#well pre shadow vanilla but like...

[lachrymel]

more au stuff - timeline kicking my ass rn

other relevant stuff from before below

^ cookie form + cloak

[deceit-and-knowledge]

Wh- Cheese sauce on fries?! Who puts- actually, I may not be lactose intolerant, but I do have a strong dislike to cheese- the ingredient not the cookies- and I feel your pain when it comes to trying to order anything without cheese. But on fries?! Pure lunacy..! You should have simply gotten up from your seat and left the place, once they refused to cater to your allergies. They're allergies for a reason..! What nerve... *anon shakes their head.*

Mage Truthless is right. A lot of factors are out of our hands, and we won't grow as cookies if we keep letting them drag us down... And perhaps Mage Truthless knows about that the best out of all of us.

You already have an appointment with Saint Pure Vanilla about your bladder issues, so hopefully that can be medicated so you won't get bothered by that again. There will always be the odd cookie who doesn't know about social boundaries and have perhaps been reading too many romances to lose touch with reality. Accidents will always happen, no matter how prepared you are- and thankfully Mage Truthless DID have an extra set of clothes on him, so you avoided him having to endure that the rest of the day...

What I mean to say is; if you keep getting hung up on the small things, you're going to lose the big picture. You're going to miss the nice things happening right now. Like cudding up to Mage Truthless right now. - Umbrella Anon

( ooc: yes I actually despise cheese irl. And people put it on EVERYTHING..! Burgers, pasta, salads, sandwiches- drives me insane..! )

t: sage was hungry and it was already late...we had reservation..and chicky could attend...it was pet friendly....

f: ...ha..aha...*embarrassed*

t: ....That is the second time I've heard you have bladder issues, do you actually..?

f: ...um.. I-I'm not sure...h-hence seeing a doctor..

t: *drags sage into a hug* .. but they're right, quit dwelling on the useless stupid stuff.. you have me..

f: ....

t: and I know what you're thinking, I don't think of you any less....

but also we're definitely never going back to that cursed place that won't let an adult get a cheese-less fries because they're a kids menu item and cheese is "aesthetic" ...

f: *plants face into recluse's shoulder*

t: *pets sage's head*

Are you okay..?

f: *muffled confirmation, just feels awkward*

[inlovewithfionaapple]

off the court

warnings: none, just fluff

wc: 1.1k

nika mühl never missed a sunrise.

not because she was some overly romantic soul yearning for metaphorical new beginnings, but because it was the only time the world felt quiet enough to think.

she sat cross-legged on the balcony of their off-campus apartment, hoodie up, knees pulled to her chest, a mug of lukewarm coffee resting beside her. the city still yawned in sleepy shadows. her earbuds buzzed with low-tempo croatian music—something her sister had sent her for “mental balance.”

the door behind her creaked open.

“again?” came a groggy voice.

nika turned. y/n. always y/n.

hair messy from sleep, hoodie several sizes too big—nika’s, in fact—and socks mismatched as usual. she carried the scent of sleep and vanilla, and nika’s heart did that stupid skip-jump thing it had been doing a lot lately.

“couldn’t sleep,” nika muttered, tugging her hood down a little more. “too many plays running in my head.”

y/n smirked, the kind that showed up crooked and unbothered. “plays or people?”

nika gave a light snort. “you overthink everything.”

y/n walked over, not asking permission before dropping down beside her. “so do you.”

silence followed, comfortable but electric.

they had been roommates for just under a year, pulled together by housing lottery fate and the miracle of being equally tidy. y/n was pre-med, with a laugh that warmed a room and a quiet intensity that rivaled nika’s own fire on the court. nika had been drawn to her from the start—not just because y/n didn’t treat her like a minor celebrity, but because she listened. she noticed things. like how nika liked her eggs over medium, or how she always tied her shoes left first.

the problem wasn’t falling for y/n. that had happened fast, quietly, like slipping beneath warm water. the problem was staying there, stuck, unable to say a thing.

because y/n… well, y/n was y/n. and nika was scared.

practice that afternoon was brutal.

coach was in one of his moods. every missed screen, every lazy cut was punished with suicides. by the end, nika’s lungs were burning, her hair was plastered to her neck, and her calves screamed in protest.

“you okay?” paige asked, jogging over during water break.

“fine,” nika muttered, gulping down half her bottle.

“you’ve been in your head lately. everything good at home?”

she hesitated. “yeah. just tired.”

paige tilted her head. “roommate drama?”

nika’s silence must have said enough because paige’s brows shot up. “oh. oh.”

“what?” nika said quickly, too quickly.

“you like her.”

nika glanced away. “shut up.”

paige grinned. “no judgment. y/n’s hot.”

nika groaned, throwing her towel over her head. “i hate you.”

“you love me,” paige replied, slapping her back. “just… maybe tell her? she might like you back.”

“i’d rather run suicides for a week.”

“you just did.”

“exactly.”

y/n was sprawled on the couch when nika got back, glasses sliding down her nose, anatomy textbook open on her stomach. a highlighter was tucked behind one ear.

“you look like a nerd,” nika said, dropping her duffel by the door.

“you smell like a gym sock.”

“fair.”

nika collapsed into the armchair opposite her. her body felt like it was made of cement. but y/n’s smile—small and sleepy—made her forget the ache in her limbs.

“dinner?” y/n asked.

“you cooked?”

“microwaved. i made extra.”

nika grinned. “wife me up.”

y/n snorted. “in your dreams, müh.”

if only you knew, nika thought.

it became harder to hide.

they went grocery shopping together and argued about cereal brands like an old married couple. nika picked up y/n’s favorite tea when she saw it on sale. y/n started attending more games than she had time for. she even wore one of nika’s oversized jerseys once, claiming it was for laundry day, but nika caught her wearing it again a week later—no laundry excuse in sight.

their lives blended in quiet, easy ways. dinners on the couch. study sessions in the kitchen. late-night talks that blurred the lines between friendship and something softer, more dangerous.

one night, after a narrow win against stanford, the team celebrated at a campus party. y/n came—surprise of the year—and even wore something other than her usual hoodie rotation.

a black top that made nika forget how to talk.

“you clean up,” nika said, voice rougher than intended.

“so do you,” y/n replied, eyeing her uconn warmup jacket.

“shut up.”

y/n laughed and grabbed her hand, tugging her through the crowd. the music thumped, the air buzzed with sweat and beer and youth. nika wasn’t a dancer, but she let y/n sway into her space, close enough to smell citrus and sandalwood.

she wondered, for a wild second, what it would be like to kiss her. right there. in front of everyone.

instead, she let the moment pass.

it unraveled one rainy friday.

they had both bombed that day—y/n a quiz, nika a practice scrimmage. the air in the apartment was thick with mutual defeat. nika offered a movie. y/n countered with ice cream. they compromised by doing both.

halfway through the film, y/n turned down the volume and said, softly, “can i ask you something?”

nika froze. “sure.”

“have you… ever liked someone you weren’t supposed to?”

nika’s heart stopped. then stumbled.

“define ‘supposed to,’” she said carefully.

“like…” y/n paused, chewing her lip. “someone you live with. someone you could lose if you said the wrong thing.”

nika looked at her. really looked.

her knees were drawn up, hoodie sleeves covering her hands, eyes darting from nika’s face to the floor and back again.

nika swallowed. “yeah. i have.”

y/n’s breath hitched.

“so what did you do?”

“i didn’t tell her,” nika said, almost whispering. “because i was scared. still am.”

y/n leaned closer. “why?”

“because she matters too much.”

silence.

then: “tell her anyway.”

nika blinked. “y/n—”

y/n reached out, fingers brushing hers.

“i think i like my roommate too,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “and i think i’ve been waiting for her to say something first.”

nika stared.

then laughed—just once, short and stunned—and surged forward.

their lips met in the middle of the couch, in the quiet between two heartbeats. it wasn’t perfect—teeth bumped, and someone’s knee hit the popcorn bowl—but it didn’t matter.

y/n kissed like she studied: intently, thoughtfully, with focus and curiosity. nika kissed like she played: fiercely, passionately, all in.

when they finally pulled back, y/n rested her forehead against nika’s.

“so,” she whispered.

“so,” nika echoed, grinning.

“you’re not dreaming, are you?”

“i hope not. because you’re wearing my hoodie and i’d like to kiss you again.”

y/n giggled. “that’s fair.”

the next morning, nika didn’t go out to watch the sunrise.

instead, she stayed curled in bed, y/n pressed against her side, the world finally quiet in a different kind of way.

[on-leatheredwings]

Secret Admirer

Yandere! Dick Grayson / Yandere! Green Lantern! Gender Neutral Reader

> romantic > tw/cw: yandere behaviors. Kissing. Heavy petting. > rated M > summary: You should stop playing with fire. Because when you do, you make him want to be crazy. Crazier. And Dick’s worked really, really hard to wrap those habits up. > a/n: wow nothing truly despicable in this one i’m so vanilla now <3 the reader is male to me but feel free to imagine what you want. I rlly like writing pre-yandere + pre-relationship stuff, it’s so fun . may write more for actual smut possibilities > word count: 1472

Newly-acquired powers or not, you are really poking the bear here. 

Dick has known you've been following him since yesterday. He allowed it because who was he if not a performer? He thrived on attention, and especially yours. But today, you had gotten too close to a fight. Sure, you had stayed an appropriate distance away, but the fact it had happened at all was worrying. It made him distracted. Distracted enough that he wasn’t pulling his punches on criminals like usual. 

“Now that it’s getting quite late–” he begins, to which you audibly gasp. An adorable sound. “–how about you finally come out and let me help you?”

He turns around to a swath of darkness that paints the rooftop’s entry door in black shadow.

Behind the corner, you curse. Damn it, he caught you. … Well, you could’ve told yourself this would happen. Dick, the fine friend he was, surely said it would. No one really ‘sneaks up’ on one of the Bats. And definitely not Nightwing, the most tenured of them all aside Batman himself.

You got caught, and lord knows what Nightwing will do to you. You bite your lips, mind running wild. Who knows what Nightwing will do to you, indeed? You feel a pang of arousal at the thought. 

You step out of the shadows, trying to act natural. Nightwing’s eyes lock onto your humble form, and you find yourself warming over every inch of your body. You want him bad.

His body stiffens, for reasons you can’t discern. It doesn’t seem like hostility… you think?

You adjust your domino mask, cursing silently that the adhesive is finally starting to give after a long night of following him around. Stealth isn’t really a natural gift for a Green Lantern, either. Turning down your glow while using your powers to maintain soundless stalking was hard. Harder than expected. 

“What are you doing here?”

You smile, hoping your giddy expression is hidden by the hoodie you’ve chosen to wear on your escapade. 

It certainly is not, which makes Dick pleased.

Now that you've made contact with him, his first thought is that he ought to tell Batman about this. And the rest of the team, while he’s at it. Dick Grayson knows that Nightwing is your 'celebrity' crush, and that you're enamored with the rest of the Bat Family. What if you confronted them someday as well?

On the Batcomputer is a file on John Stewart, complete a footnote that is you. Said footnote has graduated to its own page, now that you have your own hero exploits to document. They'd be less welcoming and more wary of a hero on their turf. He has to protect you.

“I… I…” you croak, tongue heavy with anxiety. You can’t help but be nervous. 

“Sometime tonight?” he teases. 

“You’re beautiful,” you blurt.

He is taken aback, before he recollects his wits. 

“I really like you,” you say again, stepping forward. He lifts his hand in warning. Stay back. You get chills, but don’t stop treading forward. You can tell his eyes are narrowed beneath his mask.

When he’s finally in arms’ reach, you are pushed against the wall. And not roughly at all, you notice. You smile with delight, your hands immediately landing on his shoulders. Nightwing’s glare doesn’t feel hostile at all. Suspicious, maybe. But not hostile.

“... What do you mean by, you “really” like me?” You suspected that he probably wouldn’t believe you.

“Well,” you fluster, “I mean that I really like you.” Dick’s heart jolts. “And I want you.” It nearly flatlines.

Oh, don’t say that, don’t say that, Dick thinks, despite the elation that begins to tighten his throat. You? Want him? If he had known all he needed to do to grab your attention was put on the suit, he would’ve done that ages ago. He felt nearly invisible to you during the day, all his flirtation falling on deaf ears and blind eyes.

At Nightwing’s silence, you lick your lips. An action that makes his eyes dilate behind his mask. 

“I-I’m serious!”

Nightwing leans in closer, as if inspecting the truth in your expression, raking over every atom. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he breathes.

“It’s not a game at all to me,” you say, feeling lightheaded from the small distance between you two. This doesn't feel real.

To love and be loved is all you’ve ever wanted. You’d think that would give you the violet ring of Love. Instead, the ring that had appeared in your hand one fateful night was acid green, sparkling and mesmerizing. Apparently, instead of embodying love, you simply were driven enough to seek it at any costs. Driven enough to never be alone ever again.

You have the ability to overcome great fear. Welcome to the Green Lantern Corps, it said. You had taken it without hesitation.

“Kiss me,” you say, hands rising to cup his jaw. As if he’s not already leaning in.

Your lips meet in an unabashed frenzy. You’re nearly blown away by the pure amount of feeling in his kiss – that's quite a lot of emotion for a stranger. Not that you aren’t equally impassioned. You feel so raw and naked, kissing him. You hope he can't feel all your insanity, your obsession, your infatuation.

However, Dick certainly does, so much that he moans openly, the sound making both your lips buzz.

You make him want to be crazy. Crazier. And he’s worked really, really hard to wrap those habits up. 

You shudder, feeling the pressure of his cup press in between your thighs. God, you wished you could feel the real thing. Your hand slips in between you two, tracing the lines of his abs. Dick shivers. He peels off your domino mask, but you don’t even flinch. You don’t care if he knows who you are. You want him to know everything. Inside and out.

Your eyes flutter open as you gyrate against his hips, sinful and frustrating. You peer up at him, cheeks blazing. You want him.

He looks into your eyes, and it's as if he can read your mind. He wants to swallow you whole. He wants to map every inch of your body. His cock is painfully straining against his suit. You are not a want, but a need.

But Dick is trying to be good, he really is. The night’s not over. He’s still on patrol, technically. You may want Nightwing, but do you want Dick Grayson? If he fucked you on this rooftop, throwing restraint into the wind, would that be taking advantage of you? Do you just hero worship him? All the questions fly through his mind at rapid speed, and he wants them to quiet, before the Angry Orphan inside him decides to just stop caring completely. 

But he… he’s strong. We don't have to be, his mind interjects, screaming at him. But he quiets it. He whimpers at the tightness against his groin, a sound that makes you look at him curiously. You are completely blissfully ignorant to his inner strife. Completely innocent.

Dick narrows his eyes, channeling his best Batman impression.

“You should go home.”

You balk almost comically. “W-wait.” Nightwing retreats, but not before you can grab his wrist. “At least– at least, can we go on a date? Or even hang out? Or–” His thumb traces the curve of your lips, silencing you with a shiver.  

“Go home.” Firmly said, yet gentle.

You frown, though it’s more like a pout. Man, you’re cute, he thinks. “When can I see you again?”

Dick certainly isn’t strong enough to be responsible and say “You can’t.” 

So Nightwing just stares at you, looking… hesitant. The pieces click in your mind. Ah, so he liked it. Your lips curl, like a cat with cream. You take that as a victory.

“... I-I’ll come back tomorrow night,” you state boldly, stealing a chaste kiss before he could argue. Dick has to basically pull himself away, despite his desire to keep your bodies flush and perfectly fitted against one another.

You slip your ring onto your finger, and your entire body glows, rampant with Lantern light. You begin to float.

“Tomorrow!” you blurt, already wanting him again. You zip away, flying home. All the while, you slap at your warm cheeks, trying to see if this is a dream, laughing with glee, mind going haywire with heated fantasies. You kissed Nightwing. You basically groped him. And he didn’t stop you. Oh god, wait until you tell Dick. 

The confrontation went better than expected. At worst, you figured Nightwing would shoo you away, reject you. Despite the abrupt ending, he at least seemed… interested? You try not to dwell on it too much. It doesn’t matter.

You’re a Green Lantern. You’re powerful. Willful. He will be yours, someday.

[cosmica-galaxy]

I've been thinking about the pre-corrupted beast au, and how do you think the interaction between shadow milk and baby witch would go if they were to meet up again. However, the baby still recognizes shadow milk as their original caretaker and, of course, recognizes his soul jam.

Bonus: Baby is confused because of the two soul jams that are similar, though only one is far more familiar. Baby Witch wants shadow milk, but they also want pure vanilla, but they want shadow milk more, but they also like pure vanilla, but shadow milk is original papa and fun.

Oh, he definitely scoops them up the moment he sees them reenter his spire of deceit. He would say "Heellooooo my little one~! Did ya miss me? Of coouuurse you did! What would you dooo without little ole meeee, papa shadow milk!" and the child recognizes his voice instantly and just cuddles right into him like he never left. Despite the Gingerbrave group's and pure Vanilla's worry about him holding the child, the child is perfectly fine and leans into Shadow Milk cookie like they know him personally...in which, they do. He would also probably make a comment about "where their cute little jester outfit went" when he sees them in the Pure Vanilla style attire. "No matter! It's an easy fix! With a waaaave of my waand~"--And the child would be covered in darkness for a moment before reappearing in their original jester-like outfit that they emerged from their sealing item with--"Tadaaah! The outfit has returned! A total glow-up if I do say so myself...just look at your little bells and hat, my adorable child of deceit~!" he says as he tickles them and makes them let out happy giggles. Then, he changes his focus back to his original targets and the spire quest line would proceed as normal with the child accompany him with his "games", though not taking in the danger that everyone is in because of their innocent nature. He also plays with them while he toys with his victims, by gently tossing them in the air, hugging them close, and entertaining them while he multitasks. It's natural for him at this point to do such things. Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk will also have some heated discussions about the little one and how they should be raised. In one part, Shadow Milk gets very heated about it and reveals his very possessive nature to the cookies while his little one is being watched by Black Sapphire Cookie. "You listen to me, you imposter. I was their original caretaker and I placed them in that item for safe keeping when I got OUT of that damned silver tree. They were waiting for ME and not for YOU. It was an accident that they wound up in your care." "You haven't watched them, cared for them, and raised them for as long as I have. That worthless witch that served as their mother...was nothing short of a deadbeat! I spent WEEKS with their child at a time...in fact, I might as well have raised them on my own! The other beasts had their moments, but NONE were as close to them as I! Not even their own wretched mother...who I dealt with permanently." "You...you killed their true mother...?" "Reduced her to PIECES. She tried to take back what she didn't deserve. She barely put in the effort that I did! I was that child's WHOLE WORLD. Why should I give up what rightfully belongs to me?" Shadow Milk is a little more unhinged in his AU because of his possessive nature over the child that pretty much was his only source of company for weeks at a time. He developed an unhealthy attachment to them and ripped their true mother apart because he believes that he deserves to be their true guardian.

Pure Vanilla has to work around his possessive nature to get his soul jam, his friends, AND the baby out of such wicked clutches. So Pure Vanilla suffers a little more in this AU.

[cookie-lore-keeper]

is that so? you seem to know quite a bit about him, especially when it regards him being obsessed with pure vanilla. why do you think that is?

-🥛

Oh my gods, do I get to list my reasons? Thank you so much for asking this, Milk Anon!

Why Shadow Milk Cookie is so obsessed with Pure Vanilla Cookie

We're all aware of Shadow Milk Cookie's whole weird thing with Pure Vanilla Cookie, right? He hates him so much, but he's completely obsessed with him. He wants to torture this man and tear him down and prove to him that they are two sides of the same coin. That they are each other's other halves.

But why? Why is he so obsessed with this Cookie? Surely there's more to it than just their souljams.

He sees himself in Pure Vanilla Cookie

(Notice how he's looking at Pure Vanilla Cookie's eyes; not the Souljam)

I think that Shadow Milk Cookie is telling the truth when he says that he and Vanilly are each other's other halves. Just like Pure Vanilla Cookie, Shadow Milk Cookie was worshipped for being a being of Truth and knowledge. Just like Pure Vanilla Cookie, Shadow Milk Cookie wished to seek the truth and help all cookies. But, unlike Vanilly, that truth corrupted Shmilk.

As of now, I think that Shadow Milk Cookie went through the same thing that Pure Vanilla Cookie is currently going through. He's doubting himself. He has gained so much knowledge and that knowledge had crumbled the world around him. So what did he do? He turned to Deceit. With deceit and lies, he can finally control the narrative, as he is the one creating these false truths. And, he can also lie to himself, and have control over the parts of himself that he can't.

Now, compare this to Pure Vanilla Cookie. He is now the holder of his (Shadow Milk's) Souljam. He is being worshipped as a hero, just like Shadow Milk Cookie. He is being worshipped as a being of Truth, just like Shadow Milk Cookie. And Shadow Milk Cookie can't stand that, for whatever reason. For one, that's his souljam that the witches took away. But, it's also more than that. Whether it's him not being able to see what he could've been if he had just hadn't fallen into the sweet freedom of lying, or if he just wants to quicken the path he thinks Pure Vanilla Cookienis destined to go in, or Hell, it might even just be the need to corrupt this hero just because it feels good, he doesn't want him to be that hero anymore. He wants to see him crash and burn and become just like him ('him' Shadow Milk Cookie).

He is projecting onto Pure Vanilla Cookie

For just a moment, we see a look on Shadow Milk Cookie that resembles... something. Guilt? Regret? Whatever it is, it's worth noting. And he doesn't like it, so he has to crush it.

It goes back to Shadow Milk Cookie wanting to control the narrative. By lying, he controls everything. He controls the false realities he's built. But something broke through that for just a moment, and right after, he tries to crush Pure Vanilla Cookie.

This post explained it well.

He has the slight guilt of making Pure Vanilla Cookie suffer so he could understand what he went through as the Fount of Knowledge. Not to mention the PROJECTING. He literally made Pure Vanilla Cookie dress up as his pre-corrupted self.

Him and Pure Vanilla Cookie are truly each other's other halves, but Shadow Milk Cookie is realizing that that means ye has to deal with parts of himself that he doesn't like. And he needs to crush that.

Tldr; Shmilk is obsessed with Silly Vanilly bcuz he sees himself in him, which makes him project onto Silly Vanilly.

[chessboredom]

The many Christianity references and symbolisms from Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla Cookie.

Pure Vanilla Cookie walking on water milk. (Look at the tower on the left. That's so deep...)

In Shadow Milk Cookie's pre-corruption form, his hair silhouette looks like a nun's veil. His pose is also similar to how Pure Vanilla Cookie stands. Eyes closed, with his staff eye open.

But the present Shadow Milk has lost this silhouette, now donning a harlequin costume.

Once the Fount of Knowledge(outfit: nun-like), then becoming a Master of Deceit(outfit: harlequin- represents devil/demon) that makes him a fallen angel.

Pure Vanilla Cookie's role is Jesus Crhist, while Shadow Milk Cookie's role is Lucifer.

The chapter in episode "The Fall" where Pure Vanilla Cookie falls off the tower into the depths, which closely represents a falling of an angel into a demon. (This is what SMilk means when PV will "become him.") And from what Fortune Teller Cookie said where "The future of the past and present coexist." Pure Vanilla becomes Truthless Recluse, then went back in time to help at first, then fight Gingerbrave and his friends.

Awakened Pure Vanilla Cookie's outfit looks a whole lot more similar to priest, with the stole around his shoulders, as well as his Soul Jam holder now looks more like a cross.

All resemblance of any eyes are now closed/missing (On the staff, his hat, and under his robes.) meaning the the Truth is what you believe in. (That's how Christianity, or religion in general, work.)

"A blade's edge is what separates Truth from Deciet." makes me remember of Judgement of Solomon from the bible.

(Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla's lore are heavily inspired by Christianity... It's so good.) <- Catholic

[bunni-v1]

May I ask your advice on something? I want to make a cookie that will be loved by shadow milk and I toss and turn the idea in my head thinking about his loneliness, but his arrogance in assuming most cookies aren’t worthy of his time makes it difficult. It leads me to building the cookie to be bigger and more powerful/elaborate than him so he immediately recognizes it, but that’s unsatisfying for me. I’d like them to be ordinary, clever of course, observant, and quick witted to not only keep up with shadow milk, but to even outpace him at times in a verbal sparring match. But most ordinary cookies don’t really fit the bill. They usually either worship or fear him depending on personality and self awareness. Both are good and what he needs/uses, but you can’t really be friends with a tool. Makes it hard to think of an ordinary cookie that might have caught his attention. I liked your analysis of what getting close to him pre corruption was and he’s a more viable candidate, but even he on some level looks down upon ordinary cookies that know less and don’t live as long. Namuwiki and regular wiki categorize his corruption as both an obsession with his own power as well as loneliness in a truth that broke him. I think the truth that did so or that at least planted the seed of corruption was: that cookies/people don’t care about the truth. He states as much so many times to pure vanilla to weaken his resolve, his dedication to truth. How cookies willingly/happily turn from the bitter truth to embrace a sweet lie. How cookies were more interested in listening to him speak than what he was really saying. It’s a one two punch realizing the cookies around you don’t really care about the thing that makes you you. And if they do it may only be for selfish gain, not for knowledge in itself. And the real rub is the reason they don’t care is often times due to some form of ignorance or stupidity. I mentioned this to a friend irl and she said,”oh he got bullied before he got corrupted. 💯” Which made me think of the cookies before his fall, who maybe took for granted that 1. The font of knowledge even exists and 2.That he would willingly and happily answer their questions truthfully forever and 3. Would never lose his patience. Because how much do you want to bet that the illusion from the sugar free road he taunted pure vanilla with, the woman yelling at him saying “tell us where to seek healing! Tell us how to be healthy to live in wealth and happiness! Use your power! Share your power with us! Do it if you truly care!” Were words from a cookie in shadow milks past? How many refused to seek the truth themselves, wishing no demanding he provide it for them. And criticizing him if/when he either refuses or lies, like bratty children. “Nothing but empty promises. All a lie.” Give them! Cookies who were so ignorant and stupid wanting to take away the thing that makes him him. Because that’s all he is isn’t he? His power his soul jam. Neither he nor anyone else it seems has seen him beyond his abilities. To who he is as a cookie.

Which is just another layer to his isolation, but all of which to say. Maybe the ordinary cookie who just happens to be curious, innovative, and above all patient and kind is his only balm against such words. And maybe that cookie crumbles under the weight of their deceit. Maybe that helps crumble his resolve. After all the main thing hes running from, the big lie he tells himself is that nothing bad ever happens to him. Because how could it? He’s a god, he’s all knowing, but not all powerful. Thoughts?

I think Shadow Milk's fall is the most interesting, because it could quite honestly be either he fell first or last. I'm a bigger fan of the him falling last theory, because it's very interesting to see how he would react to his friends becoming beasts and realizing he too will shortly.

With the new costume's story we can get a better look into him, and he's a lot like PV. Patient, kind, gentle, intelligent, and more than willing to share his knowledge with cookies. With such knowledge, he is very separate from other cookies. He knows and understands things that other cookies could never dream of.

That much knowledge will weigh on your being, even if you are a god. Especially if it's all you're supposed to be, a fount of knowledge for cookies. I think he does enjoy sharing his knowledge and the truths of the world. He cares for his cookies. How could he not? they are innocent and freshly baked, full of fear and confusion. His knowledge is meant to soothe them.

But, cookies fear what they do not understand. When they start asking harder questions, and he gives them the truthful answer, they don't like it. They lash out and deny the truth, and he realizes they would rather live in a lie than bear the truth. The fact that, even if it's unintentional, the very cookies he loves and cherishes are rejecting him... well, it would devastate anyone.

Shadow Milk Cookie became a beast because he was rejected by his people. He became the embodiment of lies to become what they wanted, rejecting the truth to show them the error of their ways. This is what they wanted, right?

I think that's why he needs a partner who challenges him. They can't just accept everything he does as okay. He doesn't want or need someone who just sits there and affirms him like his minions. His partner needs a backbone and a strong moral compass, the confidence to look at him and say, "Absolutely not."

They also need to have the awareness that he is the master of lies. They need to be able to see through his lies and illusions by themselves because he can't hold their hand all the time. He has this deep aching need to be seen, though he doesn't acknowledge those feelings. They have to be able to crack his shell by themselves and show that they care, and only then will he open up to them.

It's certainly not an easy feat for a normal cookie, but if Ginger Brave and co. can do it, I'm sure his partner can also do it. It takes a special cookie to get the master of deceit tripping over himself, after all.

[laviatrophy]

CRK x Princess Tutu AU

some doodles, nothing too deep

Ahiru/Princess Tutu - White Lily

Fakir - Silent Salt / Elder Faerie

Rue/Kraehe - Shadow Milk

Mytho - Pure Vanilla

(Mytho has a lot of “phases” that work well with PV’s and he shatters his heart like PV stabs his soul jam

Mytho with no emotions = Healer Cookie with amnesia

Missing shards = Base PV

Prince of Crows = Sadistic Truthless Recluse

Restored = Noble Awakened PV)

1. PVSM

The Raven said Mytho (PV) is the only one capable of loving and showing compassion to [SMC] even though they’re enemies

This would lead SMC into a spiral of desperately craving PV’s love just like Kraehe

+ Mytho (PV) was originally supposed to be with Princess Tutu (WL), but ends up with Rue (SMC)

2. Shadow Milk Cookie

The dynamic of Rue and Kraehe can be seen as like pre-corruption and corrupted SMC

Rue: kind and willing to help others => Fount of Knowledge

Kraehe: jealous, manipulative, proud => Shadow Milk Cookie

3. Fakir

if theories are true of silent salt being linked to elder fairy, his discontent for beast smc (princess kraehe) is fitting too

[clementineinn]

everglow, a head full of dreams

abstract: after a long interpol liaison assignment overseas, Y/N finally returns to the BAU. the day is filled with warmth, laughter, and homecoming — but for spencer reid, there’s an ache that can’t be ignored any longer. he’s loved her from the moment before she left — and now that she’s back, he knows he can’t keep it buried. not for another second.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: fluff

note: i love yearning, slow burn spencer, so bear with me as i continuously churn out these fluffy stories. honestly not too sure how i feel about this one, maybe i'll continue the story? idk. i'm not really liking how it turned out but it might just be because i've reread it too many times, but i just wanted to post it bc i'm having writer's block!!!! kinda struggling with my writing rn, UGH! but anyways, as always, please enjoy, even though i just went on a pessimistic rant lol.

It was late morning, and the bullpen at Quantico hummed with a quiet, restless energy — the kind that filled the air when something was about to happen, though no one quite knew what.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows, striping the desks in warm gold and shadow. The low murmur of conversation drifted through the space, broken now and then by the faint clatter of a mug being set down, the rustle of papers, the soft mechanical hum of the printer across the room.

Hotch had sent out a clipped message that morning — unexpected.

Conference. 10:30.

No urgent case file attached. No coded pre-brief from JJ. Nothing from Garcia’s terminal. Just that — cool and spare. Enough to spark curiosity like static.

Now, ten minutes before the hour, the bullpen had begun to subtly shift — that unspoken way the team always seemed to gather when the center of gravity tipped toward something new.

Coffee cups in hand, files forgotten, they found themselves orbiting naturally toward Spencer’s desk — the usual center point in moments like these.

Morgan leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. Emily settled nearby, her chair tipped back just slightly, one boot hooked around the leg. JJ arrived with a soft thump of her file folder, setting it down before crossing her arms in curiosity. Garcia, bright-eyed and colorful, perched on the corner with a rustle of fabric and the faint vanilla-sugar scent of her latest perfume.

And in the middle of it all — Spencer sat, cardigan sleeves pushed to his elbows, a familiar fountain pen resting idly between his fingers. His notebooks lay open before him — unscribbled, forgotten — as his gaze drifted, unfocused, somewhere far beyond the present conversation.

Above them, the second-story mezzanine stood quiet. No sign of Hotch yet.

The bullpen breathed with waiting — something in the stillness, in the shifting glances, in the undercurrent of soft voices and quiet anticipation, as if the room itself held its breath for whatever would come next.

Garcia, bright-eyed and luminous in a swirl of violet silk, leaned one hip with theatrical flair against the edge of Spencer’s desk, mirroring Morgan’s easy stance. In one hand she held a paper cup, its pale surface scattered with tiny pink hearts, steam curling lazily from the lid like the last breath of a spell.

“I’m telling you,” she declared, eyes wide with certainty, “this is definitely about new equipment. Or tech upgrades. Maybe he’s finally letting me overhaul the databases.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle, stretching back in his chair with casual grace, arms folded across his broad chest. A slow shake of his head, eyes gleaming.

“Come on, baby girl — Hotch wouldn’t be this mysterious over hard drives.”

Emily smirked over the rim of her coffee cup, shoulders relaxed, dark lashes catching the late-morning light.

“Maybe it’s a new recruit,” she mused, voice teasing. “Or budget talks. Or... mandatory wellness seminars.”

A collective groan rose from the little circle.

“If it’s more wellness training,” Rossi intoned dryly from his perch nearby — the morning’s Washington Post still folded under one arm — “I’m transferring to cybercrimes.” But the faint, knowing glint in his eyes gave him away.

JJ shook her head, blond waves falling over one shoulder as she gave a rueful smile. 

“He wouldn’t pull us all in just for that.”

Spencer listened — or seemed to — gaze flicking now and then to Morgan, to Garcia’s flurry of color, to Emily’s grin over her coffee. The low rhythm of voices surrounded him, bright and familiar. He heard each word, each teasing lilt — but it was as though the sound reached him through a thin layer of water, slow and distant.

Because beneath it all — beneath the warmth of the room, beneath the soft tap of heels on tile and the rustle of paper — his thoughts circled, always, to her.

Even now — especially now — everything seemed to spiral back to her.

How many months since she’d left? He’d counted them at first, marked the weeks in the margins of his calendar, tracked deployments and return dates like a ritual. Eventually, the numbers blurred — but the ache never dulled.

He caught himself doing it still — absent, distracted in moments like this — wondering what city she was in now. Whether she was safe. Whether she missed them.

Whether she thought of him.

A familiar weight settled in his chest — low and constant, the shape of missing her. He smoothed it down the way he always did, fingers tightening briefly on the pen.

At that moment, Garcia’s voice rang brightly through the air:  “If this is a team restructure meeting, I swear I will riot. Peacefully. In glitter.”

Spencer blinked — half-smiling despite himself. Without looking up from the pen, he murmured softly, voice low and dry: “I’m fairly certain the Bureau has policies against both glitter and riots.”

Morgan let out a low chuckle. “See? Even the good doctor’s ready to shut you down, baby girl.”

That pulled a faint, crooked smile from Spencer — the corners of his mouth lifting, then fading.

Garcia pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “So much logic in one room. It’s exhausting.”

The conversation drifted on — light, easy.

Spencer leaned back in his chair, gaze resting somewhere beyond the curve of the room — past the windows, past the moment.

“Where is Hotch, anyway?” Morgan asked, glancing toward the mezzanine — one brow lifted, voice curling with curiosity.

The question hovered in the air — unanswered — as the little circle fell into a brief pause.

And then —

The elevator chimed.

Soft — an ordinary sound, easily lost in the low hum of the bullpen — but in that moment, it seemed to echo just a fraction longer than usual. A faint, suspended note, bright against the stillness.

No one moved at first. No one looked.

And then — footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. The familiar cadence of heels on tile — a crisp, rhythmic sound that drifted through the open space with almost hypnotic clarity.

It was a sound they all knew — had known. A sound that once threaded through their days so easily it hardly registered at all.

Until it had been gone.

And now — now it returned — unmistakable.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Before he quite realized it, his gaze lifted — drawn instinctively across the bullpen, past the edge of his desk, toward the entryway — toward the source of that sound.

And there — framed in the soft wash of light from the corridor beyond — she stood.

For a moment, the entire bullpen seemed to still. The air shifted — the edges of the room blurring faintly, as though the world had drawn a breath and forgotten to release it.

She moved forward — unhurried, composed — the easy grace of someone who had walked this path a thousand times before.

Her hair — soft, undone, loose in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate — brushed her shoulders in a gentle wave. The delicate planes of her face caught the light — the elegant slope of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek, the fullness of her mouth touched with the faintest flush of rose. Her lashes cast fine shadows against her skin.

And her eyes — God, her eyes — quiet and clear and steady, the kind of gaze that could both undo and anchor a man. There was a knowing there — something older, softer, as though she had seen too much and still chosen gentleness.

She wore simple, perfect lines — a fitted black knit top that framed her collarbones with spare elegance, sleeves pushed just past her wrists. Slate-gray slacks, soft in their drape, skimming long legs with easy movement. Black low heels, no louder than a sigh against the tile.

No badge, no blazer, no ostentation — just her.

And in that moment — her presence filled the room more fully than any arrival could.

The hum of the bullpen seemed to fall away — voices dimming, motion pausing, as if drawn into the quiet gravity of her entrance.

Spencer’s breath caught — sharp in his chest — and for one fragile second, he could do nothing but look.

She’s here.

She tilted her head faintly, one brow lifting in the subtlest tease — mouth curving with a flicker of amusement.

“You guys always this jumpy in the mornings?”

For a single breath — no one moved.

It was as if the air itself had thinned — caught somewhere between heartbeats.

Then — the spell broke.

A bright, delighted gasp: “Oh my god — Y/N!”

Garcia was the first to move — coffee nearly forgotten, her cup teetering dangerously on the edge of Spencer’s desk as she flew forward in a whirl of color and perfume.

Before anyone could so much as blink, she had Y/N wrapped in a fierce, breathless hug — arms tight, voice bubbling over.

“You didn’t tell us—!”

Emily was close behind, laughter rising as she caught Y/N’s other arm in a quick pull, drawing her in.

“How long— when— what—?” JJ’s voice chimed through the tangle of greetings, her smile wide and bright as she reached in mid-hug, the words tumbling over themselves in joy.

And then — Morgan.

A deep, familiar whoop split the air as he strode forward, easy grin wide, hands outstretched. Without hesitation, he swept Y/N off her feet — a half-spin, effortless and exuberant.

“Look who’s back in the big leagues!”

The bullpen rippled with warmth — the sound of it filling every corner.

Even Rossi — leaning back against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded with casual grace — let a rare smile soften his features.

“It’s about time,” he said, voice low but warmly sincere.

The bullpen bloomed with joy — wide and irrepressible, the kind of warmth that filled a room from the inside out. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t polite. It was the deep, unguarded welcome reserved for one of their own — a missing piece returned to its place.

Voices overlapped, laughter spilling into the air. The small crowd folded around her in an instant — hands reaching, arms pulling her close, greetings tumbling over one another in the rush to be heard.

Everyone — except Spencer.

He stood more slowly — as though the very act of moving had weight. His legs felt strangely unsteady beneath him, breath caught somewhere in his chest. A wild, heady thrum of blood rushed in his ears — the rhythm of a heart that couldn’t quite catch up to the moment. For one long second, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again — words crowding his throat, too many all at once, none of them enough.

She was here.

Not an echo through Garcia’s screen. Not a line of text in a quiet after-hours message. Not a passing update on some distant, classified case.

Here.

And for one dizzy, breathless beat — all he could do was stare. As though the very sight of her might dissolve if he blinked too fast — a trick of the light, too fragile to trust.

She glanced up — mid-hug with Garcia, arms still looped around her friend’s shoulders — a bright laugh just beginning to bloom at the corner of her mouth.

And then — her gaze caught his. Across the distance, across the bright scatter of voices, the blur of motion — her eyes found Spencer’s.

The shift was immediate.

Something in her expression gentled — softened at the edges, the brightness folding inward to something quieter, deeper. A warmth that seemed to bloom from beneath the surface. Her smile changed — not the easy grin she’d offered to the others, not the familiar humor of old camaraderie — but something softer. More fragile. The kind of smile meant for only one person in the room.

For a heartbeat, maybe longer, the space between them narrowed to nothing at all.

The background dissolved — voices falling away, color blurring at the edges. The bustling light of the bullpen dimmed to a quiet hum — as though the world itself had drawn in its breath, suspended between one moment and the next.

Just her. Just him.

And in her eyes: something unspoken.

I’m here. I came back.

Spencer’s heart wrenched. The force of it nearly staggered him.

He couldn’t look away.

Before he could so much as move — before breath returned to his lungs — another figure stepped into the frame: Hotch. Calm, composed, steady as a metronome — dark suit sharp against the light, file tucked under one arm. He came to stand at her side — his presence as grounding as it had always been — and with a faint nod, addressed the gathered team.

“Agent Y/N,” he said, voice low but carrying, “has officially requested reassignment back to the BAU.” A pause — the barest flicker of something like approval in his eyes — then, evenly: “She’ll be rejoining the team, effective today.”

For one suspended second — stillness. A collective breath.

And then — the room erupted.

“Finally!” Garcia all but squealed, hands clapping together, her whole face alight with joy.

Emily grinned wide, shaking her head with mock outrage. “And you were going to let us find out like this?”

JJ let out a bright laugh, bumping shoulders with Morgan. “Unbelievable. You’re sneaky.”

Morgan crossed his arms with a wide grin. “About time. We were getting boring without you.”

Even Rossi’s low chuckle threaded through the air: “Welcome home.”

Hotch, unmoved by the sudden swell of sound, allowed a small lift of his brow — the faintest suggestion of a smile — before turning his gaze toward Y/N once more.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said quietly.

But Spencer barely heard it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.

As though some small, stubborn part of him feared that if he blinked — if he looked away for even a second — she might vanish once more into the space between then and now.

The day unfolded like sunlight through an open window — slow at first, golden, weightless — then all at once.

Outside, the early hours of spring had burned away to a mild, sunlit morning. Bright ribbons of light stretched long across the floor, spilling in from the tall windows, catching motes of dust in the air like tiny, drifting stars. The warmth of it soaked into the bones of the old building — rising from the tile, softening the edges of desks and chairs, gilding stray papers and forgotten coffee mugs with an amber sheen.

And within it all — threaded through light and shadow alike — there was something more.

A hum. A charge. The quiet, unmistakable thrum of happiness — of something righting itself after having tilted off balance for far too long.

She was back.

And with her — the whole rhythm of the day seemed brighter, lighter.

Laughter rose more easily. Conversations wove through the air in fluid threads. Even the usual shuffle of agents passing through the halls seemed softened — as though some unseen weight had lifted from the walls.

For Spencer — it was almost too much.

Too much brightness after too long in the dark. Too much warmth against the old familiar ache that lived in his ribs.

But he breathed it in all the same — heart unsteady, gaze drawn toward her again and again — as though some deep part of him still feared this might all dissolve if he dared look away.

Everywhere she moved, the team seemed to orbit her — drawn instinctively as if by some invisible current.

Wherever Y/N stood — at her desk, by the break room, pausing near a file cabinet — small constellations of conversation formed around her, shifting and bright.

JJ had practically whisked her away into the break room first — one arm looped through hers, mock-stern, laughing. “Alright — details. Now. We’ve been in the dark for months.”

Morgan kept appearing — popping around corners, leaning casually in doorframes — grinning wide, voice rich with teasing questions: “So what do those top-secret types eat for breakfast, huh? Bet it’s not the powdered eggs they give us here.”

Rossi, ever composed, had stepped in with a quiet smile — fingers curling easily around the handle of the old glass carafe — pouring her coffee as though it were ritual, timeless. “Thought you might want the real thing,” he’d said, eyes warm.

Garcia swept in and out like a breeze — a box of cupcakes balanced in one hand, her phone in the other — declaring to anyone who would listen that it was now an unofficial welcome-home party, and she expected attendance.

And Emily — bright and laughing — finally caught her in a loose side hug, her voice low and warm against the hum of the room: “You look good. International life suits you.”

Spencer lingered nearby — his notebook open in front of him, pen resting between his fingers — though the last entry on the page trailed off mid-sentence, the ink gone dry twenty minutes ago.

He hadn’t noticed.

She was here.

Not a name in passing. Not a quiet message on Garcia’s screen. Not a blurred update buried in Interpol case logs he shouldn’t have checked so often. Not a digital echo, a secondhand scrap of her voice carried through someone else’s words.

Just — here.

Breathing the same air. Moving through the light. Smiling — real, present — no longer half a world away.

And he — he could hardly breathe around it.

The bullpen seemed to glow at the edges — bright and diffuse — as though the sunlight itself had shifted toward her, drawn in quiet orbit by the warmth of her presence. It spilled across the floor in long, drowsy ribbons — catching the glint of polished nameplates, skimming across the soft grain of well-worn desks, gilding the corners of open files and stray paperclips with delicate threads of gold. Dust drifted lazily in the beams — small, weightless things that turned and tumbled as if the very air had changed its shape around her.

And through it all — winding between light and shadow — the low hum of voices moved like music. Familiar. Intimate. Soft with happiness. A language made not of words, but of glances and smiles and the deep, unspoken ease of being home again.

Spencer caught fragments of conversation as they wove past him, his gaze straying again and again toward where she stood — framed by the others, light in her hair.

“Yeah — Interpol Liaison Assignment. Mostly Europe. A lot of long-term cases, international consults... more airports than I care to remember.”

Her voice — the sound of it — sent a fresh ache through his ribs.

“It was good work,” she added after a pause, voice dipping quieter, smile softening. Her gaze drifted for a moment, something wistful in her expression.

“But…” A breath. “…I missed this. All of you.”

Across the circle, Morgan grinned — arms folded, voice warm with easy affection.

“Well — our gain,” he said. “You kept climbing the ladder — now we get to brag about you.”

Y/N laughed lightly. “Not much ladder left to climb. I just wanted to come home.”

Home. The word twisted something in Spencer’s chest.

He hadn’t spoken to her yet — not really.

Just that one glance — in the doorway, in the hush before the others had rushed forward — the quiet pull of her gaze catching his across the room. A single moment — fragile as spun glass — now tucked carefully away behind his ribs. Since then, with the bullpen alive around her, voices bright, old rhythms rekindled — he had kept to the edges. Watching. Wanting.

Too much, too soon — the ache of it caught behind his breath, impossible to name.

At one point, Y/N stepped out of the break room — a fresh coffee cradled between her palms, steam curling soft and white into the sunlit air. She moved with that same easy grace — loose-limbed, quietly self-possessed — a familiar rhythm that made Spencer’s chest ache. Without seeming to notice, her path angled toward his desk — a pause, a breath of stillness in the bright hum of the room.

Their eyes met. This time — it lingered. A second. A little more. Something deeper passed between them — not loud, not declarative — but certain all the same.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice warm — low enough that it seemed meant for only him.

Spencer looked up — breath catching, heart kicking against his ribs.

He opened his mouth — found it dry. He swallowed — forced a breath past the tightness in his chest. “Hey,” he managed, voice quiet. “Welcome back.”

Her smile tilted — slow, fond, something in it that caught and held. “Thanks.”

She looked — for one flicker of a moment — as though she might say more. Her gaze lingered, lips parting —

But just then, Garcia swept through the room in a swirl of bright fabric, trailing a thin tangle of ribbons in one hand, announcing something about cupcake displays — and the moment scattered like leaves in a breeze.

The ache settled deeper in Spencer’s ribs — warm and heavy, like sunlight pooling in a place long starved of light.

He knew this day was for them — for all of them. For the team, the laughter, the easy folding back into old rhythms. It wasn’t the time to pull her aside. Not yet. And yet —

The hours drifted by in waves of brightness — voices and footfalls and the soft hush of papers moving beneath careful hands — and all through it, he found himself looking up without meaning to. 

Again and again — as though the very air in the room carried her shape.

The sound of her laugh — low, rich, colored by something softer now. The shape of her voice weaving through conversations — a thread of familiar music. The curve of her mouth when she teased Morgan, the glint in her eye when she nudged Emily mid-joke. The easy tilt of her head, the slight catch of her hair at her shoulder as she moved.

The bullpen seemed to hum at the edges — bright with a different kind of light — as though her return had altered the very current of the space.

And Spencer — he remembered every version of her.

The sharp, brilliant one who could outthink anyone in the room. The quiet one, thoughtful between cases, always half-smiling over the rim of her mug. The steady presence by his side on late nights when the hours blurred.

And this — this new version now — was both familiar and new. Wiser. Sharper at the edges. But still — her.

And he — he was still him.

Still caught somewhere between the wanting and the fear — between the pull of everything unsaid and the weight of years carried alone.

The words pressed at him like a tide — slow and relentless.

I loved you before you left. I love you still. I waited.

But for now — he only watched.

The day drifted into late afternoon — the kind of soft, golden hour when the light slants lower and time seems to slow. 

Sunlight stretched long across the floor, warmer now — honeyed gold pooling between the desks, casting soft-edged shadows across the walls. The hum of conversation had quieted to something looser, more languid — voices dipping, movements slower in the mellow light. 

Files had been filed, coffee cups rinsed and set in neat rows along the counter.

JJ glanced at the clock with a reluctant sigh, gathering her things. “Henry’s got soccer this evening,” she said, looping her scarf around her neck. “But I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Morgan slung his bag over one shoulder, lingering a beat longer than usual. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” he asked. “Gym can wait.”

Y/N smiled, warm. “I’m good. I’ve got a few things to finish up.”

Emily and Garcia hovered nearby, coats in hand — exchanging a glance that held more than a little protest.

“We could stay,” Garcia offered brightly. “Help you settle in — cupcakes and admin, a perfect pairing.”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. “Go — really. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

Even Rossi, coming down the stairs from upstairs consults, paused with a glance toward her desk — a thoughtful nod.

And so, slowly, the bullpen began to empty — not with the usual rush of closing time, but with the unspoken warmth of a day well-spent, a missing piece restored.

And Spencer — he stayed, notebook still open before him. A file untouched beneath his hand.

But he wasn’t looking at the clock, nor at the quiet stacks of work still waiting. His gaze drifted — again and again — toward the far side of the bullpen. Toward her. He’d told himself it was to finish organizing some paperwork — but his stack of files remained exactly where it had been for the past hour. 

Y/N lingered after the others — a quiet, steady presence in the glowing hush of the near-empty bullpen. She moved with an easy rhythm — unpacking, resettling, reordering small pieces of her space that had been left behind. A drawer sliding open with a soft scrape. Papers shuffled into neat stacks. The quiet click of a pen against the rim of a ceramic mug.

The last spill of sunlight caught at her sleeves, gilding the fine movements of her hands, weaving a soft glow along the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her cheek.

And still — he stayed.

Spencer’s gaze drifted to the clock.

He could leave. He should leave. The hour had tipped toward evening — most of the building hushed now, shadows lengthening at the edges. But the thought of walking away — of leaving her to this space alone, on her first day back — pulled sharp beneath his ribs.

A quiet weight pressed into his chest — insistent.

So he hovered — notebook still open, the pen unmoving between his fingers, resting forgotten in the waning light.

Waiting.

Finally — after what felt to Spencer like an endless moment stretched thin with wanting — Y/N glanced up from her desk. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her temple; she brushed it back with an absent, graceful motion, fingertips trailing lightly against her cheek.

Her gaze lifted — slow, searching — and found him across the quiet bullpen.

Something in her expression softened — a warmth blooming there, quiet and sure.

Her smile unfurled — slow at first, as though drawn from somewhere deeper — the curve of her mouth lifting, high and soft at one corner, deepening into that familiar shape that never failed to undo him. A glimmer of mischief danced at the edges. The faintest hint of dimples appeared — fleeting, delicate — like a secret only just revealed. And then — her voice, low and warm, the words wrapped in that smile: “Are you waiting for me, Doctor Reid?”

The sound of it — the shape of her smile as she said it — struck him with such sudden force that he almost forgot to breathe.

Color rose to his ears — swift, helpless. He opened his mouth — faltered for half a second — then gave the smallest, surest nod.

“Yes.”

Her smile deepened — slow, knowing — the kind of smile that lived somewhere between affection and tease, the kind that could warm a man to his bones. Her dimples ghosted faintly at the corners, eyes bright beneath the soft spill of late afternoon light.

“Well,” she said — voice low, rich with quiet amusement — “if you help me put these away…” She tipped her head, letting the smallest pause hang in the air, just enough to draw him in. “… we’ll both get to leave faster. Sound fair?”

He was on his feet before thought could catch up with motion — breath quick in his chest.

“Fair,” he said — and even he could hear the faint, uneven edge in his voice.

Together — side by side now — they moved around her desk. Small, familiar motions — but softened somehow, slowed by something neither of them spoke aloud. They sorted through scattered files — fingers brushing the edges of well-thumbed pages. They slid books into place along low shelves, the gentle scrape of spines against wood the only sound between them.

Now and then — unintentional, but inevitable — their hands touched. Barely there at first — a passing graze of fingertips. Then again — the soft press of knuckles, warm skin meeting skin for a breath too long to be entirely accidental. Each contact sent a bright flicker through Spencer’s nerves — sharp, electric, as though every inch of him had tuned itself to her presence.

The quiet between them thrummed — not empty, not strained — but full, vibrant beneath the surface. Companionable. Steady. And beneath it all — something more.

When the last binder clicked softly into place on the shelf, Y/N exhaled a quiet breath — one of those small, wordless sounds that seemed to settle into the room like a finishing note. 

“Done,” she said, straightening with a little stretch — shoulders rolling back, arms loosening. She reached for her coat and bag, fingers brushing along the back of her chair as she gathered the last few things.

Spencer stood where he was — pulse thick in his throat, heart thudding hard enough that it seemed to echo in his ears.

The soft light had deepened around them now — long bands of gold stretching low across the bullpen, casting the floor in warm, drowsy glow.

She glanced at him — smile tugging faintly at her mouth. “Still keeping me company?” she teased gently, voice soft beneath the hush of the near-empty space.

He swallowed — words tangling.

“Of course,” he managed — and then, after a beat too long: “Didn’t want you to be the last one here.”

Her smile deepened, the kind that caught at the corners of her eyes. “Chivalrous,” she said — voice warm, amused. She slipped her coat on, the fabric falling clean against her frame, and adjusted the strap of her bag over one shoulder.

Spencer forced himself to breathe.

She moved toward the edge of the bullpen — glancing back once with a quiet tilt of her head. “Come on, Doctor,” she said lightly. “I’m officially calling it a day.”

His feet carried him before thought caught up — steps falling into an easy rhythm beside her as they crossed the room together. The hush of their movements echoed faintly in the open space — the last few murmurs from elsewhere in the building fading into quiet. 

At her side — so close now, every breath filled with her nearness — Spencer could feel the words pressing harder against his ribs. It had been building all day — rising with every glance, every soft word, every brush of her hand. He could feel it now — like a storm gathering just beneath his skin — sharp, bright, impossible to ignore.

And yet — beside him, Y/N seemed unaware — or if she noticed at all, only the faintest trace: the way his voice caught, the way his gaze drifted and returned too quickly.

She glanced up at him as they walked, brow lifting ever so slightly.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly — a question folded beneath the words.

He swallowed, pulse kicking hard.

“Just… tired,” he offered — voice thinner than he meant, pulse still racing beneath his skin.

She let the words drift for a beat, then smiled — soft, easy, gaze warm beneath the fall of her lashes.

“Yeah,” she murmured, voice low. “Me too.” A pause — her smile tilting slightly, something quieter beneath it. “But… I’m really glad to be back.”

The words settled into the air between them — warm, certain — and somehow it made the ache in Spencer’s chest bloom all the sharper.

They reached the elevator.

She pressed the call button — the soft chime rising in the quiet hallway, a bright sound against the hush.

Spencer’s breath caught — the weight of everything unsaid closing tight around him. He couldn’t hold it much longer.

The doors slid open — slow, smooth, with a soft mechanical sigh. They stepped inside, just the two of them now, the space small, quiet, close.

Spencer’s pulse pounded in his ears — hard, relentless, as though the very beat of his heart might give him away.

The words pressed higher in his throat — sharp, breathless — no longer some distant ache, but a rising tide he could barely contain.

Next breath. Next second.

He wouldn’t be able to hold them back.

The elevator doors closed — a hush of metal against metal — sealing them in.

The soft whir of machinery faded, leaving behind a silence so complete it seemed to thrum in the air between them.

They stood side by side — two familiar shapes cast against the brushed steel walls — the lines of their reflections blurred and mingling in the dim light.

The quiet pressed close — thicker with each passing second — as if the very air had shifted, grown heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Neither spoke.

Neither moved.

A breath held — stretched thin, trembling at the edges. Spencer’s throat worked. His chest rose, breath shallow and uneven. 

The words clawed their way higher — fierce, unstoppable — scraping at the back of his throat with each beat of his racing heart.

He could feel his hands trembling faintly at his sides — useless to stop it now.

He stared ahead — eyes fixed, jaw tight — knowing he was standing on the edge of something he could no longer step back from.

The ache had risen past longing, past reason — to the bright, unbearable verge of action.

Now, the thought pulsed through him, urgent, wild. Now, or not at all.

And then — impulse overtook thought.

Before he could second-guess himself — before logic could drag him back — Spencer moved.

Hand darting forward, fast, breathless — and pressed the small red button marked EMERGENCY STOP.

The elevator gave a soft shudder — a low, mechanical sigh — and halted mid-floor.

Stillness swept in — sudden, absolute.

Y/N blinked, the movement catching her off-guard, and turned toward him.

“Spencer?”

Her voice was quiet — touched with confusion, the faintest edge of surprise. Her brows drew in softly — a furrow between them, delicate and unguarded — as her gaze searched his face. Her lips parted — as though to ask, to steady the moment — but the words seemed to catch before they reached the air.

The shift in the room — in him — was too sharp, too immediate. Something was happening — something rising between them like a current — and she could feel it now.

The nerves in the air brushed against her skin — light, electric — pulling at her breath, at her heart.

He turned to face her fully — heart hammering so violently it felt as though it might tear free of his chest — nerves raw beneath skin that had gone too tight, too thin to hold any of it in.

Her brows were still faintly drawn — gaze searching, lips parted — the air between them charged and trembling.

“I can’t—”

His voice broke, the first word catching sharp against his throat.

He swallowed — breath ragged, chest rising too fast — tried again: “I can’t not say it anymore.”

Her eyes widened — something in them catching and deepening — but she said nothing. The moment held — bright, unbearable — as though the space itself had narrowed down to a single, burning point between them.

And then the words broke loose.

They came in a rush — raw, breathless, tumbling past restraint — too fast to stop now, too sharp to soften:

“I loved you before you left.”

His voice shook — low, frayed, as though dragged from the deepest part of him.

“I thought maybe— maybe if you were gone long enough, I’d move on. Forget. Or… or at least learn how to live with it.”

A harsh breath — head shaking once, fierce, broken.

“But I didn’t.”

Another breath — sharper now, ragged edges rising beneath the words: “I couldn’t.”

The confession twisted out of him — building, breaking: “I asked Garcia for updates every week — every single week — until even she started looking at me with pity.”

His hands had begun to shake — fingers flexing, useless at his sides.

“Every day, really— some days twice, three times— I just— I needed to know. I needed to know you were safe.”

A breathless laugh — hollow, aching:

“I made her hack into the Interpol Liaison logs. I knew what cities you were in even when I wasn’t supposed to. I memorized the dates of your deployments, your rotations. Every time you flew out — every time you landed — I knew.”

The words were tumbling faster now — heat rising in his face, in his chest — years of longing and restraint fracturing at the seams.

“I thought about you every morning,” he gasped, voice trembling. “Every night. Every time my phone buzzed I thought — maybe it’s her — maybe she’ll call—”

A sharp breath — and then the last broke from him, hoarse:

“I—”

But the words choked off, chest too tight to finish.

He stood trembling — gaze locked on hers — every muscle pulled taut, breath coming fast and uneven.

He had said it.

Finally.

All of it — ripped loose, bare and bleeding in the open space between them.

And Y/N —

She stared at him — lips parted, breath catching audibly now — as though the weight of what he’d given her had struck too deep to move. Something burned behind her eyes — deep, bright, unspoken — rising to the surface, fierce and fragile all at once.

The air between them cracked — the moment stretched to the breaking point — breathless, unbearable.

Her eyes — still locked on his — shone now, wide and burning, mouth parted on a breath that never quite formed a word.

And Spencer —

Something in him finally snapped.

A surge — a reckless, all-consuming need — rose up from somewhere deeper than thought, deeper than breath — a force that obliterated everything but the aching pull of her standing there before him.

He moved — fast, unstoppable — hands catching her shoulders, dragging her hard into him.

And then — his mouth was on hers.

No hesitation, no gentleness — just a crash of lips to lips, heat and breath and desperate, reckless want.

The force of it sent her stumbling back — but even as her spine hit the cool steel of the elevator wall, Spencer’s hand came up fast — cradling the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to shield her from the impact — as though some fierce, protective part of him couldn’t bear for her to feel even the smallest hurt.

A faint gasp broke from her lips — not from pain, but from shock, from breathless surprise — from the wild, consuming heat of him.

And then — he was kissing her again — harder, deeper — no space, no air, nothing but this.

He swallowed the sound with his mouth — not daring to stop, not daring to let a single inch of space fall between them now that he had her.

His hands tangled in her hair — fingers twisting in the soft strands, pulling just enough to tip her face up beneath his — mouth slanting harder against hers, teeth grazing, lips parted wide.

Her hands came up in a rush — fisting in the front of his cardigan, dragging him closer — as though she would climb inside him if the laws of the world would only allow it.

Breath collided — hot, uneven, hungry — between kisses that deepened with every ragged pull.

Her lips — soft, swollen, trembling beneath his — moved with him, against him — gasps breaking loose only to be caught again, swallowed whole.

Their noses brushed — the angle of her jaw sharp beneath his palm, the shape of her mouth opening wider for him, breath shaking between every frantic meeting of lips and tongue.

Teeth caught — hers sinking sharply into the soft swell of his lower lip — not enough to break skin, but enough to tear a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest.

A sound he didn’t know he could make — half gasp, half growl — ruined, desperate.

And then he was gone.

A surge of heat shot through him — blinding, primal — and in the next heartbeat, he slammed her harder against the wall — body pinning hers in full, no space left between them, the sheer force of it dragging a sharp gasp from her mouth.

But not pain — never pain — only shock, only wild, breathless want.

And he swallowed it — devoured the sound with a bruising kiss, lips crashing to hers again, open and hungry and without mercy.

The heat between them flared — burning now — a helpless, relentless tide.

His hands slid down — hard and possessive — gripping her waist, her hips, fingers digging in tight enough that he could feel the shape of her bones beneath the fabric.

Tighter — closer — more.

If he could have dragged her through the wall, he would have — anything to close the impossible ache of distance that still lived inside him.

She was gasping now — broken, high little sounds spilling between them — breath catching in her throat as her fingers clawed into his hair, fists tightening until the roots burned.

Every pull, every desperate grip only feeding the fire in him — pulling a fresh, wrecked sound from his throat.

Her head tipped back, mouth opening wider beneath his — trembling, hungry — letting him kiss her deeper, harder, until he was half-mad with the feel of her lips, her teeth, the breath she couldn’t catch.

“Spencer—”

The sound of his name — wrecked, high, barely shaped — shattered what little remained of his restraint.

He caught it with his mouth — crushed it — swallowing her voice in a kiss so deep, so savage it stole what little air remained between them.

Tongue sliding against hers — breath ragged — teeth scraping — hands everywhere now, sliding up, curling into her back, gripping her shoulder, burying again in her hair — anchoring her to him as though the sheer force of need alone might collapse the years they’d spent apart.

Their noses bumped, dragged sideways, breaths tearing loose, uneven and wild —

More.

He couldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t stop — not until he’d kissed her so deeply, so completely that the ache in his chest finally broke apart beneath it.

Not until she was gasping against his mouth — trembling in his arms — her nails dragging down the back of his neck with helpless, reckless need —

Not until there was nothing left of either of them but this — lips and teeth and breath and years of longing, burning wild and bright between the steel walls of the elevator.

Time fractured — the small space between them burning, pulsing with a heat neither could withstand.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was everything.

Every unspoken word. Every sleepless night. Every breathless moment spent wanting and waiting and knowing they could not have — until now.

Now, the dam had broken. And there was no going back.

When the kiss finally broke — if it could even be called a break — it wasn’t by choice.

It was because neither of them could breathe.

Because lungs burned and chests heaved and their bodies trembled so violently it was a wonder they were still standing.

Spencer’s forehead dropped to hers — too dizzy to hold himself upright — breath tearing ragged from his throat.

Her hands were still tangled in his hair — trembling, clutching — and her face, flushed and wet, tilted helplessly up to his.

They were both shaking — wrecked — skin damp with sweat, tears mingled where cheeks brushed, lips swollen and raw from the sheer violence of what had just passed between them.

Neither could move.

Neither could speak.

They stood there — locked against the cool steel of the elevator wall — heartbeats crashing wildly in their chests, breath gasping against each other’s skin.

Spencer’s hands were splayed against her back — fists still curled in her top, holding on as though if he let go for even a second, the world itself might split apart beneath them.

Her breath hitched — a high, shaking sound that caught in her throat.

Slowly — slowly — she dragged in a trembling gasp of air.

And then — voice so faint it barely rose above a whisper, broken and wrecked in the quiet space —

“Maybe…”

Another breath — another tremble — her cheek brushing against his, damp with tears, mouth still parted, lips flushed and swollen beneath the faintest catch of a breath.

“… maybe we should… get out of here…”

A soft, dazed sound slipped from her throat — a ghost of a laugh, breathless, half-wrecked —

“… before Garcia starts wondering why we’ve been stuck for twenty minutes.”

The words barely reached him — muffled, distant — lost in the blood still roaring in his ears, in the breath he couldn’t catch, in the wild rush still hammering through his chest.

For a moment he could only stare — blinking, dazed, heart crashing.

And then — the smallest breath of a laugh broke loose from him — sharp, wrecked, awed — as if he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real, couldn’t believe the feel of her still trembling beneath his hands.

The sound tangled with his next breath — jagged, uneven — as he leaned in again, lips brushing hers once more.

Not a kiss — not quite — just the barest press — soft, aching, impossibly full — as though he needed to feel her again, needed to be sure she was still there beneath him.

“I don’t care,” he whispered — voice hoarse, torn, shaking with the force of everything still rising in him.

And neither did she.

At last — with fingers that trembled faintly — Spencer reached out, releasing the small red button beneath his hand.

The elevator gave a soft jolt — a faint hum rising as the emergency stop disengaged.

The car began to descend once more — slow, smooth — but neither of them moved.

Not yet.

Spencer still stood close — chest barely lifting with shallow breath, hands resting at her waist, fingers splayed wide, reluctant to loosen their hold.

Y/N’s hands lingered in his hair — fingers soft now, slow, unhurried — as though neither of them could quite bear the thought of breaking the fragile space between them.

His forehead still leaned faintly against hers — breaths mingling in the small hush of the car, both of them flushed, damp with tears and sweat, trembling in the aftermath of something too large to name.

When he finally drew back — just barely, just enough to see her — his eyes were dark, soft, shining with a rawness she had never seen in him before.

Open — utterly unguarded.

Voice low, hoarse, still uneven:

“I missed you.”

The simple truth of it struck through her like a blade — sharp and bright, pulling a soft, helpless ache from her chest.

Her lips parted — breath catching — before her own voice broke free, quiet and full:

“I missed you, too.”

Spencer still hadn’t moved.

His hands remained at her waist — fingers curled tight, thumbs pressed deep into the sharp curve of her hip bones, as though if he loosened his grip by even a fraction she might simply slip away again.

She could feel it — the heat of him through the fabric, the strain in his hold — the faint tremor still running through his fingers.

A breathless sound caught in her throat — half a laugh, half a sigh — lips curving faintly despite the wreck of her heart.

And then — something shifted.

Spencer’s breath hitched — chest rising too fast — eyes flickering down to where his hands still gripped her. 

As though, in that moment, the full weight of what had just happened — the recklessness of it, the years of want breaking loose — crashed into him all at once.

The flush rose quick and high in his cheeks — the faintest spark of his old shyness rising beneath the wreckage of want.

Fingers trembling harder now, caught between holding and releasing, apology and need.

When he finally spoke — voice barely a rasp, breaking at the edges: “I don’t want to let go.”

She drew in a soft, uneven breath — heart thudding so hard it hurt. Her smile faltered — not fading, but shifting — something deeper flickering behind her eyes, pulling the breath from her lungs. Fingers still tangled in his hair, she leaned in just slightly — enough that her forehead brushed his again, lips near his ear.

“Then don’t,” she whispered — voice soft as breath, shaking with truth she couldn’t swallow.

For a moment — the smallest space of time — neither of them moved.

His hands remained tight at her hips — knuckles white — her body held fast against him, the tremble in his fingers betraying just how much he was still drowning in it.

Her breath broke against his neck — warm, damp, trembling.

And still — no part of him wanted to let go.

Not when it had taken this long.

Not after what had just passed between them.

The air hummed with it — that fragile, golden hush — both of them caught, undone, too lost in the aftermath to break away.

The soft chime broke through the quiet — a bright, sharp sound — followed by the slow, mechanical hiss of the elevator doors sliding open.

Cooler air brushed in — a sudden shift, a reminder of the world waiting just beyond.

Both of them blinked — as though surfacing from somewhere too deep, too far beneath the moment.

Spencer’s hands loosened at her hips — reluctantly, fingers still trembling.

Y/N let out a breathless little laugh — half dazed, half bright — voice low and warm against his ear.

“Well,” she murmured, lashes lifting as she glanced toward the open doors, “I guess we can’t exactly live in here.”

That tugged a rough, unsteady breath from his chest — something between a laugh and a groan, eyes dragging over her face like he couldn’t quite stop.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he managed — voice still wrecked, hoarse — but the faintest curve pulled at the corner of his mouth.

She grinned — still breathless, still flushed — one brow lifting, teasing soft and easy between them again.

“You’re going to get me into trouble, Doctor Reid,” she whispered, fingers brushing lightly against his chest as she eased back a fraction. “And it’s only my first day back.”

He huffed a quiet laugh — wrecked, bright-eyed — and stepped with her toward the open doors.

Together — breathless, still too close — they finally stepped out into the hall.

The world beyond the elevator was quiet — hushed, late — the light cooler here, shadows long against the floor.

But something had shifted between them — something that could never be pulled back now.

Spencer’s hand hovered at her lower back as they walked — not quite touching, but near enough that the heat of it ghosted against her spine.

Y/N glanced at him — lips curved, eyes still bright with everything unspoken.

“You know,” she said — voice low, teasing — “if anyone saw us right now…”

She trailed off — the grin in her voice unmistakable.

Spencer huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a groan — hand finally giving in, fingers brushing soft against the small of her back.

“Then I guess,” he murmured — eyes catching hers, dark and soft and wrecked — “they’d finally know.”

Her heart flipped — sharp and warm.

The teasing faltered, just for a breath — replaced by something deeper, something older and more certain.

She smiled — slow, bright — and let her hand slip into his, fingers twining there like it had always belonged.

They walked in silence for a few steps — breath still too fast, skin still tingling — neither quite ready to let the moment fade.

Then — quiet, low, voice still rough from everything he couldn’t say — Spencer spoke:

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at him — brows lifting faintly — that familiar spark rising in her gaze.

“Starving,” she whispered.

His mouth curved — soft, wrecked, utterly undone.

“Come over,” he said — no hesitation, no fear now. Just truth. Just wanting. “I’ll make something.”

Her fingers tightened in his — smile deepening — voice warm as the new light between them.

“Okay,” she said.

And together — hand in hand — they kept walking down the quiet hall, toward whatever waited next.

[lachrymel]

totallly unrelated doodles... totally.

tw / cw blood jam for doodles and below

here are my draft notes for a start of something.

[b1eeding-sun]

It's a little unclear to me if the sage of Truth is like a pre-corruption shadow milk or an alternate universe design for him where pure vanilla and him like swapped places? Anyways I kinda mashed the sage of Truth design with the fount of knowledge design for my pre corruption SM (I'll probably be calling him blueberry yogurt/the fount of knowledge for reasons unless we get a cannon name for him).

Also I hc that he floats bc he can't walk unaided (well he technically can it's just super difficult and painful) and he's like super insecure about it (because he would probably see needing mobility aids as a sign of weakness and he'd rather die than show any sign of weakness) so you get him getting used to using crutches because I use crutch(es) and I'm definitely not self projecting or anything.

[thesilenceshh]

Hello there, spoilers for the new spoil milk man trailer (Shadow Milk Cookie)

This, this right here. I've been seeing people say that this is what SM looked like pre-corrupt. i'm calling bull, and I have my reasons

You see these 3, particularly the first 2. This is what we first saw for the pre-corrupt forms for SM, yet it looks nothing like the one we saw in the trailer. I know some of the designs when we first saw pre-corrupt beasts were different then what we actually saw later on, as we can see from Burning Spice since his pre designs seemed to be different when we saw it in trailer and in story (Mystic Flour looks mostly the same), but even the leaked one doesn't look the exact same (exp: hat, hair, pants/leg area), and I personally find that odd on why SM seem to be so different despite there not being a gap in release unlike with BS designs

What I'm trying to say here is that I don't think the white statue Pure Vanilla see is actually what SM looked like, only a mere trick, so get it in PV mind that he's doing the same thing SM did, that they're both alike, SM even states that PV is taking the same steps he did. SM tried to corrupt PV during the first two parts of Beast Yeast, trying to get him to cut down a tree and all, and a popular theory going around is that he'll actually be able to do it during this update

But why even show a false version of his past self? What would that even do? Well, it's to get PV to more visually connect to SM. Wouldn't you believe something more if you saw it for yourself? The white statue, it has similarities to PV; the dress, rope thing PV wears, a coat/cap, a marking right on his (big ass) forehead too, big sleeves, closed eyes, ribbons, even a crown (even if they're very different).

He's trying to show that he and PV are parallels, sides on the same coin, all to corrupt him into the same darkness he tried so hard to fight against, to shine a light on. But how long can the light of a lantern last before going out? We'll just have to wait and watch

[cheesymellow]

EP 8 IS NEAR.. SO UHM HERES MY POORLY EXPLAINED PREDICTIONS & THEORIES!!

(Disclaimer: Forgive me if i make no sense i cant explain 💩).

Okay uh starting with the lastest teaser as of posting this: (i love the animation oh ma goodness)

Shadow milk here seems to be sad, maybe even pitiful. Staring at truthless.. Seeing himself in him before immediently smiling back to his usual silly self. which is out of character for him (at least for me). Also a quick second him having pv’s eyes which makes me feel like theres a reason shadow milk went through all this trouble to make pv exactly like him.

He wants someone who feels exactly how he feels. All his trauma and pain. Someone that understands him. And pure vanilla was the best canidate to do so. The pain/trauma of his corruption or smth

How did he corrupt? Well heres what i thinkkk

Going all the way back to the prolouge of crk. We know Pv used dark moon magic in order to seal dark enchantress. Successfully, but with a cost—His memories

But he slowly got his memories back ONCE DE was released. Basically, using Dark moon magic comes with a cost depending on what you do and if the spell deactivates or breaks, you get a refund!!! thats the best i could explain it

(as for white lily, i actually dont remember but i think she used it when freeing dark enchantress. then the price she paid was merging with dark enchantress?..)

NOWWW moving on to smilk.. We know he lives in the dark side of the moon where the magic is held/resides?? (uh i think). So i think its possible for him to be the creator ORR the first one to wield/sacrifice something for it

I rlly love the theory where smilk possibly corrupted last by all his friends. So id like to imagine its either that He thought learning dark moon magic was the only way to save his friends (the beasts). OR was obessed with finding more knowledge to share with cookies or smth. But in return for full control of dark moon magic, He sacrificed his sanity, the more he used it, the more insane he got and then he started the question stuff like.. “What is the purpose of this?”, “Whats the point of guiding them all?”, etc etc like that.. basically questioning his own existence! Then eventually snapped realizing his whole LIFE is a lie, Being chosen by the witches and thinking he chosen his life but in reality he didnt at all is what makes him crack. Then since his life is a lie why even bother sharing knowledge now? so he starts lying because its FUN!

now moving on to PV.. He was questioning his own existence and life choices.. becoming truthless recluse after realizing theres no point in sharing the truth because the “truth” shattered him, making him believe his whole life is a lie aswell. so sharing lies would be better right?? execpt its not for fun or smth. Not the same but PRETTY SIMILARR.. basically like smilk is just projecting his thingy to pv so someone can finally understand him

and pv surely will. NOW BRINGING UP ONE OF MY PREVIOUS POSTS

Truthless has key, Pre-corruption smilk has keyhole

you get where im going with this??? Pv will be the one to understand and help smilk and maybe even break the dark moon price. But first he will either relive shadow milk’s memories. Or his own memories and realize the truth.

Anyways moving to how pure vanilla would awaken..

Before in an old post (link at the end) ive had this theory before that pure vanilla was split into TWO when changing into truthless, Those split halfs being:

Pv A: The pv we all know and love :D

Pv B: The self doubt, hatred and etc

I believe the way for him to Awaken is the first understand shadow milk, Then accept the cruel truth by facing his self doubt and hatred (truthless) and merging with the other him (pure vanilla) becoming the real him (the holder of true truth or something i dont know what he would be called) (I cant explain this well im so sorry)

and also. there is a small chance a SHADOW MILK REDEMPTION MIGHT HAPPEN but i have my doubts

Okay first the very small proof that i think it WILL happen

OH MAH GOSH MY EYES HES THE BLINDING TRUTH-

“If i could win, you will too” THIS CONFUSED ME AT FIRST UNTIL I REALIZED “WAIT.. IS HE TALKING TO SMILK?” WE KNOW HOW KIND PV IS SO HE’D DEFINETLEY TRY TO REDEEM HIM AFTER UNDERSTANDING WHY SHADOW MILK DID THOSE THINGS TO HIM RIGHT???

But on the other hand im not sure if smilk has any purity left in him 🤔

Mainly bcuz we know remaining purest parts of the beast’s souljam were taken to create the Ancient’s souljam, Leaving the beasts with no purity left right??

BUTTT as i said earlier, Remember dark moon magic and i said it could possibily be refunded?? Pure vanilla COULDD probably be able to reverse the price shadow milk’s paid? if he does then they’d be besties for sur-

“ hey heyy wait.. WHAT ABT THE BEAST SEALING RITUAL!?!?!.. THE REASON THEY ALL CAME IN THE FIRST PLACE?!?”

ah i believe its a lie. Again from an old post, i have someeee proof that its fake based on capple’s and smilks interaction

WE KNOW THAT PV AND OTHERS IMMEDIENTLY WENT TO THE SPIRE SHORTLY AFTER BEAST YEAST EP 2. SO THE ONLY POSSIBLE WAY THEY COULDVE GOTTEN INFO ABT THE “BEAST SEALING RITUAL” IS FROM THE LIBRARY. WHICH IS MOST LIKELY THE LIE CAPPLE PUT TO TRICK THEM ALLLL-

thats all my brain has for noww! theres probably better explanations out there but, reblogs r appreciated!

Link to my split pv theory w/other theories innit

[deceit-and-knowledge]

intro post

that fucking poll eviscerated me so manyyyy of you wanted this so here ya go please note I'm not particularly excellent at rp my only experience is with my gf and we always ended up making something inappropriate ft a crack ship

Hello~ folks!

Welcome to @deceit-and-knowledge my silly little rp blog where I (your local dumbass @jesterlovescookies ) attempts to pretend to be shadow milk, fount/sage, truthless recluse smilk's little freaks, a silly goober or awakened silly vanilly with you and whatever you wanna say or do with "me" yes I'm a unhinged bored man (what the tism does to a hyperfixated mfer)

Icon/dividers made by @jesterlovescookies

The pv and smilk of this blog also have 1 on 1 solo blogs

@deceit-and-doubt and @truth-and-compassion

rules/info (PLEASE READ)

Info:

cutely me rping a lil au thing where smilk and his pre corrupt self exist in the same timeline and while vague awakened pv is taking care of the two. Both are pv simps in their own unique way

Ooc = black text with ooc and small text

Smilk/fount = s or f + blue text

Pure vanilla = pv + orange text

truthless = t + purple text

Candy apple = c + red text

Black sapphire = b + purple text

Healer cookie = h + orange text

Nightshade/light of truth = l + blue text

Dreamweaver = dw + orange text

Truthless' baby phoenix has red text but no letter

Please don't use funny fonts like cursive (unless it's just the word "freaky" for the funny) I can't particularly read it

Characters available are: shadow milk, awakened pv, sage of truth/fount of knowledge and truthless recluse, black sapphire and candy apple per request

some rules: (for my comfort)

if I don't get to you instantly don't rush me or push me to answer, cause pal- I got a life

You can rp as your own cr oc if you want

Slightly suggestive stuff is allowed

This is for fun, please have fun and don't be rude

Responses are in character as possible (when they're not this is an au)

No spam

Dni if you have an issue with shadowvanilla

extra info:

This rp does use alot of my hcs for the smilk's

Which are

Neurodivergent, genderfluid, blind in the blue eye (not teal/yellow), can't walk well so floats, touch starved but dislikes being touched, bites for affection (there's more and will apply when needed)

(tho fount wears glasses whilst smilk doesn't to assist with the blindness)

you can refer to sage/fount with your pre corrupt names for shadow milk but he won't claim those as his actual name he'll just respond to anything that isn't shadow milk

FAQ: sorry but no. I don't have the time nor social battery or energy for it. You know the question you're asking frequently. It's a no. I prefer short stuff like what I'm already doing. Go find someone else please.

anyhoo have fun! Rp away, inbox is always open on this blog ^^

[tanoshiboo]

PSA:

Some of this is a bit untidy and disorganized in terms of thinking because I literally brainstormed it - You can make of it what you will, some of these things might lead to other conclusions or ideas and not exclusively Shadowsugar but may be more associated with the respective characters

VERY LONG READ AHEAD!!!

I just wanted to brainstorm about more Shadowsugar theories and the mentions of an ouroboros/two-headed snakes/general symbolism relating to the cycle of life I already cleared up that there is no cycle in Eternal Sugar's garden because the goal is to be stagnant and sloth is inherently stagnant, and there are not many things that imply a cycle - her "Eternal" refers to basically eternal stagnation and not like an eternal cycle which is what the ouroboros and the two-headed snake represents So a while back I connected them with a few things:

- Hermes and Aphrodite - Persephone and Hades - The cycle of life, life and death, the ouroboros

I wanted to look more into the Hermes and Aphrodite things, I mean I already figured that Persephone and Hades together were also associated with the cycle of life and whatnot

In Greek mythology (although this is actually Greco-egyptian), the ouroboros is also associated with Hermes, but in a different way - it's called Hermeticism which is based off of the writings of Hermes Trismegistus which is a blend of Hermes and Thoth

I already pointed out the similarities of Hermes and Shadow Milk, but I'll talk about them again anyway:

Hermes is considered the "divine trickster" and is well-known for his mischief and tricks

Hermes was a shapeshifter

Can easily shift or move between both the mortal and divine realms

Associated with animals like the ram

In some portrayals, he has a jester-like hat, too

Now he also has a few similarities with Thoth, although particularly pre-corruption:

Thoth is the god of knowledge, magic, art and wisdom

Thoth is strongly associated with the moon (particularly the cresent moon) and scrolls (in fact, I'm pretty sure he apparently invented papyrus scrolls and hieroglyphs)

Shadow Milk's hair is actually shaped like cresent moons

Basically, Hermeticism is directly associated with the ouroboros / or I'm pretty sure Hermeticism adopted the ouroboros as one of their symbols

(you can see this in the second image that displays an ouroboros)

So maybe Shadow Milk was actually more associated with Hermes than I thought in this theory. I didn't think of it much initially

Aphrodite and Hermes had a child called Hermaphroditus, which became the origin of Hermaphroditism because he was a Hermaphodite (if it wasn't obvious enough by the name)

Now, I think this is not a child that Eternal Sugar cookie and Shadow Milk supposedly had if they are Hermes and Aphrodite but another thing that represents or symbolizes a cycle/or opposing ends In Hermeticism/Alchemy, this is called a "Rebis" and is born from the sacred marriage of opposites - it represents masculine and feminine, life and death, the sun and the moon - in other words, a cycle / duality Design-wise, and in many manners, Shadow Milk and Eternal sugar are opposites and probably even more-so pre-corruption. Eternal Sugar is white and pink and Shadow Milk is blue and black which is the prime aspects of their designs (as simple as it sounds, design contributes highly to the telling of a character and your subconscious, another example is Pure Vanilla being yellow and white and Shadow Milk being blue and black, telling that they too are opposites)

Technically speaking, happiness is kind of the opposite of knowledge because it's blissful and emotional, meanwhile knowledge is more logical and reliant on reality.. Knowledge can either be incredibly destructive and painful to happiness or contribute to it much like any other opposite

Now, this is stretchy, but I also often see Eternal Sugar with sun-like or light motifs surrounding her

I mean, it could easily be a halo, though...

But another reason I feel like it could be a sun is because the pink sun/pink rays is associated with the archangel Chamuel, who was associated with love, peace and happiness and is often portrayed wearing a heart and surrounded in pink (because pink is his color) and also really often portrayed being around a cupid (stereotypically)

Shadow Milk is often associated with the moon (and particularly dark moon magic) and darkness , although funnily enough, he's really often seen with both the sun and the moon

Also the sinking sun is interesting to note.. Maybe I'm wrong and he could actually be both the sun and the moon here, especially since he's seen holding light in his gacha (and also note the dark moon magic logo, the sun and the moon)

It could actually just be representing Shadow Milk's control over dark magic and white magic (because there's also a white magic logo right there)

Maybe he's actually the rebis, at the end of the day? lolol

So this one I don't know what to make of, these things might be more related to Smilk than the latter

Although out of the sun and the moon I think Shadow Milk represents the moon the most, especially since he's around rabbits a lot which could mean other things but in Eastern Asian folklore it's because a rabbit lives on the moon and that rabbits are associated with the moon - Also his design is just really moonlike in a lot of manners and has so much moon symbolism overall

and he lives on the dark side of the moon, I think..

So what I was just theorizing is, pre-corruption, Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar had very much to do with the cycle of something relating to cookiekind, which is why they are so closely tied - Judging by what Shadow Milk told her in both the KR and EN version, I think Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar's separation (in any manner) both somehow contributed to their corruptions and the rest as well as the chaos (because obviously without a cycle there is chaos, let alone if they were one of the biggest contributors to a cycle) that cycle in which Burning Spice cookie was fighting for - I think Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar might've really been the "Purelily of the group" so to speak

So some might think that this "opposites" thing might tie more directly to Shadow Milk and Pure Vanilla, but the truth is, yes you would actually be right. Considering this theory, despite having broken off from his initial opposite and contributing to the end of a cycle, Shadow Milk still winds up gravitating towards Pure Vanilla more affectionately who is too, his opposite... For there to be balance there must be a sun and a moon

I think all of this also ties with how I believed Eternal Sugar to have her connections with PV and White Lily much like Shadow Milk has his connections with PV and White lily and vice versa , Pure Vanilla and Eternal Sugar are basically Shadow Milk's opposite

White Lily cookie could, too, be Pure Vanilla's moon IN A WAY because

literally "Moonflower queen/faerie"

"One glance at the Queen bathed in bright moonlight will bewitch anyone, body and soul."

Usually reliant on colder colors , especially in her assets and backgrounds and generally herself , tends to radiate and generate moonlight rather than sunlight

She literally does get stuck in a moonstone (I'm not being serious on this one lolol)

Lilies are sometimes associated with the moon and the phases of the moon / but honestly generally just white flowers in general are associated with the moon

Her general association with silver which is directly correlated to the moon

Dark Enchantress cookie for White Lily is, in a way, kind of like the dark side of the moon but also "According to Mesopotamians and Incas, the blood moon symbolizes the death and the downfall of the king" + Blood moons are also generally associated with bad omens and evil

The first riddle in Spire of Shadows, the sun and the moon is referring to Pure Vanilla and White Lily

mon... I think two suns and two moons mean something too, but I'm too sleepy to look into this further

I also remember when @/sylvieserene made some connections between PV and ES;

I could be reading too much into it, but it's honestly interesting ...

--- Oh yes, on an unrelated note, but it's often thought that if Eros was the child of Aphrodite and Ares, this would probably imply something like Eternal Sugar was actually with Silent Salt (Because out of all of the beasts that could be Ares, it would 100% be Silent Salt) but you see...

No one actually knows who was Eros' father, it's only believed that Eros might be the child of Ares only because Aphrodite was with him primarily for a while, but the reason why Eros was thought to maybe be the child of Hermes is because he looked and behaved like Hermes more than he did of Ares ... Hermes was winged and mischievous , Hermes invented the lyre and Eros was often with a lyre, in Roman mythology, Eros was written as the child of Hermes In this case, that would be accurate because Pavlova is made of sugar, cream and berries and is also to an extent a trickster. Now I'll never be 100% sure about this theory, I think I did write about it before. The idea that Black Sapphire cookie, Candy Apple cookie, Pavlova cookie are their children will always be a teeny bit of a stretch for me but it's fun to think about. It would be mythologically accurate to some extent But also it could be likely that Pavlova is the child of no one's, because in Hesiod’s Theogony (prior to traditional/more modern Greek mythology) Eros is born out of chaos rather than family