Let’s build the case.”

Earl Grey cleared his throat and steepled his fingers. “Begin with a thesis,” he said flatly. “State your intention and scope. Why you’re requesting this demonstration.”

“Okay,” you nodded, tapping your fork against the edge of your plate like a pen. “How about…”This paper will demonstrate the theoretical and interpersonal significance of voluntary magical shapeshifting as performed by one’s academic mentor.”

“Terrible,” Hazelnut muttered.

Chai beamed. “Perfect.”

“Next,” Earl Grey continued, “you’ll need supporting points. Emphasize magical benefit. Public interest. Scholarly bonding.”

“Also,” Chai chimed in, “the emotional resonance of curiosity fulfilled! The human longing for transformation and self-expression!”

You stared at her. “Did you take a rhetoric course without me?”

She shrugged innocently. “Just a lot of poetry.”

Hazelnut sighed. “You’re all insane. But fine. Say it’s for ‘research purposes.’ That always gets approved.”

You scribbled in your head. “Right. ‘This request is rooted in a desire to better understand the limits of advanced transformation magic through direct observational study.’ That sounds good, right?”

Earl Grey nodded. “Add that you’re in a state of elevated emotional trust, which increases the integrity of the result.”

Chai gasped. “Ohhh, and don’t forget to include seeing is believing.”

You grinned, tapping your temple. “Yes. Empirical verification of theoretical potential.”

Hazelnut shook his head. “Stars above.”

You turned to him with a sweet smile. “Come on, Biscotti. Don’t you want to know what he’d look like?”

He stared at you for a beat. Then looked away, mumbling, “…A little.”

“I knew it!”

Chai laughed, reaching across the table to high-five you. “I can’t believe we’re helping you peer-review an essay on how to beg the sage of truth to be stunning in a different font.”

You smirked. “This is science.”

Earl Grey lifted his teacup. “To academic excellence.”

And somewhere deep in your mind, already, the essay was forming.

You had a goal. You had a thesis. And now, you had witnesses. You stared at Chai Latte Cookie, deadpan. “I wouldn’t say he’s stunning.”

The table went quiet for half a beat.

Then you added dryly, “But… each to their own, I suppose.”

Chai, utterly unbothered, raised an eyebrow and sipped her juice with a knowing smirk. “Oh please. I didn’t say I liked him.”

You blinked. “You literally just helped me draft an argument to get him to shapeshift, in high detail.”

“Exactly,” she said, pointing a finger at you. “Because I, like any educated observer, can appreciate aesthetic excellence.”

Hazelnut Biscotti choked on his drink.

Earl Grey didn’t even look up. “She’s not wrong.”

Chai turned to you again, her voice laced with amusement. “These aren’t new thoughts, you know. Most scholars even the bitter ones agree he’s got that ethereal beauty thing going for him. It’s not about attraction. It’s about… artistic reverence.”

You stared at her.

She smiled sweetly. “Would you look at a stained glass window and call it hot? No. But you can still acknowledge it’s stunning.”

Earl Grey nodded, sipping his tea. “He’s like the embodiment of a forgotten prophecy.”

Hazelnut muttered, “He looks like a secret that has its own moon phase.”

You gaped at him. “You too?”

Hazelnut frowned. “I didn’t say I like him. I said he looks like that. I stand by it.”

“I thought I was the only one going insane,” you muttered.

Chai nudged you. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not insane. You’re just late to the club.”

You sighed, slouching slightly in your seat. “I hate it here.”

But your smile tugged at the edges of your mouth anyway, helpless beneath the laughter rippling around the table.

Maybe he was a little ethereal. Maybe.

By the time the dinner plates had been cleared and the glow of the lanterns above had shifted into that soft golden hue signaling the late evening study hour, your “essay” had turned into something dangerously close to an actual academic proposal.

A/N HAPPY PRIDE <3

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥 <<<Previous Next>>>

[bbyg00rl]

Sage of Truth x Reader Pt.2

Warnings : None, bad writing, fluff, shy reader.

Author note : Part 1 by the way, this shit is long asf, coems chat

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The following days passed like breath held too long.

Long enough for your chest to ache with it.

You moved through your shifts at the library like someone walking underwater, calm on the surface, but aware of every sound, every silence, every whisper of footsteps that might be his. There were times you thought you heard him, the soft rustle of fabric near the astronomy aisle, the familiar rhythm of someone scanning spines with intention. But each time you looked, no one was there.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him, the man from that night. The stranger who spoke as if stars had languages, and thoughts were sacred.

You still didn’t know who he was.

Not his name. Not his position. Not even whether he truly worked at the academy.

And yet, every time you shelved a book or turned a page, your mind flickered back to that voice, that presence, and most of all, to the feeling he’d left behind. It wasn’t just admiration. It was something stranger. Quieter. Like the calm before a change in weather.

A kind of wonder.

You’d placed Celestial Architectures, Vol. I back on your desk, not to be reshelved, but to be kept close, like a letter from a friend you hadn’t decided how to answer. You opened it again days later, your fingers hesitant at first, and reread the notes you'd once scrawled in the margins. They were clumsy, full of half-formed questions and unpolished ideas.

But between them now were his responses, precise, thoughtful, sometimes even playful, but never mocking.

He’d transformed your scattered thoughts into something alive, something more.

Reading the dialogue you’d created together felt like finding a secret trail of stars drawn just for you, one you hadn’t realized you’d been following.

But he hadn’t returned.

Not yet.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he’d simply borrowed a book and moved on. That you were being foolish. But even as you tried to reason with yourself, your eyes would drift toward the entrance of the library in the quietest hours of the evening, hoping.

You thought of finding the second volume, but hesitated.

What if he never came back? What if those few pages were all you’d ever share? A single conversation, brilliant, strange, but unfinished.

Still… part of you, perhaps, the part that had once believed in things beyond the rational began to prepare. Not with grand gestures, but with small, deliberate choices. You lit the lamps a little earlier. You cleaned chair he could possibly use, even though no one else sat there. You took the second volume of Celestial Architectures from the restricted archives, its binding delicate and its cover soft from age.

You began to reread it, not as a scholar, but as a conversation partner. At first, it was to refresh your memory. Then, it became more.

You started writing again.

This time, it wasn’t unintentional.

Your notes curved with a kind of quiet anticipation. Not just private reflections now, but questions meant to be seen. Ideas meant to be met. You wrote not with the expectation of being read, but with the hope of it. It was terrifying and strange and somehow thrilling. You weren’t sure if he’d come again, but if he did, you wanted him to know you had been waiting.

And three days later, he returned.

You felt it before you saw him, the air shifted, as if the library recognized him before you did. The silence pressed differently. The lamps flickered a little warmer.

He didn’t knock. He never had.

He simply appeared, quiet at the entrance, framed by tall stacks and amber light. In his hands, he carried a book you hadn't noticed before. Not from your collection, something older, private. Bound in deep golden cloth, worn at the edges.

He looked at you the way someone looks at something they’re relieve to find again. Then, his eyes flicked on one of your hand holding the book.

“I see you found the volume two,” he said, with the smallest of smiles, just enough to soften the space between you.

You straightened, your pulse loud in your throat. You hadn’t realized you’d been gripping the edge of your desk with your free hand.

“I… I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” you said, voice too quiet.

He stepped further inside, the distance between you shrinking with each careful movement.

“I wasn’t sure either,” he replied.

Then he paused, just long enough for the moment to settle.

“But I hoped.”

You said nothing at first, your throat felt too tight to allow much more than a breath. You watched as he moved closer, the book in his hands catching the soft amber light. The cover was marked with intricate runes you didn’t recognize, and yet… it looked strangely familiar.

“I meant to return sooner,” he said, his voice as calm as always, though this time there was something in it, an undertone, like a shadow passing under clear water. He was looking down at the book in your hands, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. “My schedule… doesn’t always belong to me.”

You blinked at that. The way he said it, not with frustration, but with the tired acceptance of someone whose time was no longer truly their own. Someone constantly summoned, expected, consulted.

It sounded familiar. In the way a story feels familiar even if you’ve never read it before.

“I imagine you must be… busy.” you said cautiously, unsure whether you were stating the obvious or something more delicate.

His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.

“That’s one word for it,” he replied, and you thought you saw a flicker of amusement behind his eyes, quickly gone. “Let’s just say free hours are a rare commodity these days.”

You found yourself nodding, but questions rose anyway, quiet and persistent.

Why?

Who exactly was he, to be so needed? So tethered?

And what kind of responsibilities could keep a man like him away from something as small as a conversation, or as quiet as a library?

You wanted to ask. The words were right there, sitting on the edge of your tongue.

But something in you hesitated.

Because the truth was, you still didn’t know who he was. Not really. He’d never given his name. Never said what he taught, if he taught. And yet, the way he moved through this place, with a kind of quiet familiarity, like the stone and shelves knew him, told you he belonged here in a way few ever did.

It struck you then, in the soft light of the reading lamps, that he wasn’t simply another professor passing through.

There was something different. Higher. Heavier.

You remembered the way your colleagues sometimes spoke in hushed tones about “certain figures” at the Academy, those rare, elevated individuals the rest of the scholars or even colleagues admired from a distance. You’d never cared to pay attention before.

Now, you wondered if you’d unknowingly found yourself speaking to one of them.

But still, you didn’t ask. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder,

If someone like him was so occupied, why did he come back at all?

But instead of sharing your thoughts, you simply nodded, and offered the faintest smile. “I’m glad you came back.”

And you meant it more than you expected.

His eyes flicked to yours at that, and held them just long enough to make you feel it. Not just seen, but read, like a favorite passage in a well-worn book.

“I brought you something,” he said, breaking the moment with quiet grace.

He extended the book toward you, carefully, as though it were fragile. Reverent. “It’s called The Soul Scripts of Silent Scholars. It’s not part of your collection.”

You took it with both hands. The cover was velvet-dark, bound in deep golden cloth, worn at the edges and humming faintly with something just beneath the surface. Not magic exactly… or maybe a kind of magic you couldn’t name.

“This book is extremely important.. I can tell by its quality…”. You murmured, unable to stop your fingertips from tracing the edge of the title. “Where did you-?”

But he only tilted his head, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Let’s say it found me.”

You looked up at him again, wanting, perhaps needing, to ask more.

But something about him always made your curiosity fold back on itself. He never seemed to be hiding anything… but neither did he volunteer anything unasked. Like a book that could only be opened one page at a time.

And so you said nothing more, and instead reached beneath the counter for the second volume of Celestial Architectures.

“I’ve… added some thoughts,” you admitted, your voice a touch self-conscious as you held it out to him.

He accepted it gently, opening to the first page, and the tiniest light passed through his expression when he saw your handwriting.

A flicker of recognition. Of shared space.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

He offered you a polite nod, then slowly reached into the folds of his sleeve. “I must attend to another engagement,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “Please excuse me for now.”

A small pause stretched between you as he prepared to depart. For a moment, the world in the library felt suspended, a gentle lull between pages yet to be written. You wanted to ask more, to tease out the secrets behind his cryptic replies. But his departure was inevitable.

With a final fleeting smile, he turned and walked toward the grand arched doorway. His steps were measured, leaving you with a mixture of longing and quiet introspection. The library’s silence seemed richer with his absence, as if the very air missed his presence.

Left alone with the soft rustle of pages and the steady beat of your own thoughts, you hesitated for several minutes. Then, with trembling hands, you unfolded the book he had so delicately given you. The cover was as enchanting as before, but this time you noticed something new, inside, handwritten notes in a neat, refined script that you recognized instantly as his.

You ran your fingertips slowly over the lines, reading the annotations with a sense of awe and curiosity. Each note was meticulously composed, elegant and measured, transforming the ordinary commentary of a scholar into something almost lyrical. Compared to your own hastily scrawled thoughts, messy, passionate, and uncertain, his writing was pristine, as if he had transcribed the very essence of truth with each pen stroke.

As you turned the pages, a growing question tugged at your mind, should you respond to these notes? Yet, you hesitated. Your own annotations, though honest, felt raw and jumbled. They were the whispered musings of a soul unsure of its own voice. How could you possibly match the measured perfection of his words? And yet, the thought of maintaining the silent conversation between you both was irresistible.

Your gaze lingered on a final inscription at the book’s end, a signature, written in the same elegant hand; “Shadow Milk.”

A chill ran down your spine. You recognized the name immediately, the murmurs in the corridors of the Academy spoke reverently of Shadow Milk, the Headmaster of the Blueberry Academy, the elusive figure whispered about in faculty halls. The one they called The Sage of Truth. This book... wasn't just important.

It was his. Written by his hand. A personal copy. Annotated.

Your first thought was, how could he possibly own such a book?

Did he know him personally? Were they friends? Had he somehow simply stumbled upon it?

No, that was unthinkable. A volume like this couldn’t simply be found, not by accident. And certainly not a handwritten copy. It was the kind of treasure students would dream of glimpsing behind locked glass, let alone touching.

So how, in the quiet hush of this quiet library, had it found its way into the hands of a humble librarian as you?

Gathering your courage, you resolved to ask him about it during his next visit.

To your surprise, his visit came sooner than expected, just as the evening settled into its quiet rhythm. After gathering the books a few students had deliberately abandoned on the reading tables, you made your way back toward your desk near the entrance, only to find him already there.

Bathed in moonlight that seemed to trace the lines of his face with gentle familiarity, he stood silently, as if waiting for something, or someone to arrive. You approached the counter where he was. You hesitated, tempted to call out to him, but you didn’t know how to address him. With a soft, hesitant tone, you broke the silence.

“Excuse me?” The words left your mouth before you had time to really think them through, soft, uncertain, like a whisper breaking the silence.

At the sound, he turned toward you slowly, as if surprised, though not unpleasantly so. His expression shifted, mild curiosity warming into something gentler.

“Oh,” he said, a faint smile brushing his lips. “So you were here, after all.”

You froze, heart stuttering in your chest.

There were so many things you could have said. A polite greeting. A question. Even just a simple apology for startling him. But instead, you merely nodded, wordless, small, and quietly moved behind the counter, as if it might shield you from the intensity of the moment.

You busied yourself with nothing in particular, pretending to organize the scattered papers or adjust the pen jar, anything to avoid looking up.

Still, you could feel it, his gaze.

Not invasive, not harsh. Just… present. Steady. Calm. And somehow, that made it all the more difficult to breathe.

You waited for him to speak first, as he always did. It had become an unspoken pattern between you, a rhythm that let you hide behind the comfort of his voice.

But this time, he said nothing.

Instead, he stood there in the quiet, watching you with that calm, unreadable gaze. Not expectant exactly, but still, it felt as though he were waiting. Not for something in the room. For something from you.

And suddenly, the silence that had once felt gentle now pressed in at the edges, awkward, unfamiliar. So, to free yourself from it, you spoke about the first things that crossed your mind.

“I must ask… how did you come by such a book?” you ventured, your cheeks warming with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. “It feels as though I should not have dared to touch something of so immense value… How did you come to own it?”

The question left your lips before you could second-guess it. You hadn't meant to sound accusatory, just curious. But something about the weight of the book had been lingering in your thoughts ever since.

He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement, as if he were delighted by your cautious wonder. “First, could I ask… What do you think of Shadow Milk?” he asked lightly, saying his name with such ease while tilting his head in curiosity. His question was casual, yet laden deference, inviting you to share your own impressions without revealing too much about himself.

You paused, considering your words carefully. “I’ve never seen him,” you admitted slowly, “so I cannot say I truly know him. Yet, everyone speaks of him with such admiration, so I imagine he must be as refined and mysterious as the legends suggest.” You hesitated further before adding, “Owning such a book… it seems far beyond my reach. It is not something I believe I should claim as my own.”

A soft chuckle escaped him at that. “Knowledge, however, is meant for everyone,” he replied gently. “It is not the possession of a select few, but a light to be shared with all.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to suggest that perhaps the book should be returned, that it was too grand a responsibility for someone like you. “I… perhaps I should return it,” you murmured, conflicted, “I’m not sure I’m worthy of handling such a treasure…whether it be a friend’s or merely an acquaintance’s.”

“No,” he interjected kindly, his voice imbued with quiet insistence. “Consider it a gift. Let it be yours.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, mixed with a gentle protest that nevertheless waned in the face of his warm yet unwavering tone. “But… wouldn’t the Sage of truth be displeased if he knew that such a book, a handmade copy, had passed into my hands?” you asked softly, as if the very sound of his tittle might summon a weight greater than you could bear.

He offered you a smile, one that carried both reassurance and a playful gleam. “I’m certain he would not mind..” he replied lightly. “For knowledge is not confined to titles or position. It is a shared treasure, after all.”

Before you could voice another thought, he reached the doorway once more, gathering his belongings, your book in his hands. Then, just as he paused at the threshold, he added with a light laugh that echoed faintly off the stone walls, “And I could always remake another copy of it, if need be..”

And as the echo of his words faded into the quiet air, you remained standing there, heart gently fluttering and mind alight with questions, with the mysterious book clutched in your hands and his parting words still resonating, you couldn’t help but wonder about the secret behind his every action and words.

..

But then, just for a moment, you tensed.

Had he said “I”?

The word echoed back to you, faint but unmistakable. A single syllable, slipped into the quiet like a thread pulled too far, revealing far too much for your poor little heart to bear.

Everything had started to align in your mind, slowly at first, like stars shifting into a pattern you weren’t sure you were meant to see.

Was that why the notes had looked so strangely familiar?

So eerily close to the handwriting in the book?

The thought had crossed your mind once before, briefly, flickering like a match that refused to catch. You’d dismissed it then. The tone of the margin notes had felt… lighter. More relaxed. They carried an ease that didn’t quite match the formality of the written manuscript.

And yet..

Even in their quiet confidence, they held the same elegance. The same quiet control. The same deliberate beauty. You hadn’t dare to face it then. But now… it was harder to look away.

Gosh, maybe a day off would be great…

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Thanks for reading!! Don’t forget to like🫶🍊

ET À MON AMIE, TA INTÉRÊT À AIMER ENFOIRER

[bbyg00rl]

Cradle Me Sweetly PT.2

Song recommendation: ♫ Cherry Wine // grentperez

| Shadow Milk Cookie and his Creator have a dance.

He longed for this. To have you in his arms. Swaying together without any interruption. 

Shadow Milk Cookie x Keyholder Reader

Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst, Comfort, Canon Divergence, Second Half of a Two Shot ~ 2K

previous, current

He spun the glass thoughtlessly, the crimson liquid swishing with his gentle movement. Its reflection bouncing back to meet pensive eyes. Berry juice, or what his Creator preferred to call it, wine.

Ah… he’d love to pick your brain as to why, but…. Shadow Milk Cookie looked back up, his gaze with ease instantly spotting you.

You were enjoying yourself.

It was a party after all. He did not remember its rhyme or reason; all that mattered was seeing you smile. Chatting with friends, being entertained by the musicians, busy with other Cookies.

He sighed to himself, feet barely touching the ground as he hovered near the confection table.

Drink still in hand, Shadow Milk Cookie picked at the assortment of treats. Too sweet, too sour, mild, fruity; hm. A gentle bitter oddly sounded lovely tonight, soothing. Fidgeting with his sleeve—hoping the ruffles wouldn’t get dirtied—he silently nibbled on a snack.

The Beast was certainly out of his element. A party of all things, shouldn’t he be causing a ruckus? Performing on stage was his schtick. Yet here he was, another face in the sea of Cookies.

Liberating wasn’t it? He felt… normal.

No one was vying for his attention, no one was cursing his name. Even Candy Apple Cookie and Black Sapphire Cookie were conversing with your kingdom’s citizens happily. It was endearing really. Their pranks, teases. Were all taken quite well.

Shadow Milk Cookie felt calm, swallowing his snack before sipping down another drink of wine. He licked his lips, swiping the trickle of sweet liquid. Turning back and leaning against the table’s edge lighty.

Heterochromatic looked on. Watching. Like old times.

Just like when he was in his tower. When tall spires were kissed with golden sun, the students were flocking together with smiles on their faces as they talked about the next exciting topic, and he could just feel the breeze caress his hair.

The type of watching where he wasn’t waiting with bated breath. Gaining to take advantage of some poor Cookie and spiraling their mind with lies. No, this time he wasn’t here to learn someone’s deepest darkest secrets.

Shadow Milk Cookie was here to be lost within this reverie.

Leave it to you… he chuckled to himself. You were always so good at connecting with the other Cookies. A genius, through and through.

Would he have been like that?

He felt something in his chest ache. As knowledgeable as he is, Shadow Milk Cookie always cowered away from making meaningful relations.

Pouting to himself, he looked down at his wine glass. Just a little bit of wine left.

Closing his eyes, the drawl of a trumpet soothed him instead. This place felt so gentle even the chattering was a lull. Even so, he was longing for you.

Beast of Deceit, needed you. He looked back to where you were. Oh, you were being hassled by that pink Ancient. He watched you laugh with her, even lean into her hold as she snaked her arm around your neck and squeezed you affectionately.

Never mind, too much social interaction if he went there. He was damn sure if that woman was there the dragon would be trailing behind. Curse that greedy reptile.

“At least that scheduled tea party is happening soon…” he mumbled to himself. Just you and him in comfortable seclusion. Maybe he can show a new flower? You liked those.

If someone saw the blue Cookie he’d be bluer than ever. He wasn’t gloomy, really, believe him…! Reluctantly, he pulled away from the party, maybe getting some air would do him some good.

Floating over to the balcony, removing himself from the bright chandelier lights, he slumped against the stone railing. His ears drooped, hands stretched over as he loosely held the wine glass.

A longing was in his blue eyes, looking past the remnants of wine into a different world.

Oh Creator, my Creator. Is it selfish to have you to myself?

Selfish. That’s who he was. Even when you first met, Shadow Milk Cookie used you for a means. A means to manipulate, a means to hurt… even when it was revealed that you made him. He used you to feel like he owned the whole world, as if he ruled it.

As if he could ever rule you.

Frowning, he mentally kicked himself. You were nothing like the Witches. Despite being one, you were more than that. You were his Creator. He couldn’t deny what his Soul Jam was begging for, all he wanted to do was return the love you gave to him.

He embodied an ideal, a story. Something you oh so cherished and adored. So what if he was baked too soon? So what if he wasn’t fully realized? You loved him.

And stars… he wanted that. Your love that was only for himself.

“Shadow Milk Cookie.”

“Ah!” He yelped, legs folding as his hovering self jolted. Turning back to spot you standing before him with an amused smirk. Damn you and your shitty opportune times of coming up behind him.

“How do you keep sneaking up like that? That’s no fair.” Huffing, he hovered back down, body slouching a little. “I swear we have to put a bell on you someday.”

You laughed. That same warm and lovely laugh. “No thanks; and what do you mean not fair? You’re the one jump scaring everyone, including me.” Observing the grump, you tilted your head. “Have you been enjoying yourself? Knowing you, you’d be....”

He watched your head gesture back to the party. Made sense, he probably would be, if it wasn’t for you.

“Nah, not really exciting if y’know what I mean.” Too chill, less chaotic. “I need that dramatic curtain call. Flashing lights, an audience in awe, and flowers showering me.” Leaning back as he tipped over against the railing before seamlessly floating upright.

“But, a little backstage isn’t so bad.” Looking down at you, sitting on the railing as his hands smoothed out against the stone. “Attention from one person is… perhaps even better. Especially coming from you.”

Shadow Milk Cookie was slowly but surely progressing. You could see how relaxed he was by removing his many masks. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. It only worked for you though… your poor friends have yet to breach his walls, but he was nicer with them.

“Is that so?” You smiled. “I even picked your outfit in hopes that you’d have fun with its flair. No matter, it looks perfect on you.” All the ruffles and tassels would’ve been enchanting to watch twirl in the air.

Shadow Milk Cookie felt warmth spread to his cheeks, he glanced away with twitchy ears. “Well, I’d, rather not dirty them. Costume design takes a lot of work!” He would’ve had a panic attack if so much as a wine drop had stained his sleeve.

With a snort, you went towards him, placing your hands on either side of where he sat. You puffed your chest as you looked up at him with challenging amusement. “Well I decree that you can mess with it however you want. So get down from there.”

“Huh, ahh!” Wide eyed, you dragged his arms down bringing him with you. “Stop! Stop! You’re making me dizzy, sweet Creator, mercy!” It was just a few twirls, and thanks to him eternally floating, he has shot himself in the foot by being even more easier to toss around like a plush.

All he could hear was your laughter as you slowed for him. Gripping at your hands just enough where his nails didn’t scratch at your soft skin. Now at a stop, his form lolled back and forth with a weak groan. No doubt spirals were in his eyes.

“Gaah… what was that for?!” Shadow Milk Cookie grumbled, but his hands still held yours.

Warm….

“Oh? Didn’t you say when music plays that means a dance is in order?”

What did you mean by that—when has he ever…? Oh.

Right. That time he… had you wrapped in strings. When you were drained, unfocused, and pathetically breaking down. When he was the notorious Beast of Deceit making you dance with him as limbs failed you.

Fun times. Fun times.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked away, guilt suddenly gnawing at him. His throat felt dry. It was still haunting him. Not just because he knew it hurt his Creator, but because he truly did enjoy it.

Dancing with you.

“Silly fool, look at me.” You sighed, watching him obey you without a second thought. His blue eyes looked at you. Everything about you was just, so perfect to him. Where all of the weight of the world, his sorrows, lifted just under your gaze. “I’ve yet to have my night’s dance. Have you?”

“You. You haven’t?” He blinked, unconsciously squeezing your hands. Your eyebrows raised as you looked back at him with relaxed confirmation.

FUCK YES. Internally he pumped his fist. Oh the stars aligned, fate has graced him, and he didn’t have to drown and crumble in the ocean out of embarrassment. Shadow Milk Cooke would surely roll around his pillows once gets back to his room.

Confidence bolstered, the man gave a lazy smirk, he could shove it to Pure Vanilla Cookie later. Right now, he got his dance. “Well, well, well, lucky for you, despite my raging popularity. I’ll deign myself with having a dance with you.”

With seamless precision, he lifted his hands and held yours up. Then he paused.

The music was slow, the setting was intimate, and it was just the two of them.

Light came from the far off entrance, an opening to the party, but it was the moon and stars watching the duo. Their own personal stage.

Very gently, his feet touched the ground.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked into your eyes; those specks of lights in your gaze were comparable to the night sky. And he swallowed. Hesitantly, he took a slow step back. Watching, he stared with enamourment as you followed along his rhythm.

He did not rush, he did not yell out with glee; no, no, he drank in this moment like it was his last. Because you were in his arms by choice. Not on his own whims like before.

The slow drawl of a trumpet, a strum of gentle strings of guitars harmonizing, two souls waltzed along the tune of a slow dance. Shadow Milk Cookie’s eyes softened as he spun you around, his ears catching the faint giggle that graced him.

You were so very warm. Bodies fitting perfectly as his hands fit around yours with soft caresses and gentle sways. Here he was, a Beast, but also a lovestruck man. Unable to hide his dopey grin as he pulled you in close. An arm snaked around your waist.

His forehead almost touched yours with just a graze.

“Thank you, for having me tonight.” Pulling back enough to dip you, eyes locked with one another. Those blue heterochromic eyes of his always had that unnatural glow in them. But this glow felt warm, alit with unspoken emotions that were drowning with so much heart.

He moved a hand to cup your cheek, a finger brushing back a few strands of hair. “I fear that I’m merely a shadow of what I once was. But you… you still see me, huh?” His voice softened. You’ve always tried to get to know him, no matter how many times he’s shoved you away.

“Of course, I do.” You did not fear if he lost his grip on you, you didn’t worry if he’d suddenly take you by surprise. You stayed perfectly content in his arms as you looked up at the Beast.

His blue skin was kissed perfectly by the moonlight. His hair seemed to reflect the stars of galaxies above. For the embodiment of knowledge, he surely looked to be someone that had a piece of the cosmos somewhere.

“You’re mine. Even after everything that has happened. You’re mine to cherish.”

Shadow Milk Cookie could feel somewhere deep in his soul, a stutter. His chest felt so warm, so tight. It wasn’t unbearable; in fact, it was so light.

Yours.

Yours.

He’s yours.

He felt something in his eyes tickle. But he had no thought of rubbing them. Shadow Milk Cookie merely dipped his face, barely placing a chaste kiss to your lips. Before swiftly nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck.

His voice was a whisper, but it was all to clear the honest truth he declared back.

“I’m yours.”

Waah, this took longer than I thought. College is kicking my butt and my motivations and commitment are as fickle as ever. Do enjoy yourself!

I will always enjoy writing little scenes where moments had to have the possible chance of more, wink wonk. Also, have you seen Longan Dragon Cookie's dragon form teaser? I'm in love (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)!!

[bbyg00rl]

Lily and her ability to grow flowers in her hair