#sage end table

[escapecart]

Amazon Elevations 12 Sage Decor

Step into the serene world of Sage home decor, where tranquility and elegance converge to create an oasis of style and comfort. Our curated collection showcases a captivating selection of throw pillows, throws, wall pieces, and upholstered furniture that will infuse your living spaces with a soothing and harmonious ambiance. Elevate your home with pops of sage color to capture the essence of…

[steelhazes]

i will never understand it when new players - and emphasis on new players - decide to story skip, and the further the story skip is, i firmly believe the worse it gets. it's not just shooting yourself in the foot lorewise. that doesn't really have an impact on gameplay, if at all. but when you decide to do combat content with other people, how tf do you parse all of the mechanics thrown at you when you skipped the entire learning process it takes to be able to get at the point when you can do so relatively easily??? how do you find fun when you die over and over to a boss and you have no clue as to what's going on or what killed you???

[madamechrissy]

Conjuring Ryomen Sukuna

pairings - Haunted Doll/Demon Sukuna x f!reader

summary - Your haunted doll Sukuna is really creeping out everyone you know, so you're tired of it! He is always watching, he scares your dates away - rude! You decide enough is enough, and after numerous times trying to destroy him, you get the help of a friend to sage/smudge the house. Big mistake!

warnings - Horror tbh lol, COMPLETE CRACK, spitting, name calling, oral (f receiving) Sukuna being psycho and just a freak, mating press, rough sex, creampie, Sukuna is basically Anabelle lmfao.

You can thank @yenayaps for spurring this on and for making the Sukuna pic lmao!! (also @indiewritesxoxo bc they rly get me on the weirdest paths)

You have tried so many times to get rid of your creepy, haunted ass doll!!! He's so torn up and raggedy, he's still covered in dirt from when you've buried him. He's sewn together in places (you never sewed him!?) his creepy ass grin and red button eyes terrifying as ever. You've thrown him in a blender, a dumpster, you've thrown him in the damn pond!

Fuck you burned him, earning some singed raggedy pink hair. But Nothing Works!!

He's always coming back, showing up on your chair, showing up in your fucking bed!? Sometimes you'd wake up and scream, and throw him out of the attic window, sometimes you'd stuff him in a trunk up there and you'd hear his creepy little footsteps as he ended up back in that rocking chair. You'd push him in your closet and he'd be sitting at the dinner table, waiting for you to serve him.

Not like you ever would!

What's the worse is when you tried to bring a date over, and the moment you thought maybe you could get off a bit - (fuck you deserve it living with this demonic doll) - the doors start slamming and the lights flicker! All of your dates run away in fear, and you're left endlessly frustrated all the time.

"I swear, I'm getting rid of you today!" You say this morning, shaking the doll and then throwing it on the floor, just for it to move it's head, making you scream. "God you're creepy, just wait!"

Your friend is a whole hippie, and thank goodness for that. You've buried Sukuna again in your garden, wiping the sweat off your brow as your friend looks at you with a concerned gaze. "I'll be right in, please go ahead!"

You may look insane burying this doll in your yard every week, surely the neighbors are concerned, but they have no clue the torture this damn thing causes. Cheap mortgage payments are not worth it!

"This is what you get for buying a haunted house you know," you're walking in, washing your hands in your kitchen as your friend shakes her head. "The energy in here is insane."

"I know, ugh. You know I couldn't afford anything else!" You dry your hands on a towel as she starts laying out crystals, evil eyes, and lighting the sage. The smoke makes you cough it's so thick, when she hands you one.

"Repeat this - you will not harm me."

"You will not cock block me!"

"Hey!" You blush then, realizing your words, clearing your throat as your friend rolls her eyes. "Why do I deal with you?"

"He really does, I haven't gotten dick since I've been here," you pout and she starts walking through the house, shivering. "Yeah, he sits in my room the most."

"We'll put extra protection in here," she's smudging more, opening all the windows, as you follow her - praying this doll was done - the next step was a whole exorcism!!

The doll doesn't return that day, you almost can't believe your luck, and that night he's still not there! You freely go on a date - he's not even that good of a kisser but you really need to get laid, it's been a whole year since this doll started. He's fingering you good enough in the car, that you decide to bring him in.

Typically, this is when your doll would start messing with you, but the house smells so clean and it's blissfully empty. Your date is kissing down your body as you lay in your bed, and for once the creepy doll isn't even here staring at you!

Yay for Sage!

"So pretty," he's murmuring, kissing up your thigh, you're moaning then, it's just been so long, you were even scared to masturbate because he's watched so much! "So wet..."

"Shh," you didn't need the dude to talk, no you really need to cum - but of course, he doesn't know what he's doing. But that's okay, you're just excited your creepy ass doll is gone, so you tug his face where it needs to be and work with it. "Mnh!"

"Hmm," that sound doesn't come from him, or you, in fact he's buried against your pussy when you look curiously to see it-

That Fucking Doll!

He's grinning at you, making you scream when your date pulls his lips off whatever part of your pussy he was going for, looking at the chair then. "Oh, I didn't see that - it's fucking creepy!"

"Just... um ignore it..." Soon the doll has slammed the damn door, your lights flicker again, and your tv is going on and off. "Dammit..."

"I'm sorry but... this is too creepy, he's like haunted!?" Your date runs out when the doll turns his creepy ass head, and you're done. You tug on your panties, picking the doll up by his hair, scowling.

"I'm getting an exorcist tomorrow, you creepy little shit!" You throw him out of your room with a huff, locking your door and grimacing, throwing a hand over your face.

You almost could have cum just grinding on the guys nose, you're that needy after this year of hell! You're grabbing your vibrator, spreading your thighs then, eyes fluttering shut. You have to just cum and you'll feel a little better, surely, hopefully the stupid doll does his usual routine and comes in after a couple hours.

The vibrations are hitting your clit, and your hips rise up, shutting your eyes and imagining how good it'll be to get rid of this stupid fucking doll, when the vibrator is snatched from your hand and thrown against the wall. You scream at that, eyes opening when a hand comes over your mouth.

Who the fuck is this!?!?

He's got glowing red eyes just like your doll, but he's huge, and he's naked, covered in tattoos as your eyes dart down his throat, his chest, and his big hand lets go. He smirks down at you, when you scooch up the bed, chest heaving, and he eyes your pussy, lapping at his plump lower lip.

"You thought that loser or that toy could make you cum, brat?" his voice is gruff as he speaks, you reach for your phone, but he throws that now too.

"Who are you!? How'd you get in?" You're covering yourself up with a pillow, only for him to throw that now too, as you look all over the room. "I have a haunted doll, he'll scare the shit out of you."

He laughs then, throwing his head back, before giving you an evil fucking grin, straddling your bed and making it creak with his heavy weight, one arm on either side of you. "Oh you're fucking dumb."

You glare and smack the shit out of him then, screaming out as your palm stings, he's chuckling again, and you see him hard, he's fucking huge. Veiny, a good nine inches, leaking precum on your damn bed, as he shoves up your top.

"Get the fuck out, who breaks in naked - you're a creep!" He's chuckling now, shaking his head, pink hair messy, his fingers gripping your breasts.

"I'm tired of watching you try to fuck all these losers," you gasp then, lips parted.

"You can't be..."

"My name isn't Anabelle by the fucking way," he says, glaring at you, and you tremble. "It's Sukuna, king of fucking curses."

"Oh whatever as if you're a king- Raggedy Andy looking- ah!" Sukuna is done with you then, he has a huge hand around your throat, as his other finds your soppy little cunt.

"I'm not raggedy andy, I'm a fucking demon," you're shaking your head again, but when he touches your clit with his rough fingers, you can't help but cry out. "Cunt is desperate, so slutty."

"You're really the doll!? I saged you! Oh fuck," he's rolling in circles now, his heavy cock looking more and more tempting - you weren't really gonna fuck your haunted doll were you!?!? "Ngh!"

"You just brought me out, hah - pathetic, looking at you with your stupid ass crystals, think they work on me?" He's shoved two thick ass fingers inside you now, you're rolling your eyes back, pulsing around them already.

"W-why don't you... just leave me alone... ah!" You're saying it as you're gushing down his fingers. "I was finally gonna cum - you haunted fucking chucky doll!"

"I'm not chucky or fucking anabelle!" He's furious then, pulling out his fingers and shoving them in your mouth, you're sucking on them without thinking, when he scowls at you. "I can't believe you lit me on fucking fire- oh and I'm claustrophobic by the way!? you mean ass little-"

"Don't you dare even! Fuck, could you just... get me off! It's your fault I never do! Maybe I wouldn't burn you or throw you in the pond if you were useful!'

"Useful, you're such a bitch.." you smack him again, just making him harder - it's been eighty years trapped in that stupid fucking vessel, and he's had to watch you naked for a year! He's far more needy thatn you.

"Don't call be that, fucking Robert the doll but even lamer!"

"You listen to too many much horror podcasts, oh and you know he wouldn't have got you off, yeah?"

"Like you can, you're a doll!"

"I'm a fucking demon, now shut up," he's yanked off your panties, shoving them in your mouth, when he leans down and brings your pussy right against his face. "I'll show you how to really cum, fucking insolent brat."

"Who the fuck says insolent- ancient ass- oh fuck," he's spreading your lips, eyeing your pretty cunt, he'd tell you it was pretty if you weren't always trying to destroy him or stuff him in boxes. But for now, he'll think it, drinking your cunt up and moaning as he ruts his cock against the matress. "Oh god! There, there, fuck!" You're tugging at his hair when he nips your clit, smacking your hands now, scowling with his bright red eyes. "Ow!"

"Don't tell me what to do, pathetic human, be thankful I'm letting you have this," he is so fucking pretentious for a doll you think to yourself, wishing you could toss him back into that trunk in the attic until he's sucking on your clit. "Mmm... should thank me."

You're gushing then, how can you not, his tongue swirling your clit, sucking it into his hot mouth, the little thing twitching as he vibrates it with his stupid demon mouth. You wonder if the doll actually killed you and you're in some weird limbo with it, maybe it dragged you to hell, but it feels so good you honestly go with it.

He's messy, sloppy and somehow precise as he drags your thighs closer, sucking up all your juices. You're writhing under him, closer and closer, while he devours your pussy so hungry, he won't tell you how good it tastes either, you're too much of a fucking brat for all that - you've given him PTSD from all the ways you've hurt him!!!

"Cum, now - whiny little brat..." You're screaming out before you can stop yourself, his tongue slipping up to collect all the juices that spill as you're yanking his hair again.

The orgasm hits far too good, you're making a mess and squirting on your - haunted doll's!?- face then, he grins, lapping it up, before leaning up and wrapping a tattooed hand around your throat. He spits right into your mouth after prying it open, you're choking as you swallow it, only for him to bend you in half, slamming his thick cock in as much as it can go.

"G-god... oh my... you're too big, fuck!" You're trying to back off, but he drags you back, smirking as he presses your thighs up, smushing them against your breasts and fucking deeper.

"Tired of listening to you every fucking day, bitchy and annoying, tired of you bringing losers - ah fuck you're tight - home. And tired of - mmm - you trying to get rid of me!"

"I'm - ah! - tired of - fuck, there!" You're done as he's fucking you so good then, you've never had dick like his, it's tearing you apart with each filthy fucking stroke. You're trying to scratch at his back when he pins your wrists down, pressing all his heavy weight on you.

"Shut you up - hah - fuck..." Your cunt is milking him, it's been a good hundred years since Sukuna has fucked anything, he would jerk off in his vessel but it wasn't the same! And he's wanted you too long, so he's trying to hold back for a moment as your gummy walls grip his veiny length.

"W-won't sage you if you... mnh, make me cum again - ah!" He's scowling now, fucking you harder, breaking you in half with his mean cock - you have to hope that he doesn't have some creepy fucking doll stds or something!?

"Haven't fucked in... a hundred years... gonna cum so much, in your slutty little fucking pussy - mine, not that fucking losers..." you feel a little relief, a hundred years he should be okay, but you're still half convinced you're dead or asleep anyway.

"Cum in me," he smirks then. "Oh stop it, just do it."

"Slut, fucking mean ass brat, fucking.... god your pussy..." he also thinks you're pretty, but you sure wouldn't hear that either!

Sukuna fucks you in that mating press, until he's got you cumming again, pulsing around him with your aftershocks, and he lets out a hundred fucking years of cum, white ropes busting in your pussy, bulging your tummy.

"So much what the- you're still cumming!?"

"Shut up, god... fuck..." He's losing it now, he almost kisses you, but instead he's spitting in your mouth again, moaning as he pulls back, watching his own cum being pushed out down his length.

"I'm like hallucinating or dead," you're whining out then, as he pulls back, cum spilling all over your bed, as he smirks, fingering it back into your hole. "I'm sore! It's been a year because of y-you!"

"Shut up, fucked ya good enough yeah?" You're just trembling now, as he pulls back, sighing and laying next to you, on one arm. "I require clothing."

"Aren't you going back to like being a creepy doll?"

"Tch, no, the sage released me, and now your sexual energy is feeding me," he's tugging you against him, frowning as he studies you. "You were so mean to me!"

"You were a haunted doll! And never let me get dick."

"Well obviously not," he's blushing now, and you can't help but giggle. "Do not laugh at me, mortal!"

"Oh sorry, I may have some old sweats or shirts from my ex, let me look." You hop up now, shaking your head when he tugs you back on his lap. "What is it?"

"I'm scared by myself, that's why I kept going to your room, and you just kept throwing me away," he's nuzzling your neck now, kind of sweet for a demonic possessed doll. "Don't do it again!"

"Okay fine, I won't. Now I feel bad!"

"You should!" He's sinking sharp teeth into your neck, fucking you again, as he has much to make up for, making sure to fuck all his frustrations out of his mistreatment!

This is silly LMAO

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[kashverse]

thank you to the anon who requested more of business owner dadkuna, i hope you enjoy reading

the first time it happened, you hesitated.

sitting at your desk, your very serious, adult tax forms spread out before you, you looked at the pen in your hand. a flimsy, pastel-blue plastic thing with a grinning giraffe perched at the end, its tiny, rubber head wobbling dangerously on a spring.

this was not how you had envisioned adulthood.

but the babygirl of the sukuna household had personally handed it to you that morning with the firm instructions of, "this one is for you, mama. use it all the time, okay?" and what kind of monster would you be to say no to that tiny, cherubic face?

so now, here you were, signing government documents with a pen that looked like it belonged in a kindergarten classroom.

but your suffering paled in comparison to that of your husband, sukuna, a man feared in corporate circles, the kind of businessman who could make an entire boardroom sweat just by loosening his tie. a man who had once scoffed at the idea of casual fridays. a man who now signs contracts worth billions of yen with a pen that has a rubber duck on the end.

and it squeaks.

it happens during a high-stakes meeting one day. everyone sits stiffly as sukuna flips through a contract, nods in approval, and then—

click.

squeak.

a single, betrayed silence settles over the room. no one dares move. except for one executive. poor, foolish, disposable jerry from finance. he coughs, tries to suppress a chuckle, and then, before god and witnesses, lets out the tiniest, weakest huff of laughter.

sukuna stills. he lifts his head slowly, eyes dark, unreadable.

"something funny, jerry?"

jerry, who clearly does not value his life, gestures vaguely at the pen. "it’s just… ahem. sir, with all due respect, it’s… a duck."

a beat.

then, in one fluid motion, sukuna lifts the contract and tears it in half.

jerry stops breathing.

the entire room watches in horror as sukuna keeps going, shredding the contract down to absolute confetti, pieces fluttering to the table like the ashes of a fallen empire. then, with a terrifying calm, sukuna turns to his assistant. "cancel the deal."

"…sir?" the assistant squeaks (not the pen. the man).

"we’re not working with people who don’t respect family values."

jerry, wisely, resigns before he can be fired.

sukuna goes home that night, drops onto the couch with a sigh, and pulls his tie loose. you, lounging beside him, glance up from your laptop. "rough day?"

he groans. "some asshole laughed at the pen." you nod sagely. "so you destroyed his career?"

"obviously."

you pat his shoulder. "our daughter would be proud."

at that moment, the babygirl herself waddles into the room, clutching two new pens—one shaped like a bunny, the other a frog. she beams.

"mama! daddy! i got you more!"

sukuna, the most feared businessman in the country, gratefully accepts his new frog pen.

[kyomi-shi]

Traditional Living Room

Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless open concept medium tone wood floor living room remodel with beige walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and a wall-mounted tv

[bettafinds]

Eclectic Living Room - Living Room Inspiration for a mid-sized eclectic formal and open concept medium tone wood floor living room remodel with green walls, no fireplace and no tv

[teaeodora]

Running fingers through their hair 🤍

ft. wriothesley, alhaitham and neuvillette.

synopsis : you convince them into playing with their hair and you end up taking undue advantage of it.

warnings : implied fem!reader, pet names, mention of murder and suicide (neuvillette – no there is no angst here.).

a/n : fluff but seriously hair is so floof in genshin and i love me some domesticated content.

ALHAITHAM 🌱

"No." He crossed his arms in disapproval at your request.

"Haitham! Come on!" You begged your husband to let you run your fingers through his hair in hopes to help him unwind and relax but he was adamant not letting you.

"I am sorry [Name], but I have a meeting due in an hour with the Dendro Archon about some administrative changes and as much as I would love to catch a break, I can't as of now." He exasperated, voice laced with annoyance.

Ever since becoming the Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham had gotten just a tad bit more whinier. You weren't complaining since Alhaitham had the emotional quotient of a rock.

"Oh come on! It's still an hour away. C'mere." You patted your lap. He sighed but agreed. You found yourself combing your nifty fingers through his grey locks. They felt soft to touch. Who are you kidding, he was a well groomed gentleman despite his emotionally constipated personality.

His eyes were focused on a book he was reading, his eyes scanning the pages but his expression was relaxed. He won't admit it but he liked it. This was a simple yet intimate gesture.

You on the other hand, stared outside of the window, fingers still running through his hair. The scenery of Sumeru city stretched out far and wide for your eyes to see. The sky was beaming with light, birds were chit chatting on the tree branches and–

Snore.

Your focus gets redirected back at Alhaitham who now had the book resting on his face, his chest rising rhythmically as you heard him breathing softly.

You chuckled at the sight. He really did fall asleep. He looked so carefree when a moment ago he was complaining about meetings and work. How amusing. An idea bubbled up in your head.

When Alhaitham woke up, he realised that he had fallen asleep and hurried out of the room to meet up with Nahida in the Sanctuary of Surasthana.

"Good evening Acting Grand Sage, I was just waiting on you- pfft!" Nahida's cheeks puffed up and the little Archon started giggling.

"I am sorry for being late- wait, why are you laughing?" He tilted his expression in confusion. Could his late timing be a matter of amusement for his Archon?

"Who made two tiny ponytails in your hair using sparkly pink pyro slime hairties!" Nahida chuckled more, unable to hold her laughter.

"..." he reached up to feel the two tiny fountains of hair made by tying them up. Who could've done such a— you.

Needles to say, Alhaitham image of a big mighty serious guy in front of Nahida had now been ruined.

NEUVILLETTE 🌊

"Ma Chérie, what do you think of this case?" Neuvillette leaned back into his chair, papers spread out on his table. You picked up one of the documents and examined them.

What made you and Neuvillette a match made in heaven was that you were one of Fontaine's best lawyers and Neuvillette was the Ludex. You both would brainstorm cases together though Neuvillette always tended to quote how he is unbiased as it is his duty as the Chief Justice to not let personal feelings get in the way.

Still, you catch him staring at you during court proceedings, expression twisting and turning based on the situation out of his instinctive concern for you.

"Well, I think this is a classic murder which is being displayed to the common eye like a suicide." You sighed and put the paper back on the table, stretching your back from fatigue.

"I must say, that's quite a possibility. I'd suggest you investigate futher and seek the truth." He pondered, his gloved hand resting on his chin.

"Neuvi, can we take a break? I am tired." You slumped down in the chair across him, exhausting from the repetitive task at hand.

"Indeed. Repetition tends to tire out the mortal brain. Let's continue this after lunch." He nodded and started to sort the papers according to there designated folders.

"Can I play with your hair till you get the sorting papers thing done?" You asked him and he seemed amused at the idea. Neuvillette was never reluctant from trying out new things and gave into your small pleasures if they made you happy. "Sure."

You ran your fingers through his white locks. Honestly his hair were so beautiful, it would put women's hair to shame. Neuvillette took good care of them. You started using this opportunity to experiment different hairstyles on him.

Neuvillette glanced up, only to see his hair in a braid from his reflection in the mirror with a black ribbon in them. He stared at the braid for a good minute, "Hmm simple, practical and elegant. It's quite nice." He mused.

You were proud of yourself before Neuvillette asked if he could try hairstyles on you.

An afternoon spent with chuckles, smiles, whacky and pretty hairstyles.

WRIOTHESLEY 🧊

You watched as Wriothesley worked like a machine.

Step 1 : Grab the paperwork

Step 2 : Read and Sign it

Step 3 : Put in the "done" pile

The sounds of paper swiping and pen scribbling filled the room. You tried to entertain yourself with some novel but you could hear wriothesley grunted and groaning in annoyance.

"Y'know, the best thing is to simply not to do the work if you don't feel like it, wrio." You suggested, flipping to the next page in the novel.

"You're right. I'll settle for a nap, drink tea after I get up and then continue doing this..." he grumbled before getting up and making his way to his bed upstairs. You afte a few minutes got up and followed him.

You both laid beside eachother, under the blankets, soaking in eachother's warmth. "You joinin' me on a nap, sweetheart?" A smile crawled onto his face as he looked at you with his icy hues.

"No, I am simply here to take care of you, silly." You kissed his nose as he took your palm firmly in his and kissed the back of it, endearingly. You peppered his face with feather kisses, tousling his soft black locks earning a relaxed hum of content from him.

Wriothesley was a man of limited needs and such small moments with you were his saving grace from the buttload of prison paper work. His arm snaked around your waist as he kissed the top of your forehead before his hand rested on your cheeks, his eyes fluttering shut.

He yawned and made himself comfortable before drifting off into his well deserved nap.

But..

"Oh my god, you are associated with Sigewinne in this??" He baffled at the sight of his face covered in stickers. Melusines loved to play pranks but his own lover? Now that was some serious betrayal.

"First my back and now my face?" He stared at you, jaw dropped, wanting an explanation. You simply stifled a laugh before hearing a click.

"Sigewinne, did you just take a picture of me?? HEY! Don't run away!? [Name]! Sigewinne! You guys better delete that picture!" He chased after you two as you ran with Sigewinne in your arms. It was a moment of solace and perhaps another moment added in your archive of memories.

a/n : to say i am obsessed with domesticated genres and tropes is an understatement.

don't steal, copy, plagarize.

©definitelysel

not proof read.

[kunareads]

gq couple's interview

first installment of the bed chem shorts collection! these two are very special to me and i don't know if i'll ever be ready to part with them so here we are lol.

idek if i like this but i miss them !!!

wc: 1.2k of FLUFF

series masterlist / full masterlist

“hi gq! we’re here to do a couple’s quiz today. satoru is going to fail.”

satoru gasps, pressing a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “i literally know everything about you.”

you don’t even blink. “what’s my middle name?”

his lips part. he hesitates. do you have a middle name?

the producer chimes in. “you’ll both guess the other person’s answer. if you match, you get a point.”

“what do we win?” satoru asks.

“confirmation that you know me the way you think you do,” you deadpan.

“well that’s a terrible incentive,” he pouts.

[ round one: the basics ]

what's their favorite color?

you both write your answers. satoru taps his marker against his chin like he’s deep in thought. you tap your board twice before holding it close to your chest.

once you’re both done, you flip the marker in your hand. “this is easy. blue.”

satoru flips his board with a flourish. “blue, obviously. yours is blue, too.”

you flip your board, shaking your head at him. “rainbow.”

he blinks. “i—what?”

you nod sagely. “all of them, satoru. keep up.”

satoru looks directly at the camera.

y/n: 1 | satoru: 0

what's their coffee order?

satoru takes his sweet time, drawing something on the board.

“you don’t like coffee,” you say.

he nods as he flips his board. it says ‘no coffee!’ with a picture of a tiny frowning coffee cup with crossed arms.

���what’s mine?” you ask him, squinting.

he leans back in his chair, smiling triumphantly. “espresso.”

you take a deep breath, then flip your board to him. “iced coffee with three pumps of vanilla sweet cream.”

satoru looks at you like you’re forgetting something. “babe. the song.”

“i do not drink espresso, satoru.”

“but in the song—”

“a song is not a personality trait!”

y/n: 2 | satoru: 0

sweet or savory?

you both write your answers quickly.

you smile at him. “sweet.”

he reveals his answer: “sweet. yours is sweet, too.”

you show him your board. “sweet.”

he grins at you. “see? and you doubted me.”

y/n: 3 | satoru: 1

[ round two: mildly concerning confessions ]

what's their guilty pleasure?

satoru pauses for a beat before writing, biting the end of his marker in deep contemplation.

you smirk. “yours is rom-coms. and you cry at them.”

satoru flips his board over. “skincare.”

“that’s fair. you take, like, 45 minutes in the bathroom at night.”

“i have to let each step sink in.” then, dead serious: “your guilty pleasure is falling asleep to true crime because it ‘helps you relax.’ this causes me physical distress at night.”

you hesitate with a sheepish smile before flipping the board. “true crime.”

he shakes his head. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

y/n: 3 | satoru: 2

what's their go-to karaoke song?

you both write with confidence.

“it’s bed chem for him.”

he flips the board. “bed chem.”

“you’re so full of yourself, satoru.”

he rests a cheek on his hand. “if i don’t sing my own song, who will?”

“and what’s my karaoke song?”

satoru taps his marker against the table on beat. “you’re gonna be popular,” he sings.

you show your answer: “popular from the wicked soundtrack.”

he throws his hands up. “i’m unstoppable.”

you smile at him. “two in a row. you feeling confident?”

he grins back at you. “absolutely. this is my redemption arc.”

y/n: 4 | satoru: 3

what's their drunk habit?

he’s already giggling to himself as he writes. you shoot him a look before finishing your own answer.

“you have zero volume control after one drink.”

satoru scoffs, flipping his board: “becomes an excellent singer.”

you groan. “oh my god, satoru.”

he nods wisely. “it’s true. i ascend vocally.”

you shake your head and address the camera. “bed chem is not just his karaoke song. it’s also what he subjects everyone to when he’s allowed to drink. especially the falsettos at the end.”

satoru leans in. “you’re just jealous. moving on, yours is that you have to pee every ten minutes.”

you shake your head and flip the board. “competitive.” he bursts out laughing, making you roll your eyes. “i hate losing, okay?”

he shakes his head, still giggling. “no, you don’t just ‘hate losing.’ you cried over a game of uno once.”

you point at him. “because why would you make me draw four?!”

y/n: 4 | satoru: 3

[ round three: the soft side ]

what's one thing they do that makes you soft?

you both think about it hard before writing.

you glance at him before you speak. “when i fix your hair or your clothes before we step out.”

he tilts his head. “that is cute,” he says. he flips his board. “i wrote when you reach for my sleeve in a crowd.”

your lips part slightly before you school your expression. “oh.”

he leans back, grinning. “you do it all the time. you don’t even realize it.”

you shrug, looking away. “it’s just… so i don’t lose you.”

satoru raises a brow. “so i don’t lose you.”

you smile. “shut up.”

“i think you wrote when i learn all the words to your songs so i can sing them at your shows.”

you roll your eyes and giggle. “you’re very loud, by the way.” you flip the board. “when he pulls me closer in his sleep.”

he blinks. “wait, really?”

you nod, suddenly a little shy. “yeah. i don’t think you know you do that.”

he tilts his head, a blush creeping onto his face before he smiles. “well. that’s embarrassing for me.”

you smile at him. “yeah, sit with that.”

y/n: 4 | satoru: 3

what's your favorite memory together?

you’re stumped on this one. he finishes writing nearly a whole twenty seconds before you.

you look at him. “our first inside joke.”

he laughs softly before flipping his board over. “the first time you fell asleep on me mid-conversation.”

you blink. “that’s your favorite?”

satoru shrugs. “you were in the middle of telling me a story, then boom. out like a light. right on top of me.”

you shake your head, amused and embarrassed. “you could’ve woken me up.”

he smirks. “you looked peaceful. also, i’ve never been that still in my life.”

you give him a soft smile. “what do you think my favorite memory is?”

“dancing in the kitchen for the first time.”

you squint, your grin growing as you flip your board. “the first time we danced in the kitchen. that was a good night.”

satoru nods. “i’m an excellent dance partner.”

you deadpan. “the back of my head smacked the counter when you dipped me.”

he just beams at you.

y/n: 4 | satoru: 4

what's something they do when they're happy?

neither of you think too hard here.

“i twirl my rings.”

satoru flips his board. “you get extra affectionate with me.”

you furrow your brows. “do i, though?”

satoru grins. “yes. you don’t even notice, but you’re touchier when you’re in a good mood. you kiss my face and hold my hand and sit in my lap and—”

you press your lips together, trying not to smile. “okay, okay, we get it.”

“i think you wrote that i talk too much.”

you snort, flipping your board over. “your face gets soft like a baby.”

he scoffs. “like a baby?”

you nod, delighted. “yeah, it’s like—you just look softer. your eyes get all wide and warm. like a baby deer.”

satoru stares at you. “a baby deer.”

you nod. “exactly.”

the producer cuts in. “and the final score is a tie! 4 to 4.”

satoru sighs dramatically. “rigged.”

you lean over and kiss his cheek. “try harder next time, baby deer.”

[alexiroflife]

toji likes to eat…

🥢🥢🥢🥢

and i mean he likes to eat a lot. though he blows a lot of his funds regularly on races and unnecessary bids, toji will always find the means to spare some change for a meal. ALWAYS.

he’s a big guy with a big stomach. all that killing he does on the job, all the energy he exerts whipping his body around at an inhuman speed, works up an insanely inhuman appetite

before he’s heading home to you, he’s grabbing the two of you ramen, onigiri, sandwiches, yakitori, anything he can get his hands on and loads of it. he walks into the house with enough carry out to could feed a whole village

as much as toji enjoys eating, however, he’s somehow found that he likes to watch you eat even more

it sounds weird when he thinks about it or says anything about it out loud, but bringing you food has come to be one of his love languages

you have long days at work when toji is out on jobs, working tirelessly to provide for the both of you and to help with the kids as much as toji does the same. you’re always completely spent by the time he gets home, and just as hungry

the first time toji realizes he loves when you eat is when the two of you are sitting at the dining table, the kids over at satoru’s, and your shoving your face into the takeout he just brought back. he pauses his own eating for once, something he has never done, and watches you, amused

he’s not sure what’s so particularly special about the way you eat. maybe it’s the way you’re always so appreciative, thanking toji for bringing the two of you dinner when either of you are too tired to cook, big eyes eying the bags in his hand as though you’re going to tackle yourself into it. when you open the containers of food, steam rising into the air and the delicious scent filling your nose and grumbling your stomach, you look so excited

“looks so good, Toji!” you would say, smiling widely as though he’d brought you the moon in his palm. you never take your meals for granted, especially not the ones that toji buys for you, and it’s so cute. so endearing

toji can feel himself smiling when he studies your happy face, honored that he’s the person to bring that smile to you even if you’re just happy about a damn meal. to see you so thrilled over something so simple that he could do for the both of you has his heart squeezing

and then when you eat, when you eat something good, your eyes light up and your releasing little hums of satisfaction as you shove food into your mouth. you do a little dance too, swaying side to side and nodding to yourself. it’s fucking precious

he likes that you don’t care how you eat in front of him, or in front of anyone for that matter. he likes how you indulge yourself, taking advantage of the things that satisfy you without worrying about what people may think, what he may think. it only lets him know that you’re comfortable enough to be yourself around him

he likes that you nourish yourself well, if that makes any sense. he likes the idea that when you eat, you eat for your health and your pleasure. he likes the way you savor every bite and chew slowly, pretty lips puckered and your cheeks full. he can’t put a finger on it, but watching you eat, especially the food he brings you, is like being rewarded with your satisfaction

it makes his stomach feel warm, his sage eyes studying you carefully as you wipe your mouth with a napkin. he grins, having momentarily forgotten about his own meal, and you look at him confused

“what? something on my face?”

he chuckles softly, shaking his head. “not at all,” he tells you, lifting his chopsticks back up. “finish your food, doll”

and you do, of course. you finish it every time, whether you keep some as leftovers or eat it all in one sitting

and you always end a meal by leaning back with a smile, commending the food choice before hopping up to press a kiss to his cheek, thanking him

he may be a creep to be obsessed with such a mundane thing you do, but toji doesn’t care. watching you eat is watching you be taken care of, watching you be content, and it makes his heart full

just a thought ;)

[hanginginthevoid]

Curiosity Killed the Cat, but Satisfaction Brought it Back

pairing: bob reynolds x reader

summary: almost every customer you see is the same. when you finally meet someone that’s different, you can’t help but let your curiosity pique. you shouldn’t have though, new doesn't always mean good or better. sometimes new can ruin you.

a/n: HI!!! I love the idea of character x powerless!reader almost as much as i love the idea of reader who can take care of themselves. SLOWBURN!!!!! I also wrote like 10 pages straight of this before i slowed down and remember how much i HATE writing endings… 

warnings: reader gets screamed at, probably ooc bob, lmk if i missed anything!

wc: 8.2k

---

Your life would be considered mundane. You spend most of your time studying, if you weren’t studying you were at work. But to be honest, you were studying at work too. Sure you still go out with your friends, but you’re not paying thousands upon thousands of dollars to not get this degree. 

The bookshop that you work at is cute. The brick walls painted sage green, the bookshelves that lined the walls, along with the display tables, were a nice dark mahogany. Small bouquets of different flowers were painted around the shop, like easter eggs for customers to spot.

If the customers actually look at the design choices, you’d never know. Most of the customers that you saw were business or finance bro’s and ladies trying to assert themselves in their corporate jobs. 

They’d pick up some ‘life-changing’ book, and you’d never see them again. The first floor of the shop was entirely dedicated to non-fiction because of this. Gotta make it easily accessible for the clients.

You prefer fiction, and honestly, it’s a better vibe having to go upstairs to find some whimsy than just staying at the same level. Every once in a while you’ll see someone venturing up there, maybe just to take a few pictures, maybe to actually buy something. Not nearly as often as you’d like though.

Most of the time you keep your head down, busy jotting down notes or highlighting your textbook. You greet customers when they come in, help them find the book they’re looking for if need be, and give them a polite smile while asking about their day as you check them out. But their faces blur together, and none of their responses stick with you for more than a few minutes.

Today was different though.

Today two men walked into the shop. One with shaggy brown hair, deep blue eyes, and a wobbly smile like he’s worried about something, and the other with blonde hair, a beard, and eyes so icy blue you could mistake them for gray. 

The one with brown hair takes to the shelves after returning your greeting. He scans them for a little bit, checking around the displays as well before coming up to you at the checkout counter.

“Hi.. again.” You look up, but he’s avoiding eye contact, looking everywhere but you, “Do you guys have any books not based not on real stuff?”

You nod along with him, “Yeah, of course. All of our upstairs section is for fiction books.”

“O-oh. Thank you.” And he’s moving away, looking like he’s sizing up the stairs ahead of him.

You feel a little bad for the guy - the guy he’s with is just standing at the door, and he seems unsure about everything. 

Your better judgement fails, putting a tab in your textbook so you don’t lose your place, “Are you looking for anything specific?” 

“Ummm.. Not really? Just - anything fictional.” He’s starting up the stairs before he remembers something and continues his response, “And a series. Something with a lot of books.”

You smile at him, a general customer service smile but it’s softened by the want to be kind to this man, “The Maze Runner is pretty good. Five books in the series.”

With a final nod, he’s up the stairs and it’s just you and the blonde man. You think about asking if you could help him with anything, but any normal person would have already looked around if they wanted to.

They both look familiar. Not excessively, but similar to someone who you would see walking around campus but never had classes with. Like the friend of one of your friends, who only shows up once in a blue moon. 

You can’t place them before the brown haired man comes back with a book. 

He hands, not places down, hands, you a book. Upon glancing at it, you see he picked your recommendation. 

“I think you’ll like it, I was really into it when I read it for the first time.” You scan the book, placing it with the front cover down onto the simple brown packing paper you picked out this morning.

“I think so too. You would be the expert after all,” He huffs out a laugh at the end of his sentence, handing you a credit card to make his payment. 

You smile along with him, sealing the book with a ‘Thank you!’ sticker. After the card clears you hand it back to him, along with the book, and send him off with the hope that he enjoys the book.

As he turns around, he motions to his blonde counterpart, and they both head out the door. Before it shuts though, the man turns around one more time leaving you with a ‘Have a good day!’ and a warm feeling in your chest because there really are still good, kind people out there.

Unlike the normal clientele that you see, you think about this man for the rest of your shift. 

He was attractive, so you’d almost doubt that he didn’t have a girlfriend. Or maybe even a boyfriend, but there’s no way that was the blonde man. He seemed more like a bodyguard…?

He was also kind. He might not have been confident, but that didn’t take away from his other redeeming qualities. 

You think mostly about the fact that he took your recommendation. He didn’t ask for one, so it’s truly surprising that he took what you said into consideration. Paired with the fact that he spent a decent amount of time up there, seemingly pondering his options, just to come back with your recommendation still.

It’s a shame that you’ll probably never see him again. People usually don’t have the time to keep stopping by the same bookshop in this city. Assuming he’s the same as everyone else, he’ll just order the next one online and call it a day.

—

You’re almost immediately proven wrong. Just three days later, the same shaggy haired, blue eyed man walks back into the bookshop.

This time, he’s accompanied by a woman. They greet you, ask how your day is going, then venture upstairs.

You eye them more than you’d like to admit. Trying to figure out these two, the woman is clearly more invested in him than his blonde companion had been.

She's got black hair, green eyes, and an accent. Exotic. 

She stands with him as he browses, inputting her opinion, giving suggestions. Ventures off by herself for a minute before coming back with a book, you assume to recommend it.

Maybe this is the girlfriend. The one who gets to go home and call him her own. By your guesstimate, they’ve only been dating for a little while. Too many boundaries between them to be a really established, committed relationship.

Eventually, you go back to your textbook. Reducing its value every time you annotate, a highlight to show importance, and a note to explain why exactly it's important.

As you're figuring out how you want to color code this set of flashcards, someone gently clears their throat in front of you.

You look up to see the ocean eyed man. He’s smiling at you, soft like he doesn’t want to scare you off. 

“Hey, find everything alright?” You’re standing now, resting your folded arms across the counter.

He nods as he responds, “Yeah, yeah everything was findable.” 

His girlfriend wasn’t beside him anymore, instead she's perusing around the displays about ways to drastically improve your life.

When he hands you the book, you see it’s ‘The Scorch Trials’, the second book in the series you recommended. Guess they spent all that time up there just to flirt.

You scan it, placing it face down on the same brown packing paper as the last book, “Am I safe to assume that you enjoyed the first one?”

“Y-yeah, I didn’t think Alby would die like that. Y’know? He felt like the glue and then boom! He was gone.” 

It’s sweet. He’s not afraid to show his joy from the story. Accentuation his ‘boom’ with his hands, and, holding eye contact. 

“Me either. My favorite is Newt though, so I’m just happy he made it out of the maze.” You’ve sealed the book with a ‘Have a great day!’ sticker, and then you’re handing it back.

“I don’t have a favorite yet, but I’ll keep Newt in mind! He seems like a good guy.” And then his girlfriend is back at his side, ushering him out the door. He yells a ‘Have a good rest of your day!’ over his shoulder, and then they’re disappearing into the busy New York sidewalk.

You wonder if he’ll finish the second one as fast as the first one. Though, you hoped not. 

You wouldn’t be working that day and even if he had a girlfriend he was still a breath of fresh air that you wouldn’t want to miss the chance to inhale. 

Maybe you’d go find a dandelion to wish on after your shift. But then again, he’s just a man. You don’t even know his name for God’s sake. 

Yeah, no dandelion for you.

—

Sunday is the universal reset day. Least you’d think so. You bring your laundry down to your apartment building's laundry room, let it start to do its thing in the washer then head out. 

First grabbing a coffee at the cute coffee shop a couple of blocks down. You swear they make the best macchiatos. 

Then you’re on your way to the grocery store. Getting the most important things first; Greens and proteins. Then the things important to your heart like carbs and cheese, ice cream if it’s weather permitting. Then everything else, from snacks to garbage bags, to dryer sheets, to a new mascara, or maybe even some flowers. 

The trick was getting everything you needed, but not too much that it became difficult to haul home. Today was not one of the days that you got the ratio right.

Maybe you bought too many snacks, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of assignments due this week and that permits a hell of a lot of snacking.

Thankfully, you brought a nearly empty backpack with you, so you’re able to stash some groceries in there and not kill your wrists. It doesn’t help much though, by the time you make it to the elevator your fingers are throbbing and turning white from the lack of circulation.

You put away the refrigerated and frozen items before making your way down the stairs. Gotta burn your calories somehow.

After switching your laundry from the washer to the dryer, you head back upstairs. Starting in the living room you put away stray books, highlighters, pens, and papers. Straighten up the couch by fluffing the cushions, and folding the blankets before grabbing any cups or mugs that may have been left out and bringing them to the kitchen.

You go through the dishes fast, most of them being able to fit into the dishwasher. Then it's putting away the rest of the groceries, and wiping down the counters. 

The bathroom and bedroom are tidied up daily so besides changing the sheets, you forgo taking care of them. Instead vacuuming so that you can just put on a movie and fold your clothes before making dinner.

You can barely hear your phone going off from where it rests on your kitchen counter. It gets ignored though, probably just one of your parents checking in, worried because you’ve been swamped with school. You can just text them back before you start folding.

After the vacuum is shut down, and properly stored in your coat closet, you head back downstairs to retrieve your laundry. 

The basket goes between the couch and the coffee table, ensuring you have enough space to section out all your clothes. But you still have to pick a movie. Something you’ve seen before, so you won’t get distracted. Yet still something interesting, so you don’t give up on your laundry halfway through and leave it all around your apartment. 

By the time you remember your phone and the aforementioned text from your parents, you’re about thirty minutes into ‘Madagascar’. The thought of leaving it, and continuing with your progress passes through your mind. And you mull over the idea for a few minutes. But then you remember that not everyone has parents that care about them, and you push yourself off the couch to go get your phone.

When you turn it on while walking back to the couch, you notice that it wasn’t from your parents. Instead you're met with a message from Tasha, your coworker. Maybe the shop ran out of a popular book? Or a customer wanted to return a, clearly, read book again.

Opening the chat, you see that it’s neither of those. 

Tasha: Some guy came in today asking about you

What guy could come in asking about you? Would this be your chance to meet some millionaire who’d pay for your tuition. God you hoped so. At the very least please let him be hot. Well, hot is an overstatement, let him be not horrid to look at.

You’d never know if you didn’t ask though, so you type out a quick reply before sitting back on your couch, digging your hand back into the laundry basket.

Y/n: What guy?

The response is nearly instantaneous.

Tasha: GIRL

Tasha: YOU TOOK

Tasha: SO LONG

Y/n: mb, yk sunday is my reset

Y/n: left my phone on the counter while folding clothes so i didn’t lose my flow

Tasha: does NOT matter

Tasha: he was FINE

Tasha: TALL

Tasha: DARK HAIR

A tall, dark haired man was asking for you? That’s like - half the businessmen in New York. She’d need to be more specific.

Y/n: you gotta gimme sumn else

Y/n: thats like half the people who come in

Tasha: like long dark hair

Tasha: blue eyes

You start typing before you can really think about the implications. 

Y/n: did he get a maze runner book??

Tasha: yeah

Tasha: so who is he

It’s comical how Tasha thinks that he’s interested in you. It’d be nice if he was. You’d definitely accept a date with him if he ever offered. But you’re not a homewrecker. 

Y/n: just a nice dude who doesn’t treat staff like theyre garbage

Y/n: he’s got a girl tho, she came w him last time

It’s getting late, and you’ve fallen behind on your mental schedule. You’ll start dinner while you finish up your conversation, then after you eat you can finish your laundry and head to bed. 

Getting up you take out the ground beef you bought just a few hours ago. Splitting it into two portions you put one half in a ziploc bag and stuff it in your freezer before putting the other half into a pan to brown. As you’re opening a can of crushed tomatoes, your phone dings with a new message.

Tasha: idk 

Tasha: didnt seem like he did when he was describing you

You shake your head as you start adding seasonings to your beef. Also putting a pot of water to boil before wiping your hands to respond.

Y/n: hes just nice

Y/n: dont read into it

Y/n: see u tuesday girly

Then your phone ends up on do not disturb. You’ve got to finish these chores if you want to be able to properly focus on your studies. 

Unfortunately you think about Tasha’s texts until you crawl into bed. She was adamant that he was feeling you in at least one sense of the word. The idea makes your cheeks warm. Not much, since it would just be a delusion, but enough for you to recognize the familiar flush.

Next time you see him, you’ve got to block the messages out of your mind. Otherwise you’d make a fool out of yourself. He had a girlfriend, and you’d respect that.

Plus, he didn’t even know your name! How could he have any sort of feeling for you without knowing your name? You supposed it could be similar to how you’ve got a flutter in your chest when you see him, but that’d be dumb, men don’t think that way.

—

You’re hunched over your laptop, typing up a storm when you hear the bell jingle. It doesn’t stop you from typing, you’ve got a flow going and you wouldn’t stop it for the world. 

When your half-hearted greeting is replied to by a known voice you freeze. It’s brief, so you hope he doesn’t notice, but it still happens. Then you’re back to typing, throwing a ‘let me know if you need anything!’ in his general direction.

Truth be told, you were just typing mumbo-jumbo. Trying to manifest a proper thought that would never come. You wanted to look up. See if he had come by himself today, or if he had brought his girlfriend along. But curiosity killed the cat, and living in the fantasy that he could possibly like you, was far too nice to trade.

You switch from typing on your personal laptop, to typing on the shop’s pc. If you weren’t going to be productive with your essay, you could at least be productive by ordering some much needed stock. 

That’s the only reason you switched. Not because you wanted to take a look around the shop. Not because the flutter in your chest was still happening, minutes after just speaking to him. And most certainly not because you remembered, curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

You wanted it to be conspicuous. Nonchalant. Just a casual glance around the shop to make sure no one was stealing anything. 

However, a shout made you spring your head up. Staring directly at the man you're infatuated with, and his companion for the day. A tall man, with a graying beard.

He really has no shortage of friends. All different shapes and sizes too.

“Sorry!” He’s waving at you, an embarrassed look overtaking his features. 

Before you can tell him that there’s no need to apologize his friend is speaking, loudly, again “Why do you apologize? We do nothing wrong, nothing.”

“Because! It’s a bookshop, and it was quiet. Silent even! Before you shouted.” He’s whisper shouting, trying to make his point in the quietest way possible. 

Huffing out a laugh, you go back to your essay. Even with nobody else in the shop, this guy still has the manners to not want to mess up the vibe. Maybe he has a twin you could get with.

You barely hear from the two again until they're right up in front of you. Your ears pick up on ‘Alexi’ and ‘over there’, before you’re approached by ocean eyes himself. 

“Hi. Sorry again, about him.” It looks like he’s rocking on his feet a little bit, but you’re not tall enough to be sure. “ He - uh. He’s not the best in social settings.”

“Ah, I see. So. What’re you getting today?” Your hands are out, like a child waiting to accept a present.

He places ‘The Kill Order’ in your hands. “Newt died. You kinda gaslit me into believing he was a safe favorite character.” 

The way he says it is flat. It makes you worry a bit, and he’s looking at you straight faced like he’s really got a bone to pick. “My bad! He really was my favorite. Even though he kicked the bucket. I didn’t think you’d really pay more attention to him if I mentioned it.” 

You hope your apology is taken seriously. Your eyebrows are creased, eyes conveying your sincerness, at least you hope they are. But then he’s laughing. Why is he laughing?

“Sorry, I - I wasn’t serious. I did think he was a safe character to like but I thought it’d be funny to pull your leg a little.” Oh. Thank god he wasn’t really upset.

Then you’re laughing a little bit along with him, “You got me. I’ll give you that.” You scan the book, proceeding along with the same routine as always. This time you’re wrapping it in a deep burgundy packing paper, sticking it with a ‘Come again soon!’ sticker before handing it back. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” He raises his eyes to meet yours when you start speaking, “but you read a lot.” 

“I’ve got a lot of time on my hands. It’s nice to be immersed in a different world sometimes.”

“Gotcha. Well it was nice to see you again…” You trail off, hoping he takes the hint and gives you his name.

“Oh - Bob, I-I’m Bob. What’s your name?” He’s back to avoiding eye contact. But he hasn’t moved away from the counter yet, so he can’t be that uncomfortable.

You give him your name, and he repeats it. Trying it out on his tongue, figuring out the syllables and the way to say them that makes them sound best. Then he’s leaving, well, more like getting dragged out. 

His huge friend has an arm wrapped around his shoulders and he’s walking with a purpose that Bob can’t resist. 

As they start to make their way down the street, Bob spares you a grin and a wave through the window. 

You wonder when he’ll finish that book. When he’ll be back and you’ll get to look into his eyes again. When you’ll get to dream about how soft his hair is.

As long as you’re on shift you couldn’t care less though.

—

This goes on for a few months. Bob comes in, always with a companion, picks out a book from a series you’ve recommended. The two of you crack a couple of jokes, or Bob asks you about your studies. And then he’s gone for a few days. 

Sometimes he doesn’t show up at all. Usually just for a few days, which wouldn’t be bad but it's abnormal for him. Once in a blue moon it's for a or over a week, he never explains, just apologizes.

His companions are always one of 6 people. They fluctuate, sometimes the same person joining him two times in a row, sometimes they rotate like a wheel and you don’t see the same person for a few weeks.

Then they stop coming. Well not entirely. But they stop coming inside. At first they just stand outside the shop, lingering just outside the door. 

Eventually they start to ‘drop’ Bob off. Walk with him till they get to the shop, the two of them exchange a few words, then Bob walks in, and his companion walks off. 

They make sure to pick him up after. It’s always on their time though. Bob will come in, pick out his book, check out, and then talk to you the rest of the time.

It’s all basic conversation, favorite colors, what drew you to get your degree, why you chose NYU over something closer to home, favorite ice cream flavor, what Florida was like. 

It seems silly to assume that he likes you. But it seems even sillier to assume that he doesn’t. No way would he waste all this time just to not care at all. 

He still asks Tasha about you when you’re not there. She thinks you two are a match made in heaven. Well as close to one as she can get without really knowing him. But he’s attractive, attracted to you, you say he's kind, so what’s not to like.

You see Bob and his female blonde companion, Yelena you think her name is, talking outside the shop. You can’t hear them, but you can see Bob wringing his fingers together and Yelena putting her hands on his shoulders, giving him a decent shake. 

Then it’s like something in Bob shifts, and he gains confidence. Looking into her eyes he smiles a bit, not too much, but enough for it to be noticeable. And he's turning around, and opening the door to the shop. 

“Good morning, how’s it going?” He’s smiling, looking directly at you.

You can tell he’s really taking you in. How you did your hair, the sweater that you’re wearing, maybe he even notices the mascara you put on just on the hope that you’d see him today. 

“Good, how’s it going with you?” 

He’s not moving from the counter, still studying you. “It’s good. Hopefully it’ll be better in a minute.” The look on your face, warm, comforting, understanding, interested, encourages him to continue. “I was hoping you’d maybe…” Bob has to take a breath to steady himself, “W-would you get coffee with me sometime?”

It takes you a few seconds to process. Bob wants to get coffee with you? Like as in a date? You’ve been dreaming about this for months. When you’re done thinking it through, the giddiness gets to you.

Beaming at him, “Of course. I would love to get coffee with you Bob.” 

“Really?” His mouth is gaping a little, like he really thought you’d reject him.

“Really. I’m not working on Thursday if that works for you?” You really hope that there aren’t hearts in your eyes. The blush on your cheeks is prominent, you can feel it, and it would be embarrassing if Bob didn’t have a matching one.

“Thursdays gre-perfect. It’s perfect.” 

You’re discussing which cafe to go to before you shoo Bob away to go pick out his book. God forbid Yelena comes back and he still hasn’t checked out.

There’s a pleasant warmth in your chest when he leaves. And you’re light, like every stress has been lifted away. Maybe it’s adrenaline from your crush being reciprocated, or maybe it’s the bloom of puppy love, either way it's welcomed.

—

When Thursday rolls around, you’re more energized than ever. Practically bouncing around your apartment as you get ready. Using the same body wash, and lotion so the scent really sticks.

Putting on makeup, not too much, but enough so that it enhances your face and gives you some extra ‘shine’.

You also make sure to dress comfortable, cute, but comfortable. You’ve only seen Bob outside of his sweaters a handful of times, and you doubt that a coffee shop date would be the spot he decides to bring out all the stops.

Wait. What if he doesn’t see this as a date. Maybe he just wanted to become friends with you outside your job. Wanted to add onto his never ending revolving companions to accompany him around on his errands. 

No. That’s not right. Bob wouldn’t do that, anyone would have to know that would be leading you on and he doesn’t have the hate in him to do that. No way.

When you get there, Bob’s already sitting down at a table. He’s people watching, looking out the window at all the unsuspecting people passing by.

His hair looks like he styled it instead of letting it do it’s own thing, and he's got a comfy crew-neck on. The slopes of his nose and lips and the way that his lashes lightly brush his cheekbones when he blinks. He’s beautiful like this, unfortunate that you have to break up his peace. 

You slide into the chair across from him, “Hey.”

He’s smiling at you, one of the biggest you’ve seen, “How was the walk?”

“Not bad, a little chilly but that’s nothing new.” 

“Well, let me get you a drink to warm up, yeah?”

You give him your order, and then he’s gone. Up at the counter in a flash, and seemingly back in even less time. 

Like a proper gentleman he hands you yours first. His hand was a little too big on the mug, leaving you no choice but to brush your fingers against his as you go to grip it. Believe it or not, it’s the first time you’ve touched. 

Suddenly, the world is being painted black. It’s creeping up all around you, spreading from where you stand, up the walls, to the ceiling. For a split second it’s just you in this neverending black box.

Then you’re in the backseat of your first ever car. “How the hell?” You’re looking around, trying to figure out how you could have possibly gotten here. You were just with Bob, at a cafe, on your first date.

Then you start murmuring. Not you you, but the younger you, the one sitting in the front seat. She’s talking about how tiring it is being perfect, doing everything that everyone ever asks, always being the one that people know they can rely on, or at the very least fall back on to talk shit about others to. And before you can even finish your rant your fathers screaming back at you. How he owns the house, he lives in the house, he bought your car, he provides everything and asks for so little back. 

You feel the tears before you recognize that you're crying. But you hear her sobs. The way her chest shakes with every breath, the way it's painful to inhale. How the hell did you get here, and why can’t you just get out?

The screaming doesn’t stop, it keeps going, getting progressively worse. You’re clearly ungrateful, and you need to remember your place. When you get your own place, then you can have the thoughts and feelings that you’re currently having. Until then suck it up.

You try to leave, opening the door of the car, but you can’t, you have too much respect for your father. 

The adult you is staring. This was the whole reason you left home after all. All the talk about having a place of your own, the arguments over the way you kept your room, or didn’t clean a specific area of the house. 

It ends with the sound of you sobbing still. Worse than before. Your airways are already compromised with the snot blocking it, and the way you’re trying to suppress the sobs is only making it worse. 

And then it’s melting away. In the same way that it started, but in reverse. The scene fades to black, the ceiling gets its color back first. The rest of the scene coming into view, Bob staring at you is the last thing you register. 

“I-i-i’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?” He’s worried, the stutter proving your thoughts. But how does he know something is wrong? You didn’t see anyone else in there with you, just your own personal hell.

“Did.. Did you do that?” You’re trying to piece together this puzzle. No way that you slice or dice it does it look good. 

His eyes are frantic, you think that’s what tipped you off, “I. I did. I didn’t mean to though! I promise it was an accident.” 

Then you’re pushing past him. Not slowing down as he calls after you. When you make it to the sidewalk, you book it.

What the hell?

What was wrong with him?

What was wrong with you?

How did he even do that?

Did he bring you out on a date just to humiliate you?

Maybe that’s what you deserve, his girl friends probably told him to do it. Even if you don’t understand how it worked, it would make sense; embarrass you to the point where you’d never bother him again.

—

You take the next week off of work. Any shift you can, you give to Tasha. The shifts that you do work, because you need money to live, are the afternoons. Just a few hours, essentially in and out.

As long as no one sells you out, Bob would never know and would never come during that time. 

You told Tasha that the date went bad, but that was all you had disclosed. You hoped she’d be kind enough not to meddle.

She did inform you that he came in often, almost everyday, looking for you. He’d asked when you’d be working next, Tasha told him it was illegal for her to tell him.

He’d left notes with Tasha, and she passed them along. Just for you to toss them in the bin. The one at work, so you wouldn’t be tempted to dig through the trash and see what he wrote.

He asked what you liked, if there was a gift card or book he could get you to apologize. Tasha told him to kick rocks. 

She did let you know that he looked awful. His hair was messy, tousled beyond its normal amount; like he spends all day running his hands through it. 

His eyes had bags under them. They were extremely sunken in, and had a purplish hue to them. His eyes themselves were red, sometimes puffy, most times half-lidded, like opening them took too much energy.

He was almost always sniffling. His nose red from irritation. You told her this had to have been allergies, Tasha insisted it was from crying.

And lastly, his hands. Always fidgeting. Picking at his nail beds, wringing around each other, or cracking his knuckles.

Bob looked worn down. His body, mind and soul. But what did Tasha want you to do about it, it’s not your fault.

—

It’s another week later when a blonde walks into the shop. 

You take a glance at the clock on your computer before speaking, “Hey, just wanted to let you know that we close in a half-an-hour. Take your time though.”

“I’m actually here for you.” 

That sends a chill down your spine. This is New York so it wouldn’t be completely unheard of to be taken hostage. But you haven’t done anything and you have essentially no value, so why are they here for you?

For the first time, you really look at the person in front of you. You know her. Not entirely sure from where, but she’s familiar in a way. 

You take the non-threatening approach, donning a soft smile before you speak, “Yeah of course. What can I do for you?” 

She’s staring at you, and you swear she hasn’t blinked once. It’s like she’s staring through your soul. 

“Bob told me that he sent you to a shame room.” 

“What?” Breath catching in your throat. You remember her now, Yelena. Bob’s most frequent companion. Maybe if you can keep your cool, you’ll get off easy.

“On your date. At the place that does the uhhh, latte art?” Yelena’s still holding eye contact. 

You’re really trying not to sweat, “Oh. Yeah, what about it?”

“You’ve been ignoring him since.” 

You can’t deny it. You literally switched shifts just so you wouldn’t have to see him. So you nod, hoping that suffices.

“He didn’t mean to. He can’t control it.”

What is she even talking about, “Sorry? Can’t control what?” 

“The shame room. Where you went when he touched you?” You hum a bit in response before she continues, “He can’t control that. He’s been good for months, so he thought he could get through a date, with you, safely.”

You don’t understand though. Why can’t he control that? Why can he do that, period. It’s not normal but Bob’s definitely not a superhero that you’ve seen on your TV before.

“Why.. Why can he do that?” If she’s gonna corner you here, you’re at least gonna ask some questions too.

“It’s a long story, not mine to tell. But I’m sure Bob would tell you. If you let him.” Then she’s turning, heading straight for the door. 

That’s it? 

That’s all she had to say?

What, was she trying to scare you into talking to him?

Your heart ached. You thought he liked you, thought he had maybe cared for you like you cared for him. And it’s okay if he didn’t but why did he have to make it the most painful way possible?

—

You don’t get much sleep that night. Tossing and turning as you replay the past few months in your head. Bob was a lot of things, but he wasn’t the type to be malicious. Not the type to purposefully torture others. 

And you doubt he sent Yelena after you. She probably just saw him hurting and decided to step in. Completely understandable, and in its own way that hurt too.

It hurt because it meant that Bob was hurting. He missed you as much as you missed him. And he’s had much less context for why you’re avoiding him.

You decide you’ll go to the shop in the morning. Hang out with Tasha and maybe, if you’re lucky, run into Bob.

—

You manage to fall asleep, not for long but it's better than nothing. The anxiety you have is making you shake.

Whether it's your hands, your arms, or your legs, somethings been moving all morning.

To calm yourself, you take the long way. Make a stop at a cafe, getting Tasha a coffee as well since you’re an amazing coworker. 

When you come up on the bookshop, you can see Bob through the window. 

While you can’t see his face, you know he’s not 100%. 

His shoulders are slouching, caving in on himself it seems. He’s saying something to Tasha, trying to get her to accept another note by the looks of it. 

The jingle of the bell above the door makes both of them freeze. 

Tasha’s eyes widen, recognition that you’re finally facing the music flashing through them. And that must be what makes Bob turn around.

He turns slowly. Eyes slowly roaming over your body before finally landing on your face. His mouth falls open, not a lot, but enough to be noticeable.

Then his lower lip starts to wobble, tears gathering over his waterline making his eyes glassy, and he’s moving towards you.

Slow, unsure steps lead him to a few feet in front of you. His hands move over your shoulders, not daring to touch you, but hovering close enough for you to just barely feel their warmth. 

“I’m so,so,so, sorry. I’ve been working on it, and I just..” He swallows before continuing, not breaking eye contact, “I feel so calm. Like - like I’m at peace, when I’m around you, so I thought it wouldn’t happen. I thought I could break it to you slowly, a-after you accepted a second date.”

You’re just standing there. The damn coffee you got prevents you from wringing your hands, and it’s difficult to bounce your legs when standing. 

The urge to back away from him is strong. But you can tell he’s trying, you can tell that he wants you to believe him.

When Bob realizes you aren’t going to respond, he continues, “I thought it would be too heavy, you know? To tell you about all of this baggage that I have. Thought that if I told you, everything would change.” 

“A warning would have been nice.” You’re not looking at him anymore, instead staring at your shoes. It’s a shame you didn’t trip on your lace on the way here, then you wouldn’t have had to come.

“I know.” Bob sighs, “I know that now. And if I could go back, I would have told you. Warned you even if I ended up being the boy that cried wolf.”

You see his hands retract, no longer hovering over your shoulders. You don’t understand why he pulls his sleeves over his hands. But then he’s placing his, now covered, hands on your shoulders. The grip he has is strong, but not painful, “I need you to know. I didn’t do it on purpose. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Intentionally at least.” 

“So you’d do it unintentionally?” 

You’re being difficult. Intentionally. Mostly because he’s not making sense, what type of scumbag says he’d never hurt you intentionally. That’s like the bare minimum.

“There’s… A lot to explain. I’ll explain it all, if you’ll let me!” He’s leaning a bit now, bending at the knees to get a look into your eyes. 

When you do meet his eyes, you can see the sincerity. They haven’t stopped glistening, still shiny with unshed tears. But it looks like he wants you to look into his soul, to understand that from deep in his core he is apologetic. 

A scumbag wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t have covered their hands to prevent touching you. They wouldn’t have been trying so hard to get in contact with you. 

So you nod. 

You’ve agreed to meet him again. Not on a date, but for some answers. 

He wants to do it today.

You tell him that you need time. To process or prepare, you’re not sure. But you know you need time.

Your feelings about him haven’t had the proper time to dissipate, so a small part of you still hopes that everything could work out.

—

When you do come around and text Bob that you’re ready to talk. His response comes almost immediately.

You invite him to your apartment. It’s more intimate than you would like, however it would save you the embarrassment of how you would end up if he were to send you to a ‘shame room’ again.

When Bob gets there, he's nervous. Just a little twitchy, not too much but enough to be noticeable. 

He’s brought pastries. Something about his mother telling him to ‘never show up empty handed’ tumbles from his lips as he hands them to you.

You offer him a drink, like this is just going to be a fun catch up between pals. 

Not sure what to expect, you lead Bob to your dining room table. It’s a good space to have this conversation, not too comfortable like the couch, but not too formal like standing near the door.

“So -” You can barely get it out of your mouth before Bob starts spilling his life story to you.

He doesn’t go too deep into any one topic, but he makes sure that you can paint a clear picture in your mind.

He had a rough childhood, never close with either of his parents. That led him to drugs, which then ebbed into addiction. 

The addiction sent him all around the world, sometimes trying to get better, most times trying to find more, better, different drugs.

He ended up in Malaysia, they offered him a test run of some new drug. One that would make him ‘better’. 

Everyone could be better, him more than others. 

But then there's a blank slate in his memory. No recollection of what happened after they gave him the drug.

Until he ends up in some bunker with 3 of his 6 companions. They escaped together and have been working to make the world a ‘better place’.

“Wait. What do you mean you've been ‘working to make the world a better place’?” It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he went on his tangent, and Bob looks surprised that you had something to say.

“Well, they do. Not me, I focus on… Communications mostly. Because I don’t have a good enough grasp on my powers yet.” 

“And what exactly do they do?”

“It’s uh - Classified?” 

You scoff, “Classified..? What do you think you are? The Avengers?”

After you mutter your rhetorical question, Bob looks away.

“No way. You’re an Avenger?”

“Technically.” His heads down, leaving you to stare at his scalp instead of his eyes.

“And all the people you came into the shop with? They’re Avengers too?”

“Yeah. They’re more flashy. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t recognize them, to be honest.” He huffs out a laugh, seemingly glad that you’re actually taking part in the conversation now.

Your response is quiet, “It’s a psychological thing.”

Bob hums in response, urging you to continue.

“When you see someone, like a superhero, out of where your brain assumes they would be, most times you miss it. Some of your friends looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I saw them, until now.”

“That’s… Wow, I never knew that.” Bob’s looking at you with a bit of awe in his eyes.

But then he’s straight back to business.

He tells you about how before, his bad days were bad and he’d black out. But now after the treatment, another, worse side of him has awakened. 

That’s how he transported you into one of your worst memories. 

“At least one person from the team stayed with me, all the time. That’s how it was when I first met you.” Bob’s tapping his fingers against the table, in a slow rhythmic pattern, “But then I wanted to take you out. And who goes on a date with a chaperone when we’re adults, right?”

“Yeah, right.” You’re laughing at him, or maybe with him.

“So, I started working on containing my powers more. Working on making them my own, so that I could be by myself. M-more like so I could be alone with you.”

“Just with me?” 

He’s nodding, “Just with you. And it went really good! To the point where I could go out on all sorts of different errands by myself.”

His cup has started to sweat. All the condensation building up on it from being untouched this whole time. Because you care about your well loved table, you reach across and lift his cup before placing it on a coaster. It slows him down for a second before he can continue.

“It was the nerves. O-or at least I think it was the nerves. I don’t know for sure what causes it; nobody does.”

“So, you being nervous about being on a date made you send me to my own personal hell?”

“Being on a date, with you specifically, yes.”

The way he’s opened up to you has greatly increased your trust in him.

If everything he’s saying was true, he had a bad deal in life and he’s doing the best with what he’s got. The Bob you knew did have some confidence problems, taking a while to open up to you originally so it wouldn't be surprising that he would be nervous.

It also wouldn’t be surprising that him being nervous would send his powers out of wack. There’s been articles about it before, how super powered individuals don’t realize the way their emotions are affecting their powers before it’s too late.

And if he’s lying. You’d have to give him a shot for just how damn good of a lie it was. No one could lie that good without a purpose.

So you reach across the table, towards Bob’s fidgeting hand. His eyes aren’t looking up so you only know that he sees you when his fingers stop tapping.

“I want to try.” You gulp and take a steadying breath, “I’d like to try with you if I didn’t put you off too much.”

You’re not touching him. Even though you would be the one suffering, it only felt right for him to make the first move. Not wanting to overstep by triggering his powers again.

After a couple of seconds he still hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked up at you, hasn’t grasped your hand, hasn’t even twitched his fingers.

Then, softly, like if he speaks too loud the room would crack around him, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m sure.”

Slowly, his hand rises up to meet yours. When they connect nothing changes.

No black tendrils crawling up your walls, no darkness consuming you with no escape, no flashbacks to things you don’t want to remember.

The only thing you feel is the warmth from Bob’s hand. The calluses on his palm, small, but still present. You feel the tender way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. 

Once he realizes that nothing’s happening, he grips your hand tighter. It seems unconscious, the surprise from nothing bad happening overtaking him before he can stop it.

He’s beaming at you. A kiddish smile, one that allows all the joy to really shine through. 

You’re no better. Smiling so wide that if you didn’t stop, your cheeks would start to hurt.

Everyone has baggage, some of them more than others. But that doesn’t mean that anyone is undeserving. Doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t give someone a chance to prove that they can be more than their baggage. 

You wouldn’t deprive yourself of this opportunity. Wouldn’t be so unkind to deprive Bob of it either. So with the promise that he would be honest with you. That he would communicate to you, the good and the bad, no matter what. You and Bob start your relationship.

Moving over to the couch, finally able to be comfortable, instead of cordial. The two of you settle into a movie, sitting close. Close enough to touch, but not actually touching.

Until halfway through, when your head comes to rest on his shoulder, and the blanket that you have resting on the back of the couch comes to rest over your laps.

Your curiosity over Bob may have ‘killed’ you, sending you into a week-long depression for many different reasons. Leading to you shutting out the world, not willing to accept the fact that you were wrong about him.

But the way that you’re feeling right now. Feeling Bob lifting his arm to wrap around your shoulders, letting your head fall onto his chest instead of his shoulder. Hearing his heart thumping in his chest, almost lulling you to sleep. 

You know that this is satisfaction. It’s bloomed deep in your chest, taking a permanent residence there. Deeply rooted like it's attached to every neuron in you. And you know that it’s brought you back.

likes/comments/reblogs give me buffs to my character (greatly appreciated <3)

[benevolentbones]

gideondaughter!reader and spencer first time talking when the team goes to dinner and spencer is just a mess talking to her

thank you sm for the request!! hope you enjoy<3 requests are still open i’ll be working through them!

kids table | spencer reid x gideon!reader part 1

part 2

warnings: mentions of alcohol, light flirting.

word count: 1.5k

summary: it’s gideon’s birthday dinner and the team are here to celebrate.

“are you sure he booked it for 8:30?” jj hummed, holding her clutch purse close to her sage green maxi dress.

“yes. gideon party of nine at mastro’s, 8:30pm.” spencer recalled, having the time and place drilled into his mind in fear of being late.

“party of nine? but there’s only eight of us?” elle’s brows contorted, she counted everyone in the room. jj, morgan, reid, garcia, hotch, prentiss, herself and then gideon who was yet to show, that was only eight.

“maybe he’s bringing a date?” penelope chuckled, her hands smoothing down the hem of her fitted pencil dress.

“gideon? with a date? i highly doubt that.” morgan snickered, leaning against garcia.

the group of agents waited rather impatiently for gideon to arrive to the restaurant. all adorned in their best dress for the awaited man of the hours birthday dinner.

hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger and thumb.

“it’s only 8:25, he will be here.” he muttered out.

spencer began to fumble with his hands, he would class himself as a fairly patient man, the only thing on his mind currently was who the mystery ninth guest could be. he didn’t like not knowing things, it was part of being a profiler he guessed.

the doors to the dimly lit restaurant swung open, jason gideon walking in full stride with a grin on his face. he wore a navy blue suit jacket paired with his signature chinos.

“finally you’re here, they’ve been complaining for the last ten minutes.” prentiss sighed, placing a hand on her hip.

“its not even 8:30, i said i would be on time- but y/n here couldn’t find the shoes she wanted to wear.” gideon let out a small chuckle as a figure walked through the doors behind him.

a girl, roughly in her early twenties stood beside gideon. her hands clamped together in front of her, a black satin dress adorned her figure, hugging her nicely, which she paired with matching black heels.

“well i found them in the end, dad.” she mumbled out, greeting the group with a small smile.

half the team stood there it awe, mouths gaped and eyes locked on the latest arrivals.

“you clean up nice, jason.” hotch nodded towards the older man, then turning his sights on you.

“beautiful as ever.” he smiled, which he rarely did, and leaned over to give you a hug.

“thanks uncle aaron.” you grinned back, embracing his warm hug.

“i’m sorry you need to catch us up real quick- dad? uncle?” morgan titled his head like a confused puppy.

“i didn’t realise you’d have trouble putting two and two together, morgan. this is my daughter, y/n.” gideon mused, ushering you further into the room.

you held out your hand, derek quickly took it in his, giving it a small shake, cogs in his mind still visibly turning.

“and aaron isn’t actually my uncle- he just acts like it.” you pulled your hand back, returning it to your side.

gideon quickly introduced you to the rest of the team, everyone seeming to come to terms with the fact gideon had a ‘secret’ daughter that he never once brought up.

all the while spencer stood, hands glued to his sides as he eyed you. he had never seen someone so perfect, the way the dress hung from your frame, the way you politely greeted every member of the team.

when gideon had finally reached him to introduce y/n to him, he was caught off guard.

“reid, meet my daughter y/n, im sure it’s not as hard for you to understand.” gideon hummed, making a dig at morgan who had migrated with the group to where the table was set up.

unlike the others, you kept your hand to yourself, but shot spencer a sweet smile.

“it’s really nice to meet you dr. reid- my dad has told me so much about you, i know you’re not big on handshakes.”

spencer’s heart was practically doing backflips at this point. he was completely enamoured by you.

“really nice- to meet you too.” he managed to stutter out.

gideon internally rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what was happening.

“how about we sit down and look at the menu.” he began to usher his daughter towards the table, spencer following quick at his heels.

by the time the three of them had reached where the table set for nine was, the rest of the team were sat, eagerly awaiting them. the only free spaces were at either end of the rectangular table, and an extra place next to the end seat.

“hey gideon come look at this” jj beckoned the older man over, to the head of the table. he briefly turned back to his daughter, before he could utter a word she nodded, knowing that she wouldn’t be sitting with him.

“guess we can sit down at the end together.” you affirmed, shuffling to the free seats with spencer by your side.

once seated, everyone began flipping through the menu, all besides spencer who’s gaze every so often flickered over to the girl beside him, who seemed deep in thought about what she was going to order.

“what are you going to get?” she asked, attempting to make quiet conversation with the man at her side.

spencer hummed, he had researched the restaurant before hand noting all of the dishes he might like.

“the uh- the pasta, i think.” he paused for a moment. “what about you?” he cursed the heat that rose to his face, lifting his hand to loosen the dark purple tie around his neck.

you smiled, still scanning the menu, taking glimpses of spencer in his flustered state.

you had heard many things about most of the team throughout your fathers years of working with them, and when he finally allowed you to meet them, you were most excited to meet spencer.

“i might have that too, it sounds good.”

a few hours had past since everyone had sat down, everyone had finished eating and were now onto their fourth round of drinks, all besides you and spencer.

everyone was deep in conversation about a case from a few years back, obviously you had no clue what they were talking about.

you turned to spencer, who seemed to have gotten more comfortable being in such close proximity to you.

“i swear it feels like we are sitting at the kids table at a christmas dinner.” you giggled to yourself.

“i know right- it’s it’s like we aren’t even here.” spencer returned the chuckle, his heart beating a little faster.

“how are you enjoying the night- i hope im not boring you too much, if you want to join the rest of them feel free.” you mumbled out, eyes migrating to your hands that you had placed on your lap.

“no no- i like it here, i like you- i mean i like being with you i-“ spencer fumbled on his words, causing you to smile. god he was a complete mess.

you reached a hand over, placing it on spencer’s forearm. he could swear his skin felt like it was burning from your touch.

“i like being with you too, spencer.” you whispered out, a soft pink blush dusting your cheeks.

his hazel eyes locked with yours, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat. he was partly confused as to why someone like you had enjoyed his awkwardness and rambling.

to say he had little experience talking to women in more than a friendly way, was an understatement.

he was completely out of his depth, and the fact that your father, his boss, sat at the other end of the table made things a little more awkward for him.

“you look really-good tonight, by the way.” he managed to mumble out, without sounding like a complete idiot.

this caused your face to flush, darting your eyes away from him briefly.

“thank you spencer.”

“would you maybe want to-“ before he could continue, gideon had stood up from the table, all eyes were on him.

“lets go y/n, your old man is getting too tired for this.” he joked.

“oh right-“ you stood up quickly brushing off your dress, you did a small lap of the table thanking everyone for the lovely evening and telling them it was great to meet them.

you then followed gideon out of the room, all remaining eyes were now on spencer who slumped down into his chair.

“that’s rough man, you had all night and didn’t even ask her out.” morgan shook his head lightly, feeling somewhat bad for the boy genius.

before spencer could say anything, he watched you dart back into the room, a piece of paper in your grasp. you quickly placed it in spencer’s hand before pressing a light peck to his cheek and running off out of the restaurant again.

the now flustered brunette un crumpled the paper, scanning the scribbled words.

thanks for talking all night, id love to go out with you sometime x

555-555-555 - y/n

“never mind- atta boy!”

[ddejavvu]

Hiii <3 Had a dream last night and it was really cute so i decided to send this idea to you, maybe you'll write a blurb based on it <3 No pressure of course!!

So y/n and Remus are friends and maybe he has a lil crush on y/n. One day y/n randomly asks him what is his fav color and the next day she painted her nails in that color

"Nice manicure," Sirius reaches across the breakfast table to pry at your freshly painted nails, "That's'a pretty shade'a green, looks like the forest."

"Yeah," You nod, eyes on the syrup-soaked triangle of pancake that's left on your plate from where you've massacred the rest of it, "Thought it was nice."

"Oh, that's Remus's favorite," James's eyes light up, "What's it called, sage? 'Think it's disgusting he likes Slytherin colors, but I guess it's that plant nerd in him."

"It is my favorite," Remus hums, paying no mind to James's taunting, his voice soft and knowing, "We just spoke about it yesterday, didn't we, Y/N?"

"I think you mentioned it," You murmur, feeling heat spread across your cheeks as you jam your fork rather aggressively through the last bite of pancake, "Can't really remember. Maybe."

"Maybe," Remus echoes, and you miss something fond in the gentle curve of his smile with the way you're glaring holes through your pancake, "Jus' a happy accident, then. I like them."

"Thanks." You end the conversation by stuffing the bite into your mouth- no more talking for you, please and thank you.

"I'm gonna get mine painted yellow," James decides, looking at his stubby, scraped nails, "Lily's favorite are yellow flowers. Y'think she'll like 'em?"

"I think they'll look diseased," Sirius's nose wrinkles, "You don't paint fingernails yellow, mate. Go for black, she'll think you're cool."

"No she won't." You and Remus speak at the same time, and you're broken out of your crippling embarrassment to grin wryly at Remus across the table.

"She'll never think you're cool, Prongs." Remus claps James on the back sympathetically, "But hey, you gave it a shot. Just stick to the quidditch thing, m'kay? Leave the painted nails to someone who'll be usin' em to scratch up my back pretty soon."

[milfsloverblog]

hola!! I would like to request larissa x reader where they broke up years ago and when larissa sees reader again she finds out reader has a daughter who looks just like her 👀 lots of angst please

All the Quiet Things

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Ngl, I usually wouldn’t write fics where a kid is involved, but reading this request my brain was immediately flooded with angst ideas…. I hope you’ll enjoy it, I sure enjoyed working on it! Oh and happy pride month!

She tells herself it’s the books.

There’s a stall in Greymoor Square that sells rare volumes. Bindings cracked from age, typefaces long since faded. The woman who runs it speaks only in riddles and won’t haggle for anything less than a poem. It’s charming, Larissa tells herself. Worth the hour’s drive, if only for the atmosphere.

That’s why she’s here.

She repeats it like a mantra as she steps onto the cobbled main street of the town just past Jericho. Her heels click sharply against stone. The air smells of baked bread, cherry blossoms, and something sweeter underneath. Something she refuses to name.

It’s early yet. The market is just waking.

Sunlight stretches pale across the awnings, catching on glass bottles filled with syrup and honey. Someone’s tuning a fiddle in the corner. Wind stirs the edges of paper signs.

Larissa inhales. Exhales. Keeps walking.

She should be back at Nevermore, revising staff evaluations, fielding calls from the board, dealing with that absurdly smug fencing instructor who’s started teaching metaphors alongside parries. Instead, she is here, in a town she once passed through and never returned to.

The lie still holds.

Barely.

She stops at a table of marmalades, nods politely to the vendor, pretends to study the jars. Her gloved fingers pass over labels—plum-rose, blackberry-thyme, fig and burnt orange. The colors are rich and glimmer faintly in the morning light.

She does not buy anything.

Instead, she drifts. Watches the life of the market unfold in pieces. An elderly man arguing about tomatoes. A pair of girls balancing loaves of bread between them. A woman with a sleeping child tucked against her chest, the tiny hand curled in soft trust.

Larissa’s stomach turns.

She pauses at a flower stall. The scent is almost overwhelming: lilac, sage, and freshly cut mint. She remembers the smell. Not the exact one, but the shape of it. You once carried mint on your fingers, tucked wild herbs into your pockets. You used to tell her she smelled like winter, and you were determined to warm her up.

She hadn’t thought of that in years.

Hadn’t let herself.

But now the memory presses forward uninvited, and she cannot push it away.

Because someone said your name.

It had been nothing, really. A casual remark over coffee in the staff room. One of the teachers, cheerful and unobservant, had mentioned passing through the Greymoor market the weekend prior.

“Oh, and I could swear I saw a woman who used to work at the Academy years ago… What was her name? The one with the clever mouth. You know, the one Principal Weems was always—well. Never mind.”

Larissa had smiled. Tilted her head. Raised one perfectly plucked brow.

“You must be mistaken,” she had said.

But her tea had gone cold in her hand.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

And this morning, after the groceries, her car somehow veered west instead of north.

And now, now she is here. Pretending not to search for something she has no right to find.

She rounds a corner and sees the bookseller’s stall in the distance.

Her breath stutters. Not because of the books.

Because someone just turned away from the herbs stall, and she would know the shape of your shoulders anywhere.

There are moments the mind saves for after the fall.

Not the arguments. Not the leaving. Just the quiet before it all began to end.

It comes to her now like mist curling through an open window. Soft and familiar, tinged with the ache of what she never gave.

You used to come to her only after dark.

Never earlier than midnight, never later than two. The hours when the halls of Nevermore slept, and her corridors belonged to no one but ghosts. You never knocked. You didn’t have to. The door was always unlocked, cracked just slightly as if her restraint had slipped at the last minute.

She remembers the sound of your steps.

Barefoot on stone. Careful. You used to hum to yourself on the nights you thought she wasn’t listening.

She always was.

Her quarters were colder than they should’ve been. A high-ceilinged thing with windows far too large, draped in velvet so deep it swallowed moonlight whole. You hated the curtains. She used to watch you wrinkle your nose at them, mutter something about feeling like a kept secret.

And you were.

She made you one.

Every time you touched her, she felt seen in ways she didn’t know how to bear. You peeled her open with fingertips and laughter and soft, unrelenting trust. And what did she give in return?

Nightfall. Shadows. Silence.

You’d crawl beneath the covers beside her, skin warm from sneaking across cold floors. Your body always found hers instinctively, one knee slipping between her legs, one hand brushing her hip like you had every right. You’d smile into her collarbone and call her headmistress in that irreverent way that made her shiver.

She let you shift her. Literally, sometimes. Those were nights she gave in to the instinct buried deep in her kind, the one that allowed her to change shape and body, to take on something heavier, harder. You liked that. She did too. Not because of what she became, but because it was still her, and you never flinched.

But even then, in the dark, there were boundaries she never let you cross.

No hand-holding outside.

No pet names. Not where anyone could hear.

And always—always—you left before dawn.

She told herself it was protection. That if the wrong person knew, your job would be in danger. That you didn’t want that kind of attention. That the board wouldn’t understand. That she was sparing you.

But the truth lived deeper.

She didn’t want to risk herself.

It was easier that way. To keep the thing sacred only in secret. To let love bloom behind curtains, never in daylight. She convinced herself you understood. That the way you curled closer afterward, pressing your forehead to her sternum like it was the only place you slept well, meant you were content.

But she remembers the last night.

You’d said it like it didn’t matter.

“I won’t do this forever, you know.”

Your voice had been soft, almost sleepy. You were lying on your side, hair mussed from her pillow, fingers tracing idle circles over the inside of her wrist. Larissa had stilled. Not enough for you to notice, not enough to seem afraid, but she had felt something tighten.

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You looked at the drawn curtains, the ones you always hated, as if they were the ones holding you captive.

“I can’t keep being nothing in the daylight.”

And Larissa, she didn’t answer.

Not with anything that counted. Just touched your hair, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and pretended the moment hadn’t happened. She thought, maybe, if she stayed quiet long enough, you'd stay too.

But you didn’t.

You left before dawn, as always.

Except you never came back.

She had told herself it was for the best. That you’d moved on. That some bright-eyed suitor had offered you a life that didn’t involve shadows and silk-draped secrets.

That it was easier this way.

It’s what she clung to—until now.

Because now, in the center of the market, the crowd parts for just a moment—and you’re standing not ten paces away.

Older. A little.

Your hair is longer. Or maybe shorter. She can’t tell. Her breath has stilled in her throat like a bird caught behind glass.

You haven’t seen her yet.

You’re studying a jar of jam like it contains the answer to something complicated. The sun lights your cheekbone in the exact way it used to when you turned toward her bedside window. She feels the past stretch toward her like an echo trying to find its source.

It hits her all at once:

You’re real.

You’re here.

You suddenly lift your eyes.

And the world stops.

Larissa doesn’t remember stepping forward. Only that your face is exactly as she remembers, and nothing like it at all. Softer around the edges, perhaps. More tired. Or maybe just sharper, carved by five years of silence and everything they didn’t say.

Your expression changes.

Not shock. Not warmth.

Something colder. Something closed.

Her breath stumbles. She swallows it.

“…Hello,” she says.

It lands with all the grace of a stone dropped in water.

You don’t smile. Don’t look away. You just set the jar down on the table—deliberate, controlled—and straighten.

“Principal Weems,” you say, voice dry as paper.

That stings more than she’ll let show.

She gives a small nod, trying to hold herself upright beneath the weight of her own cowardice. “You… look well.”

“Do I?”

There’s no warmth in your voice. No invitation. But you don’t walk away.

Larissa seizes on that small mercy and steps closer. The space between you is measured now, not by feet, but by regret. The kind that yawns wider the longer it’s left untouched.

“I didn’t expect—” she starts, then stops herself. She can’t say she came looking. Not like this. Not when she barely deserves your gaze.

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to see me? Or didn’t expect to see me here?”

The market bustles around you, oblivious. Somewhere nearby, a fiddle begins to play. It’s light, cheerful. Out of place.

Larissa draws in a breath. “I heard your name. A colleague mentioned seeing you. I… didn’t believe it at first.”

Your jaw tightens, just slightly.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back this way,” she adds.

“I didn’t,” you say flatly. “Not until recently.”

A beat.

She wants to ask everything. Where you went. What you’ve done. Who you became without her.

But you speak again before she can find the words.

“You look exactly the same,” you say, tone unreadable. “I guess time doesn’t touch you the way it does the rest of us.”

Larissa flinches inwardly. “That’s not true.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Isn’t it?”

Her throat closes.

There are a thousand things she could say. Apologies she’s rehearsed in the silence of her chambers, explanations that don’t excuse but still try to make sense of her choices.

But you glance to the side. Just slightly. As if checking for someone. Your posture shifts, not in fear, not in nerves, but in the guarded way of someone who has something precious nearby.

A little girl—no older than five—comes sprinting toward you across the square. Pale curls bouncing, face alight with joy. You bend slightly as she flings her arms around your waist, and you catch her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like you have always done it.

Like you are her mother.

Larissa can’t breathe.

The child turns and looks up at her. Wide blue-grey eyes. A dimple in her left cheek. The shape of her nose, her chin, the curl of her lashes…

Larissa staggers a step backward.

“She looks like me,” she says.

You don’t answer right away.

Larissa can’t move.

Because suddenly, the past five years shift. They realign. Every breath, every sleepless night, every echo of your body in her bed.

It all collapses into this one impossible truth:

She hadn’t just left you behind.

You hold your daughter a little tighter.

It’s instinct. Not fear. Just the kind of silent tether a mother keeps when the ground starts to tilt.

You don’t look at Larissa. Not right away.

Because you can’t.

Not when her eyes are locked on the child like she’s seen a ghost. Not when her voice trembles with that awful, fragile kind of disbelief.

“She looks like me,” she says again.

You breathe through your nose. Slow. Measured.

You’ve practiced this.

You’ve practiced everything.

The way you kept your voice steady through the morning sickness. The way you signed the birth certificate without a second name. The way you buried that old photograph, the one where you lay half asleep, curled into her bare chest, her fingers still tangled in your hair.

You buried it all.

But it still breathes.

Your daughter shifts in your arms, resting her head against your shoulder. Her curls brush your cheek. You close your eyes.

She smells like sun-warmed linen and lemon soap and the apricot pastry she insisted on having for breakfast. She smells like home.

You open your eyes and finally meet Larissa’s.

She’s pale. Paler than you’ve ever seen her. Her lips parted. Her hands slack at her sides.

You don’t want her to look at your child like that. Like she’s a riddle. Like she’s an answer. Like she’s a revelation Larissa didn’t earn.

So you speak. Soft. Sharp.

“Don’t.”

It stops her cold.

Her mouth opens. Maybe to ask. Maybe to apologize. But you cut in before she can do either.

“You don’t get to look at her like that.”

Your voice doesn’t shake, but your fingers do.

Just slightly.

Larissa notices. Of course she does.

“I didn’t know,” she says. “God, I didn’t—I didn’t know you were—”

“Pregnant?” You exhale. “Neither did I. Not when I left.”

The words sit heavy between you.

“I wasn’t hiding her from you,” you add. “I just didn’t know she existed yet.”

Larissa stares. Frozen. Like if she breathes, the world will split open.

You look down at your daughter. Your voice softens without meaning to.

“I left because I was tired of being a secret, Larissa. Not because I stopped loving you.”

She looks like she might fall over. Like the ground has opened and nothing is holding her up anymore.

“I would’ve stayed forever,” you say. “If you’d let me exist in the daylight.”

The silence that follows is raw. Almost sacred. The kind that only lives between people who were once everything.

Your daughter stirs, blinking up at you.

“Everything okay, Mommy?”

You brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Smile, soft and instinctive. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”

You glance back at Larissa. Her face is shattered.

You should walk away. You know you should.

But something stops you. Not pity. Not cruelty.

Just history.

Just love. Old and threadbare, but not quite dead.

So your voice gentles when you speak again.

“I didn’t plan to hurt you.”

You shift your daughter higher on your hip, thumb smoothing the back of her dress.

“I didn’t plan any of this.”

You start to turn away. Then pause.

And when you meet her eyes again, something quiet lingers there. Not forgiveness. But not quite blame, either.

“If you’re wondering,” you say, “I named her Solene. she’s kind. And she’s bright. And she likes to sing when she thinks no one’s listening.”

A breath.

“She got that from you.”

A silence.

A heartbeat.

Then you’re gone.

The car door slams harder than she means it to.

Inside, the silence is too much. The stillness. The absence.

Larissa grips the steering wheel with both hands, but it’s pointless. Her palms are damp and shaking. The leather is warm under her fingers, but she’s cold. Icy, bone-deep cold.

She stares straight ahead.

The market is still busy. Families move between stalls, children tugging their parents toward sweets and painted wooden toys. Laughter floats through the air. Bread, flowers, the sharp salt of feta samples. It all smells like life continuing. Like nothing has happened.

But something has.

You.

And the child.

Her child.

Larissa shuts her eyes.

“She looks like me,” she had said.

And it was true. God, it was true. Those wide grey-blue eyes. The dimple. That nose. That mouth. It was like someone had taken the smallest, most human parts of her and carved them into new life.

A daughter.

Your daughter.

She presses her forehead against the steering wheel.

You didn’t tell her.

Not because you wanted to hurt her. Not because you meant to hide it. You just… left.

Larissa feels the ache of it now. The terrible symmetry of what she did to you—hiding you behind drawn curtains and late-night shadows—and what you had to do in return. Raising a child alone. Bearing the weight of both your griefs in silence.

She had no idea.

All these years, she thought you walked away out of pride. Out of anger. That you’d found someone new. That the pain she’d tried not to feel was mutual, deserved, symmetrical.

But you didn’t know you were pregnant.

And you still chose to walk away, because Larissa never once gave you the sun.

She breathes through her teeth.

Something hot and acidic swells in her chest. Grief, yes, but something else too.

Longing.

Want.

Not for the past.

For now.

For that child who looked up at her like she was no one. For that child who should’ve known her. For the curve of your voice when you said she sings when she thinks no one’s listening.

She should’ve heard that.

She should’ve known that.

Larissa shoves the door open and climbs out.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t lock the car. Doesn’t glance at the market square. She just walks—quickly, eyes darting, scanning for any glimpse of your silhouette, your hair, that soft blue dress your daughter wore.

She doesn’t care how foolish it looks. How desperate. How loud.

She needs to see you.

Not to apologize.

Not to explain.

To ask.

To beg.

Let me try.

Let me meet her. Let me know her name. Let me hold her just once. Let me be the thing I never thought I was allowed to be.

Let me be her mother.

She turns a corner and sees the crowd begin to thin.

Shops give way to cobblestone alleys and quiet cafés. She slows slightly, eyes searching every step ahead.

She has no idea what she’ll say when she finds you.

But she knows she won’t let it end in silence again.

She sees you half a block ahead.

Near the bakery. That little one with the peeling paint and the lavender hanging in the window.

You’re slower now. Your daughter’s hand is wrapped tightly in yours. She’s walking on the low stone edge of the path, carefully balancing herself as you guide her. You glance down every few steps, steadying her with just a brush of your palm.

Larissa doesn’t call your name. She doesn’t think she could if she tried.

She just walks faster.

You hear her steps before she’s close enough to speak.

You stop walking. Don’t turn around—just stand still, spine straight, hand still curled protectively around your daughter’s. You murmur something to the little girl, and she hops gently off the stone ledge. You gesture toward the bakery door.

“She’s hungry,” you say as Larissa slows to a stop behind you. “We came here for bread and I let her get distracted. She loves the cheese twists.”

Larissa swallows. “You do too.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

“She’s five,” Larissa says, quietly.

“Four and a half,” you correct. “Birthday’s in November.”

There’s silence. A breath too long. A breath too charged.

You sigh.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Larissa’s voice is hoarse. “Because I didn’t get to say anything.”

You don’t turn around. Not yet.

“She asked who you were,” you say. “I told her your name. That’s all.”

“And if she asks more?”

“She won’t. Not today.”

Larissa nods. She deserves that.

You shift slightly, just enough to glance at her over your shoulder.

Your eyes are tired. Not just from today. From years of it.

“She doesn’t know,” you say. “Anything. She doesn’t know you exist.”

The words land with a weight she can barely bear.

“And it wasn’t to punish you,” you say again. “I didn’t do it out of spite. I did it because I didn’t want to give her a ghost.”

That’s what Larissa had become, after all.

A name unspoken. A grief unshared. A memory too sharp to explain to a child with nothing but questions.

“But now I’m not a ghost,” Larissa says. “I’m here. And I want…”

You turn fully now. Still holding your daughter’s hand. Still standing between them.

Larissa’s voice cracks.

“I want to know her.”

You say nothing.

“I want to learn her favorite color. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to know she came from something… from someone who would have loved her so much if she’d only known.”

You blink, and something shifts in your face. Not forgiveness, not yet. But a fissure. A place where something old has started to melt.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Larissa steps closer.

“I’m asking you not to shut the door. I’m asking you to give me a chance to meet my daughter. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. Just…” Her voice breaks again. “A beginning.”

Your daughter tugs lightly on your sleeve.

“Mommy,” she says. “Is she sad?”

You crouch to her level, brushing a curl from her face.

“She’s someone I used to know,” you murmur. “And maybe… maybe someone we’ll get to know again. What do you think about sharing your cheese twist?”

The little girl looks at Larissa.

Then nods.

Larissa doesn’t move.

You rise slowly and tilt your head toward the bakery. “Come in, if you want.”

Larissa breathes. For the first time in minutes. Maybe in years.

You’re not promising anything.

But you’re not walking away.

Not this time.

————————————————————————

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[hyruling]

For domestic prompts, 10, 24 & 38 pls!

10. a cupboard of mismatched mugs - 24. cold tiles - 38. a blanket draped over a sleeping form

—

Buck’s absence is the first thing he notices when he wakes.

He reaches over, feels the cold sheets and knows Buck’s been gone for awhile. His side of the bed is unmade, pillow still dented from where he’d spent at least some of the night. Eddie presses his hand against the soft down and sighs.

He shouldn’t be surprised — for nearly two weeks now he’s woken up alone after falling asleep to the comforting sounds of Buck’s breathing next to him. It’s no less disappointing than it was the first time.

Still, he’s not going to push it. Not while Buck still walks around with a haunted look in his eyes when he thinks no one’s looking, and stares off into space more often than not when he’s not busying himself with some chore or errand he’s invented in the name of being useful. Eddie’s lost track of the number of times he’s run a casserole over to the Grant-Nash household.

Eddie swings his legs over the side of the bed and stretches. It’s a warm day in April but the house is frigid, thermostat set to Eddie’s liking even though he insists on turning it up for Buck every night before they go to sleep. He wakes up with it set back to 68 every morning, accepted it as part of their new nightly routine.

The tiles are cold on his feet when he steps quietly in the kitchen. The coffee pot is already prepped with fresh grounds, meaning Buck has already been in here. All Eddie has to do is start the water. He pulls out a mug from the cabinet while it brews, still bursting with all the ones he’d had to leave in Buck’s care — the U-Haul was only so big after all. It’s a homemade creation of Christopher’s, Buck’s name across the front in messy eight-year old handwriting with hand-drawn flames dancing around the white ceramic. Eddie has a matching one in back in Texas, packed and ready to make its way back home next week.

Buck is still asleep when he pads into the living room, the only sign of life the steady rise and fall of his shoulder. Eddie snags the comforter off Chris’ bed on his way and drapes it over Buck, hunched in on himself in the chill of the room.

Eddie perches on the coffee table and picks up Buck’s phone, intending to plug it back into the charger for him. Bobby’s name is there, a new text he pointedly doesn’t read etched across Buck’s background photo of the 118, taken just before Eddie left for El Paso. He stares at the small Bobby Nash 👨‍🚒 until it becomes blurry and locks Buck’s phone with a sniff, scrubbing a hand over his wet eyes for good measure.

The click of the phone wakes Buck. Eddie watches his eyelids flutter, listens to the pattern of his breathing change. It takes a moment for Buck to process his own consciousness — he blinks blearily at Eddie and rubs his eyes.

“Hey,” Buck says, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” Eddie responds.

Buck shuffles into a sitting position, stretching as he goes, still swathed under both blankets. He looks ridiculous — a six-foot two tall toddler wrapped in a cocoon of fabric, so thick he can only see Buck’s head. Eddie can’t help but laugh softly at him.

“What?” Buck asks.

Eddie shakes his head and offers his mug to him. Buck’s fingers are chilly when he takes it. “Nothing. You look comfy, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Buck says, taking a sip. He grimaces at the sweetness of Eddie’s hazelnut creamer but says nothing, patting the cushion next to him. “You wanna get in on this?”

Eddie smiles. “I really do, actually.”

Buck nods sagely and scoots, lifting both blankets for Eddie to wrangle his way into. They end up pressed together, blankets tight around their shoulders and under their crossed legs. Eddie sighs at the warmth and accepts the mug back from Buck. He fits his mouth over the same uneven ridge Buck did, feels a little thrill shoot straight through his stomach when Buck notices.

“You know, you don’t have to turn the A/C down every night,” Eddie says for at least the tenth time, rather than linger on Buck’s eyes on his mouth.

Buck shrugs, eyes back on Eddie’s, the blue thrown into sharp relief against the pink flush of his cheeks. “Habit. I did it before too, when I would stay over if you forgot. I know how you and Chris like to sleep in the Artic.”

Warmth that has nothing to do with the heavy comforter or hot coffee sluices through him. Warmth that has always been there, just beneath the surface. Warmth that’s taken on a new meaning in recent months, that’s been beaten down and ignored because there were other things more pressing than letting himself burrow into it the way he wanted. He can’t exactly remember why right now, watching Buck snag the mug back with a soft brush of fingers. Pink mouth pressed against that same ridge, that same imperfect divot of ceramic from Chris and Buck’s unpracticed hands.

Buck holds his gaze while he drinks, gives him a tentative smile before it skitters away. Eddie hands him his phone, and then Buck’s attention is focused on the unread text waiting for him. Buck smiles again, a private thing for himself and for Bobby.

“Bobby okay?” Eddie asks. He takes the mug back so Buck can type out a response.

Buck glances up briefly. “Yeah. Just responding to my late night neuroses again.”

Eddie lets that sit for a minute, taking a long drawn out drink while Buck types. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“I know,” Buck answers without looking up. “But it’s fine, Eddie. Really.”

“How many nights have you woken me up from my nightmares?” Eddie asks. Buck avoids his eye. “How is this different?”

Buck just shakes his head, and Eddie sighs. They’ve had this conversation nearly every morning since that phone call came in, since the impossible happened and Eddie watched the light slowly return to Buck’s eyes. But Buck keeps swearing he’s fine — he’s over the moon, he’s perfect, and why wouldn’t I be, Eddie? — and yet Eddie continues to wake up alone, continues to find Buck hiding himself away out here.

Buck puts the phone down and accepts the coffee when Eddie offers. Another sip, another phantom brush of lips that singes in his blood.

“Okay. I’m not going to push you, Buck. But I just want you to know I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Buck traces over the lettering of the mug, says, “I know.”

It’s almost convincing.

“Bobby is okay. He’s home, Athena is watching over him like a hawk. He’s—”

“It’s not Bobby,” Buck interrupts.

Eddie pauses — this is the most he’s gotten out of Buck in days. He waits, watching Buck’s thumb trail over the rim of the mug where both of their mouths have touched, and scrapes a hand over his own lips unconsciously.

“It’s not about Bobby,” Buck continues at last, quiet in the early morning stillness. “Not completely, anyway, and I—I can’t talk about it. With you.”

Buck’s blushing up to his ears now, and Eddie feels like he’s falling, knocked clean on his ass while his body remains perfectly still.

“Oh,” Eddie says, punched out of his lungs before he can stop it.

Buck picks at a loose thread on the plaid comforter and refuses to look at him.

Eddie stutters to fill the silence, awkward for the first time in their friendship. “Um. That’s—I mean, that’s okay, I guess, but you know—you can talk to me about anything, though. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know but not—not this.”

Buck hands the mug back to Eddie, just enough left for one last sip. It tastes like ash in his mouth, lukewarm and too bitter, all traces of hazelnut sweetness gone.

“Do you want br—”

“Why?” Eddie blurts. He twists around until he catches Buck’s eyes. Buck looks like a skittish deer when they meet.

He’s angry, he realizes — it hits him like a freight train. Not at Buck, not really, but at himself, maybe. For failing to do something, or be someone, that has Buck’s unequivocal trust. Everything they’ve been through, seven years of friendship — a word that had never been big enough, important enough, to describe what they have — and now, out of nowhere, there’s something that has Buck doubting. The past few weeks alone have deepened their bond in a way Eddie wasn’t sure was still possible as they held each other through their grief. They cried together, held each other up literally and metaphorically; they cared for each other in ways Eddie’s never had with a partner, let alone a friend before. Buck had even yelled at him for the first time in seven years, actually yelled, when everything inside of him had boiled over at last. And Eddie just took it, and held him when the fight went out of him and Buck collapsed against Eddie’s chest, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” through broken gasps.

And when Bobby came back, he was still there; he was there through their shared euphoria and guilt and all the leftover grief they didn’t know what to do with. And now Buck can’t even look at him.

“It’s not—it’s just something I’m working through, Eddie. I don’t want to—you’re about to bring Chris home, it can wait.”

“No,” Eddie says, and the tense line of Buck’s shoulders deflates. “Come on, Buck. It’s me.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the problem,” Buck admits, a little testy.

“I’m confused. Did I do something to piss you off?” Eddie asks. “Is it—have I been in your space too much or something? I can find a hotel—”

“No,” Buck interrupts. His knee knocks into Eddie’s as he turns to face him more fully. “That’s not it.”

“Then what, Buck? Don’t make me—I can’t leave you for a week and let—whatever this is fester.”

“It’s really okay, you don’t need to worry.”

“Well I’m going to,” Eddie pushes. “So you may as well tell me.”

Buck looks at him helplessly, eyes darting around the room wildly and landing on the blankets they’re wrapped in. And Buck’s never been all that difficult to read — not for him, anyway — so he puts the pieces together pretty quickly.

“Are you uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed?” Eddie hedges. Buck goes rigid, and he knows he’s hit the nail on the head. Stomach sinking, he asks, “Is that why you move to the couch every night?”

They’d slept in the bed together every night when he first came back, waking tangled up in each other more often than not, but he should have realized Buck may not want that now that Bobby was back — now that he didn’t need Eddie to hold him together anymore.

“I—it’s not what you’re thinking, Eddie, I swear.”

“You could have said something, I didn’t mean to assume, we just—after Bobby, I thought—I can move to Chris’ room until he’s back home, and then—”

“No, Eddie, stop,” Buck says. He puts his hands on Eddie’s bare knees, as if he can physically stop Eddie’s stream of consciousness. It works, turns Eddie’s brain embarrassingly fuzzy from the two small points of contact. “That’s not the problem. I-I’m not uncomfortable. The opposite, actually.”

“You’re… too comfortable?” Eddie asks.

“I want it too much,” Buck says, words slurring together in a rush. He pulls his hands back to his lap, and Eddie misses them instantly.

“Want what?” Eddie asks, his own voice barely audible over the rushing in his ears.

Buck looks at his hands, wringing them so tightly his knuckles turn white. Eddie’s own are gripping the mug so hard he has to consciously unclench so he doesn’t put a crack the ceramic.

“Bobby told me he loved me, in the lab,” Buck says. It’s not what he expected to hear, and he rears back a bit in surprise. Buck isn’t fazed, continues, “I didn’t say it back, a-and that stuck with me, the whole time he was gone. Tore me up, really, that I didn’t get to tell him what he meant to me.”

“He knew,” Eddie says reflexively, because it’s true.

“But he deserved to hear it,” Buck insists. “And it made me think about—about things… really think. About the people I love, and how quickly you can lose them.”

It’s quiet for a bit, early morning birdsong the only sounds he can hear. Eddie twirls the mug around in his hand, watching the dregs swirl, and says, “Yeah. Death has a way of doing that. Recalibrates your whole life.”

Buck’s eyes are already on him when he looks up again. The breath he releases is shaky, cheeks flushed, curls askew. He’s beautiful, always, but especially now, backlit with sunlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains. Eddie’s entire nervous system thrums with want, with anticipation.

“You deserve to hear it too,” Buck says softly, and Eddie’s heart somersaults in his chest. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“Buck—”

“And—and I needed you, before, and I still do but—it’s too much, I know. I’m taking too much, and I was just trying to—to not be. Especially now, when you’re about to leave, and when you and Chris come back I’ll have to go, and I just didn’t want to—”

Eddie surges forward, catching Buck’s jaw with one hand, and kisses him. He tastes like coffee and hazelnut, and makes a sweet soft sound when Eddie tilts his jaw where he wants him. His eyes are still closed when Eddie pulls away and brushes his thumb against Buck’s birthmark.

“I love you,” Eddie says, and Buck’s eyes fly open.

“Eddie,” he croaks.

“You deserve to hear it too,” Eddie echoes. “You deserve everything, Buck. You could never be too much, or want anything from me that I wouldn’t give you.”

Buck shakes his head, dislodging Eddie’s hand on his face. He curls it around Buck’s forearm instead. “I don’t deserve you, Eddie.”

“I’ll decide that, thank you very much,” Eddie insists with a grin.

Buck slowly returns the smile, lets Eddie lean in and kiss it off his face.

“Please be sure,” Buck begs him when they part, his hands on Eddie’s face. “Because I want—I want you so much, Eddie. I want everything with you.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees easily. Buck frowns a bit, and Eddie takes the opportunity to climb into his lap. Buck accepts his weight easily, arms wrapped around Eddie’s waist while he presses a soft kiss to his pulse point. Buck shudders and tugs Eddie’s head up to look him in the eye.

“Seriously,” Buck says. “I want to stay here when you get back, with you and Chris. Like, permanently.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees, pressing a kiss to Buck’s mouth.

“And I want to sign all the HR forms at work calling you mine.”

Eddie shivers — Buck misinterprets and tugs the blanket up around his shoulders, and the gesture is so sweet Eddie has to kiss him again. “Okay, baby,” he says against his mouth.

Buck whines, and they get distracted for awhile, lost in each the slick heat of each other’s mouths. Buck breathes, “I want to marry you.”

Eddie swallows hard, but the thought doesn’t scare him. Buck kisses his jaw, nuzzles into his neck, and Eddie says, “Okay.”

Buck lifts his head, smile lighting up the whole room. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says. “I want it all. I want you in my house, my bed, everywhere. Everything.”

“God, Eddie, I love you, I love you so fucking much,”Buck says in a rush, and kisses him so hard their teeth clack together.

Neither of them notice the mug falling to the floor with a thump, staining the rug. It stays there for a month before Chris notices it, and Eddie watches with delight when Buck fishes it from under the couch, blush high on his cheeks when Chris asks how it got there. Chris quickly determines he doesn’t want to know when Buck stutters through an excuse, and rolls his eyes in mock disgust when Eddie snags the mug from Buck’s limp hand and kisses his cheek.

From that day on, it receives a place of honor on their windowsill. Buck deems it too lucky to drink from and plants some basil in it instead, and every time he cooks with it, Eddie could swear he tastes hazelnut.

—

prompts ❤️

[loveinhawkins]

When Steve gets to his last year at Hawkins High, it feels like some kind of veil has been lifted right in front him. Or maybe it’s more that the veil’s actually been slowly lifting for years, and he’s noticing it all the more because it’s no longer there.

Either way, when he receives his yearbook, it doesn’t seem like the huge deal that his younger self would’ve made it out to be; he flicks through the pictures half-heartedly, doesn’t even care when the candid ones taken at sporting events catch him in unflattering poses, lip jutting out in concentration.

If he tried to voice his disinterest, Henderson would probably spout off some precocious shit about societal expectations, and Steve would pretend to nod sagely before stealing whatever dorky hat he happened to be wearing—it’s not like he could let the little shit suspect that he occasionally had a point, Steve would never hear the end of it.

The yearbook signings are predictably inescapable: people passing their books back and forth in class or in the cafeteria—and that one’s a risky move, with the threat of drinks spilling on the pages, whether accidental or malicious.

Steve thinks the fever’s dwindled out until he spends a free period in the school library. The seniors typically all bunch together in one of the far corners, the spots with the comfiest seats—loners included, like the perks of age for once outweigh the usual ridicule.

But that silent truce is not exactly being upheld, Steve notes—Eddie Munson is sitting alone at a nearby table.

It becomes painfully obvious when the signing starts up again. There’s a cluster of girls on the yearbook committee who initiate it, and soon every senior in reach is either passing over their own book or signing one.

Almost every senior.

It’s not like Eddie’s the only person ever to be held back. He’s not even the only one to be held back for next year, either: John Nelson off the swim team is in the same position, and he’s still been asked to sign.

But Steve knows that’s not what the source of exclusion is, not really.

He’s gotten good at spotting silent cruelty—good at avoiding it too, before his popularity gave him a temporary shield.

It’s all just bullshit, he thinks. It’s been a recurring thought lately.

He brings out his own yearbook because he knows it’s expected. When it’s finally passed back round to him, he ends up right near the seat opposite Eddie’s, just by chance.

But actually sitting there is his own choice.

He can tell that Eddie has spotted him even though he’s not looked up from whatever homework he’s doing; there’s a silent tension in the way he’s holding his pen.

Steve mulls it over before he asks the question. It could blow up in his face, but what did that matter, really? In the grand scheme of things, it would hardly count as a major embarrassment; it’s not like it’d be any more mortifying than telling his dad that he didn’t get into any colleges whatsoever.

So he pushes his yearbook across the table, because what the hell.

“Wanna sign?”

Eddie glances up. There’s a guarded look in his eyes, and Steve can almost hear him mentally replaying the question.

“Pardon?” Eddie says with pointed emphasis, like he’s daring Steve, let it drop and we’ll say no more about it, Harrington.

Steve doesn’t take it back. He shrugs and flicks open the yearbook, finds a blank spot and taps it once with his finger, a silent offer.

Eddie stares like Steve’s a riddle, like he’s wondering just who the show’s for—but the other students have turned away, have gone back to their seats, yearbooks temporarily forgotten.

Eddie’s hold on his pen relaxes, ever so slightly.

“You sure, Harrington?” he says. There’s still a wary edge to his voice, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, too, like he’s secretly amused despite himself. “Haven’t you heard what folks say? I could curse you.”

Steve scoffs. “That all you’ve got? I’ve dealt with way worse, man,” he says mildly.

A corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a surprised smile. Then it’s gone almost like it had never been in the first place, his gaze turning thoughtful rather than defensive.

And obviously this isn’t Eddie’s first rodeo at the whole senior year thing. Steve wonders if there’s a veil that’s been lifted for him too, wonders if he can see straight through it right now.

The bell rings.

Eddie stands up, gathering his stuff.

Steve thinks that’s the end of it: something that’s neither a success or a failure.

But then, lightning fast, Eddie darts across the table and scribbles something on the open page. Slams the yearbook shut and pushes it back over, and it feels like a challenge, like some of his caginess is back—like he’s just daring Steve to reveal that it had been a joke all along—

“Bet you’re counting down the days till you can hold your own copy, huh?” Steve says dryly, as he stuffs the book into his bag.

It’s a risk; he knows Eddie could easily take it as pure ridicule, could misinterpret it as Steve throwing the failed school years back in his face.

Eddie just shakes his head, but he could be laughing—the moment’s gone too quickly for Steve to know for sure.

“Nah, Harrington,” Eddie says easily, thrown over his shoulder as he leaves, “those things aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”

Steve doesn’t check the yearbook until he’s home. He eventually finds Eddie’s signature, simple black ink right in the upper corner of one page.

Good luck, Steve. —Eddie

Some of the letters are bunched a little too close together, drifting upwards on the blank page, as if they usually need lined paper to guide them—left-handed, Steve thinks vaguely.

Within a sea of scrawled nicknames and loudly enthusiastic messages, Steve finds that he kind of likes how mundane Eddie’s truly is. Likes the sign off with minimal fuss. Just “Eddie.” Likes how he was just “Steve”, too.

And yeah, if anyone needed to be told good luck, Steve thinks, with the kind of amusement that only comes from distance—pictures his past self, freaking out about monsters come to life.

He slots the yearbook into his bookcase. By summer he might forget about it altogether, left to gather dust as he works for 3 bucks an hour, but for now he marks its significance: something real, hidden alongside the bullshit.

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 27

<<<Previous Next>>>

Shadow Milk Cookie still held your hand under the table, his fingers a calm, steady presence against your palm as conversation shifted toward the end of semester ceremony.

The buzz of it filled every corridor of the Academy. Students whispering about formalities and changes, about what would become of the Spire now that it had accepted its first cohort. And about him, of course.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him with something bordering on suspicion. “So… the ceremony,” you began, your tone casual perhaps too casual. “Are the rumors true?”

Shadow Milk Cookie turned his head ever so slightly, golden eyes meeting yours with the faintest glint of amusement. “Which rumors are we entertaining now?” 

You raised a brow. “The ones about you getting a new outfit. Some kind of ceremonial uniform for your new title.” 

There was a moment of pause. Then, smoothly, “Yes. I’ve been informed that I will be receiving ‘adjusted ceremonial robes’ to signify my new role as the Fount of Knowledge.” 

Chai Latte Cookie perked up immediately. “Adjusted? Does that mean no more” she made a vague gesture toward her own head, “hat?”

You glanced sideways at him again, mischief flickering in your eyes. “Please tell me you’re not wearing that hat again.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a faint exhale close to a sigh, closer still to a laugh. “There will be no hat,” he said dryly. “It has been… retired.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted into his cup. “A moment of silence for the tragic end of academia’s strangest fashion choice.”

Chai Latte giggled. “Oh, thank the stars.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, trying not to grin too openly. “So what’s replacing it? A golden scroll? A floating quill? A philosophical aura of superiority?” 

He lifted a brow, perfectly composed. “A crown.”

That made you blink. “A crown?”

“A modest one,” he clarified. “After… negotiation.” Earl Grey Cookie looked vaguely impressed. “You negotiated the dimensions of a crown?” 

Shadow Milk inclined his head. “They were insistent on something ostentatious. I insisted on functionality.”

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned in, grinning. “Admit it, you just didn’t want someone making fun of it.” A pause. 

Shadow Milk’s gaze slid toward you for half a heartbeat, then back to his cup. “Perhaps I was… persuaded.” 

You choked slightly on your drink. Chai Latte gasped, scandalized. “Wait, regardless of the new outfit you got him to give up the giant ornate hat, negotiating for a smaller crown?!” 

“I didn’t mean to!” you sputtered. “I mean regarding the hat I just said it looked like something an alchemist would wear to hide their shame!” 

Earl Grey looked over the rim of his cup, serene. “That sounds very much like something you’d say.”

“I didn’t think he’d listen!” But he had. You realized that now he had listened. Not just to the teasing jabs or the complaints about the hat, but to you. 

Always, in quiet ways you hadn’t realized until now. You looked at him again, and for a split second, your thoughts veered wondering not just what the crown would look like, but if he actually had more than one set of his usual clothes. 

If there was some enchanted closet filled with identical outfits or if… he really wore the same one every day. You didn’t ask. It felt too personal. Besides, some mysteries were better left unsolved.

Instead, you leaned back and smiled faintly, resting your chin on your hand. “Well. I hope you know, whatever they dress you in, I’m still going to recognize you the same.” 

He glanced at you, and though his expression didn’t shift much, there was something softer behind his eyes. “Good,” he said simply. “Because I have no intention of changing.” And beneath the table, his fingers gave yours a gentle squeeze an unspoken truth, shared just between you.

You squeezed his hand slightly, teasing, voice low and laced with mischief. “But what if one day you do change?” you asked, letting the question hang. “How would I recognize you then?” 

His cup touched the saucer with a soft, decisive clink. Across the table, Chai Latte Cookie glanced up, sensing the shift in tone. 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, midway through stealing another pastry, froze. Earl Grey Cookie didn’t move, but you caught the way he watched the two of you with subtle curiosity always reading the air.

Shadow Milk tilted his head just a little, enough for a strand of starlit hair to fall across his cheek. His gaze met yours directly, something slow and deep flickering in his eyes like the calm before a tide changed. “If I were to change,” he said quietly, “I imagine you’d still find me.”

You blinked. “Even if the outfit vanished,” he continued, “if the titles faded, and the stars refused to answer me… I suspect you’d know.” You stared, not quite breathing. “And if not by sight,” he added, more gently now, “then by the way I still look for you first when the room gets loud. By the way I never quite know peace until I hear you laugh.” 

Your lips parted, unsure whether to grin or cry or melt into the stone floor altogether. Somewhere to your left, Chai Latte made a sound like a choked squeal and buried her face in her hands.

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned across the table, whispering to Earl Grey Cookie, “This is so unfair. My standards are ruined. Forever.” 

Earl Grey merely sipped his tea and murmured, “It’s about time they spoke plainly.” You meanwhile were busy short-circuiting.

“I was joking,” you finally managed to say, voice breathy and not at all convincing.

“I know,” Shadow Milk said softly, his smile almost secretive. “But I wasn’t.”

 You turned slightly in your seat, knees angled toward him, elbow propped lazily on the table though your expression was anything but casual. You were close shoulders nearly touching. The soft hum of conversation in the dining hall had dulled into white noise around you, your focus narrowed entirely to the way Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand curled around his teacup and the thoughtful set of his mouth.

“But really,” you murmured, nudging his arm gently with yours. “What if everything changes? What if one day I see someone who looks nothing like you? No title, no theatrical riddles…”

His brow arched faintly at that. “…How would I know?” you pressed, voice softer now. 

“Just give me one sure way. Something only you would do. So that no matter what, I’d recognize you.” He didn’t answer right away. The request landed with more weight than you’d anticipated. 

You watched it settle into him and watched his eyes drift slightly downward, not in avoidance but in concentration. He didn’t rush. 

Shadow Milk Cookie never rushed when it came to truths. His fingers stilled against his teacup, and the furrow in his brow deepened just a fraction. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled.

“If I were to vanish into another face,” he began slowly, voice like velvet pressed into thought, “into another name, another shape, if memory, time, or circumstance ever pulled me too far from you…” You held your breath. “…I would leave behind a question.”

You blinked. “A… question?” He nodded. “A single riddle. One no scholar would ever know but you. One that wouldn’t feel like a riddle at all, just a familiar curiosity only you would find comforting.” 

You stared at him, mouth parting slightly. “Something like…” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with private knowing.

“If a star forgets the sky it once called home… where would it go looking for itself again?” You went still.

“That’s how you’d know,” he said softly. “If someone ever asked you that anywhere, in any form you’d know it was me.” 

Your heart ached. Not in pain just in that strange, full way that came with being seen so clearly it almost hurt. You swallowed hard. “…That’s really unfair, you know.” He turned to face you more fully, the distance between you vanishing in an instant, his gaze locked on yours.

“How so?”

“Because now I have to remember that forever,” you said, laughing weakly, trying to keep your voice steady. “And what if I mess it up? What if I forget, or-”

“You won’t,” he said. There was no hesitation. And you believed him. Even if everything else one day changed, even if time unraveled the shape of what you were now, you’d remember that. You’d know.

Chai Latte Cookie had been pretending not to be so invested…emphasis on pretending. From across the table, where she’d been casually sipping her tea and quietly rearranging everyone’s leftover fruit slices into smiley faces, her entire demeanor changed the moment she caught wind of that line. 

Her cup clattered softly onto its saucer. “Oh my gods,” she breathed.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who’d been about to steal one of her grape eyes, paused mid-reach. “What now?”

 She didn’t answer him. Instead, she clutched the front of his sleeve like the world had just tilted sideways. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, eyes shining with equal parts amazement and disbelief. “Did you hear what he just said?”

“I mean, I was sort of paying attention, yeah?”

“That wasn’t just poetic,” Chai continued breathlessly, practically trembling as she leaned into Hazelnut Biscotti’s side. “That was transcendent. That was celestial. That was star-level devotion!” 

Hazelnut Biscotti winced as she grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “He said he’d leave a riddle just for them! A soul-coded password across realms and forms! Who even does that?!”

“Apparently he does,” Earl Grey Cookie murmured from the side, sipping his tea without comment, though even his usually stoic expression had cracked into something vaguely impressed. 

Chai Latte looked at you, eyes practically misting over. “You absolute fool,” she wailed, affectionately dramatic. “How could you not see it before? How could you look at a man who speaks in cosmological riddles meant only for you and not realize he’s already carved your name into the stars?”

“Okay,” you mumbled, cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t that-”

“No,” she interrupted, pointing a grape at you as if delivering divine judgment. “No downplaying. Don’t you dare. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and I once saw two ghost-cursed lovers reunite at the gates of the Nightmare Archive.” 

You blinked. “That was… weirdly specific.”

“I cried for days.” You laughed despite yourself, watching as Chai Latte curled dramatically into Hazelnut Biscotti’s side again, who despite pretending to be unfazed gently patted her shoulder with a snack still in hand. 

“I mean,” she sniffed, voice still muffled, “it doesn’t even matter if he changes. Because let’s be honest…” She deadpanned “Do you really think he’s capable of not being the most ridiculously devoted version of himself? He’d probably still wear the same outfit and talk like a sentient prophecy even if he turned into a bird.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d be an annoying bird,” Hazelnut Biscotti added with a smirk. “One that judges you from a bookshelf.” 

Chai wiped her eyes dramatically. “Exactly. So don’t worry, stargazer.” She beamed at you through slightly glassy eyes and emphasizing the nickname that was most given just to mess with you. “He’s already chosen you.” 

You opened your mouth to argue. And then closed it again. Because… she was right. Maybe you had known all along. You just hadn’t dared to believe it. Not until recently. 

You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, heart fluttering with a softness that pulsed beneath your ribs like a slow, steady spell. His gaze met yours quiet, watchful, and filled with that ever-present patience that had come to feel like home. 

You could still feel the phantom weight of his words from moments ago how he’d given you a way to find him, even in other forms, other lifetimes. As if the universe itself couldn’t hide him from you.

And you smiled. “I’m glad you chose me,” you said softly, sincerity threading every syllable. His expression barely shifted but the warmth behind his eyes, the subtle lift of his brow, the faintest flicker of something like relief that passed through him it said everything.

“Oh my god!” Chai Latte Cookie screeched, grabbing Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie by the shoulders as though she were about to ascend. “Did you hear that?! Did you hear it?! They just said they said they were glad he chose them! That’s- that’s-!”

“Romance incarnate?” Hazelnut Biscotti offered, only mildly amused as he let her shake him like a leaf in the wind. 

“YES,” she wailed. “This is why I never stopped teasing you!” she cried, directing the full force of her dramatics at you now. “Because I knew! I KNEW this was real and tragic and beautiful and messy and I lived for it!” 

You groaned, half-laughing, hiding your face in your hands again. “Chai”

“No, no, let me feel this!” she said, one hand over her heart, the other dramatically fanning her face. “You don’t understand. Every time I teased you, I was planting seeds of destiny. I nurtured your love with the power of mischief! You should be thanking me!”

“You’re being so normal right now,” Earl Grey Cookie deadpanned. 

“Let her have this,” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered, still being clung to. Chai, utterly unbothered, turned to Shadow Milk Cookie with red-carpet-level flair. “And you, my celestial scholar, if you ever hurt them, I will cry in public and make it your problem.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t blink. “Then I suppose I shall endeavor to prevent such suffering… for your sake.”

“Oh stars, he’s just as bad!” Chai wailed again, leaning so far into Hazelnut Biscotti you weren’t sure she’d recover. But you didn’t stop smiling. 

Not as your friends collapsed back into familiar chatter, not as the magic of the moment settled between you and Shadow Milk Cookie like a quiet truth. 

You hadn’t always known where this path would lead but standing here now, surrounded by the chaos of your friends and the steadiness of the one who chose you…You were starting to believe you didn’t need a name for it. Just this. Just now. Just him.

Chai Latte Cookie sighed dreamily, still leaning dramatically into Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s side, her expression flushed with the weight of imagined poetry. “As much as I desperately want to stay here and soak in this whirlwind of academic romance…”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie gave her a look. “You mean meddle.”

“Same difference,” she chirped, waving him off. “The point is we should probably give you two some space.” 

You blinked. “Wait, what?” 

Chai gave you a look so knowing it bordered on scandalous. “Come on. Don’t act surprised. You think we didn’t notice the way you were looking at him just now? That little ‘I’m glad you chose me’ moment? My soul left my body.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stood with a groan, brushing imaginary crumbs off his sleeves. “She’s not gonna shut up about this until graduation, is she?”

“Absolutely not,” Chai Latte Cookie said cheerfully, already taking his arm as she pulled herself up. You turned to Earl Grey Cookie, the last still seated. 

He hesitated, fingers still curled lightly around his teacup. His eyes flicked between you and Shadow Milk Cookie, unreadable for a second. Then he exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, and gave a small nod. “If you need anything… send word. To me or Hazelnut Biscotti. We’ll come.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who had taken one step away, paused and shot Earl Grey Cookie a half-glare, half-wince. 

He leaned in slightly, muttering low enough that only Earl could hear, “Stop being so overprotective, you're going to ignite a fire that’s already being put out.” Earl raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his gaze lingering just long enough to show he understood.

“You two done whispering secrets?” Chai Latte Cookie sing-songed.

“We're good,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grumbled, straightening.

Earl Grey Cookie gave you one final nod. “Truly. Just send for us.” Then, like the coordinated chaos they always were, your friends peeled away, their laughter already echoing through the corridor as Chai poked and prodded Hazelnut about pastry betrayals and Earl Grey attempted to herd them with quiet dignity. 

The space left behind was quieter but not empty. Just… yours. Shadow Milk Cookie turned toward you with a soft breath, one brow raised, gaze still warm.

“Alone at last,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. You leaned back slightly on the now mostly-empty bench, watching as your friends disappeared around the corner in their usual flurry of banter and bickering. 

The last of their voices faded beneath the ambient murmurs of the dining hall a crowd that had most certainly not missed the way you’d sat beside the Sage of Truth like you belonged there.

“I mean…” you began, glancing sideways at him. “It wasn’t that bad. Sure, more chaotic than usual. But honestly? It was good. Really good.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a long sigh, one gloved hand rising to rub lightly at his temple. “Good for you, perhaps. I’m still recovering from the verbal whiplash.” You stifled a laugh. 

“I had fun, however,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “If that wasn’t already clear.”

“It kind of was.”

“I am… not used to this,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the now-vacated seats, still warm with presence. “This… whirlwind of emotion. The overlapping dialogues. The unfiltered teasing. I understand you’re protective of them, and they of you, but” he paused, exhaling, “it is… exhausting.”

You looked at him carefully, searching for any sign that he regretted coming. But he wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t shutting down. 

He was just being honest. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he added quickly, gaze flicking back to you. “It was… unfamiliar. But not unwelcome. To be included like that.”

You smiled, heart warm. “They did it for me. Not because you’re the Sage of Truth. Just because you’re… something to me.” 

He didn’t answer right away, but the slight tilt of his head and the softening of his shoulders said more than words could. Still, his eyes lingered in the direction Earl Grey had gone. “And… is Earl Grey Cookie always that overprotective with you?” 

he asked, the question so casual you could practically see the quotation marks around it.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly too quickly, returning to rubbing slow circles at his temple like he could wipe the thought away. You grinned, leaning forward with your elbow on the table. 

“Were you jealous?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You watched his silence with an amused sparkle in your eye. “You were.”

“I merely observed,” he said, dignified but flat, “that his hands lingered longer than strictly necessary.” 

You snorted. “It’s not a crime to find grounding in someone who’s known me since childhood,” you said, resting your chin on your palm. “Besides… you’re the one I-” You hesitated, then finished more softly, “chose to sit beside.”

He looked at you then, the tension in his brow easing into something quieter. Still, the dining hall’s buzz hadn’t quite let you go. 

You could feel the stares, hear the hushes the whispers blooming like ivy along the walls. You glanced away, uneasy for the first time that day. “They’re all wondering,” you murmured.

“Let them,” Shadow Milk Cookie replied, without hesitation. “They have nothing but questions. We have… whatever this is.” 

You looked at him again, and the warmth of his expression tired as he might’ve been, settled something in your chest. And for a moment, the stares didn’t matter. The whispers didn’t matter. You were simply there. With him. In the quiet left behind. You smiled. “So,” you said, nudging his elbow lightly, “how many more shared meals with my chaotic friends do you think you’ll survive?” He sighed again, but this time, there was something almost amused in it.

“…One at a time,” he muttered. 

You laughed. “That’s fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie caught the slight shift in your shoulders the way your voice dipped lower, hesitant, almost too soft to hear above the quiet murmur of the dining hall.

“…Can we go somewhere else?” you asked, fingers nervously tracing the rim of your teacup. “I don’t mind staying here, I just” 

You glanced around subtly, not wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they’d been noticed. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking. The eyes. Even if I can pretend for a while.”

He didn’t follow your gaze. He didn’t need to. The attention was obvious. There was no hiding the way the atmosphere had shifted once your friends had left and the seat beside the Sage of Truth remained occupied by you. 

No one said anything aloud, but curiosity clung to the air like fog. For a moment, he was quiet. Then, gently, so much so it almost startled you, his hand reached across the table. Not to grab. Not to hold. Just to touch, fingers brushing yours in a way that grounded more than it startled. 

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, voice low and steady. “Not for me. Not for anyone.” You looked down at his hand, then up into his gaze calm, unwavering, certain in a way only he could be.

“I’ve withstood years of scrutiny, endless speculation, and truths that once cracked the world open,” he murmured. “But this?”

 His thumb ghosted across your knuckles. “Us? I would bear tenfold the weight if it meant you could walk beside me without fear.” 

Your breath caught. The din of the dining hall faded, muffled by the intimacy of the moment. He tilted his head slightly. “But if you wish to leave… we can. Say the word.” You hesitated, heart skipping just once.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s go.” He rose in one graceful motion, offering his hand without a single glance toward the lingering onlookers. As if none of them mattered. As if you were the only one who did. And maybe, in that moment you were. You took his hand.

For the first time, in full view of the Academy’s whispers and wonderings, you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers found his, lacing with care, and still he didn’t look back. Not once.

He walked forward with that same quiet certainty he always carried, his coattails trailing behind him, the scent of parchment and old ink lingering faintly as you slipped through the arching halls together. The dining hall’s murmurs faded behind you, but the thrum in your chest didn’t ease. You walked in silence for a while, turning into the quieter wings of the Academy, where the stone corridors grew older and the air softer, hushed by centuries of scholars who had wandered them before.

Only then did you speak. “…You’re really not worried?”

His stride didn’t falter. “About what?” 

You glanced away, voice low. “This. Us. The way people looked when we stood up back there. The things they’re probably saying now.” 

He didn’t respond. You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than intended. “I mean, you’re you. You have… a reputation. A place here. People admire you, they quote you, they rely on you to be above all this. You’re the Sage of Truth. And I’m just…”

You trailed off. The echo of your own words made your stomach twist. “I just… I don’t want people to think less of you because of me. I know how that sounds,” you added quickly, “and I know it’s not fair to assume, but it’s just if anyone started to think that you’re distracted or being careless, or if something happened that made it look like this meant less to you, or too much-” You were rambling now. The thoughts poured out faster than you could contain them, clumsy, unfiltered.

“I’m not saying I regret anything. I don’t. But you’ve spent your whole life being someone the entire Academy looks up to. And I don’t want to be the reason they start to look twice. Not because I think they matter, but because you do.”

 You couldn’t meet his eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stopped walking. You stopped with him, uncertain, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His expression was calm, serious, but not heavy.

“You think I’ve lived this long,” he began, “shouldering the weight of knowledge, of scrutiny, of truth itself… only to falter at the idea that someone might talk?” 

His voice wasn’t sharp. Just quiet. Unshakably certain. “I have been dissected in lecture halls, debated by minds brighter than fire, misunderstood, misquoted, dismissed, and exalted in the same breath.” He lifted your hand gently, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“But I have never let others decide the value of what I hold close.” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. 

“I don’t think you understand just how much of yourself you offer,” you murmured.

 “How much you mean to people here.” He looked at you fully then, the flickering lantern light catching in the gold threads of his sleeves and the soft blue of his gaze. 

“And you think that offering less of myself would make me greater?” You didn’t answer.

“Let them wonder,” he said. “Let them whisper. If their truths are so fragile they fracture at the sight of mine… they were never truths at all.” 

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure how he could say something so simple and yet leave your entire chest feeling cracked open. And then, softer, almost like a secret between you 

“I will not lose myself by choosing you.” It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t a line spoken for effect. It was just truth, spoken as he always did with unwavering conviction. You didn’t feel the need to question it.

The two of you slipped through the quiet corridors like a secret carried by dusk.

Past the celestial archways, down the scholar’s wing where the golden lanterns burned slower and quieter, where footsteps softened against the worn stone, and voices if they ever spoke knew to hush themselves. Your hand still rested in his. The gesture was steady now, your grip looser, the tension easing little by little with each step you took further from the gazes left behind in the dining hall.

By the time you reached the door, his door your nerves had circled back in full. The carved constellations on the wood shimmered faintly, like they too recognized you now. Familiar. Recurring. 

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. It was his space, ancient and deliberate. The door opened for him on its own, a faint pulse of magic rippling through the frame as if it bowed to his presence. 

You stepped in after him, eyes drifting across the countless tomes, artifacts, and carefully arranged scrolls that lined the walls. The room smelled like parchment and starlight if such a thing had a scent, and something warm, like aged wood left out under moonlight. He gestured wordlessly toward your usual seat across from his. But this time, you hesitated.

“…Could I maybe sit next to you?” you asked, barely louder than the rustle of pages still drifting from somewhere in the room. His head turned toward you, just slightly, gaze unreadable. You added, quickly, “Not to be a distraction, I just… I think I might follow better if I can see what you’re doing up close.” 

He said nothing. So, tentatively, you grabbed your chair, fingers curling under the edge, and started to drag it around the table toward him. The legs squeaked across the floor in protest. 

Then, before you could reach halfway, your chair moved on its own. It glided soundless across the polished stone and stopped gently right beside him. Close enough that you could read the script on his notes if you leaned in. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his sleeves.

You blinked, startled. “Wait did you…?”

He hummed, opening one of the tomes with the same calm he always wore. “You seemed to be struggling.” 

You turned toward him, still processing. “You could do that the whole time?” His tone remained smooth, almost amused. “Of course.”

“But last time, I practically had to carry the chair around the desk.” A flicker of amusement danced at the corner of his mouth. “You never asked.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “So you let me struggle with it?”

“I was curious to see how long you’d persist,”  Your mouth parted in disbelief, and you lightly smacked your hand against your forehead. “Unbelievable.” 

Then, more softly, and without thinking, “What else can you do?” That made him pause. Not for long just a heartbeat but long enough that you noticed it.

“You’re the Sage of Truth,” you added, half-playful but not really joking. “You’re one of the most powerful scholars in the entire Academy. If you can move chairs without even blinking, then I can’t imagine what else you’re hiding.” 

He looked at you then, at last. The glow of the desk lamp caught the reflection in his mismatched eyes, one blue, the other a beautiful gold, like knowledge and the unknown woven together.

“I have spent years studying the weave of magic, the architecture of knowledge, and the shape of reality itself,” he said.

“Yes, I can bend the elements. I can fold space if I must. I can summon starlight and silence with the same breath.” He leaned forward, voice lowering just slightly, not out of secrecy but gravity.

“But the most difficult thing I have done lately…” His gaze lingered on yours, unreadable. “…is trying to explain spell theory to someone who keeps doubting their own brilliance.” 

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “…That’s not fair,” you mumbled, eyes darting down toward your notes. “No,” he agreed gently. “It isn’t.” 

The silence that followed was warm. Heavy, but not oppressive like a blanket you were still adjusting to. You adjusted slightly in the chair he’d so graciously placed beside his. He made no effort to shift away, to reclaim his space. If anything, he welcomed your proximity without ever needing to say it.

You stared down at the parchment in front of you smooth, unmarred by your usual frantic ink strokes. His notes were immaculate, the diagrams elegant, precise. You caught yourself tracing one with your finger, careful not to smudge it. A sigil looped into itself like an orbit, pulling your thoughts inward along with it. “Can you shapeshift?” The question tumbled out of you before you’d fully decided to ask.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s quill paused mid-line. You glanced sideways at him, only half sheepish. “You just moved a whole chair like it was nothing. And yesterday, you corrected three different things on my page before I even showed you the page. You bend light, silence, space. So… shapeshifting? That’s not a leap, right?”

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he rested the quill across the inkwell with quiet precision, then folded his hands atop the parchment. “You are aware,” he said slowly, “that shapeshifting is not merely a novelty.” 

You shrugged, lips quirking. “You say that like you didn’t just telekinetically scoot a chair across the room because I was making too much noise.”

He exhaled through his nose something close to a laugh, if he allowed himself such undignified things. “It is a discipline,” he said, tilting his head ever so slightly. “One that requires precise attunement between one’s sense of self and the arcane framework of transformation.”

“…So you can.” His mouth twitched. “Yes.” You blinked. “Just like that?”

“There is no ‘just’ about it,” he replied, but there was no real admonishment in his tone. “The first time I attempted it, I lost my voice for three days and temporarily forgot the alphabet.” You covered your mouth, barely stifling your laughter. “You forgot the alphabet?”

“I remembered it later. Backwards.” You snorted, the sound echoing embarrassingly in the otherwise quiet room. 

“That’s incredible. Horrifying, but incredible.” He turned to you then, that unreadable gaze softening if only a little. “I have not attempted it in some time. There is little need, and many… consequences, when it is done improperly.”

“Still,” you said, turning to face him fully, your expression openly curious now, “you’ve done it. I’ve only read about it in theory. Most scholars treat it like a myth impossible unless you're touched by some ancient force or bound by jam magic or something wild like that. But you…”

You trailed off, eyes still searching his. “You just can.” He regarded you for a long moment, then said quietly, “Much becomes possible when one stops telling themselves what is not.” 

The words settled into your chest like weight and warmth at once. You looked down at the notes again, the symbols that had felt impossibly complex just days ago. They still were. You still didn’t understand half of what he’d written. But suddenly, that didn’t seem like a wall it felt like a path. One you might actually walk.

One you were already walking. “You’re not going to shapeshift now, are you?” you asked, a bit more lightly. “I would prefer not to transform into a desk lamp in front of you,” he said with perfectly straight delivery. You smiled quietly and reluctantly.  “Fair.” 

You let your fingers skim the edge of his desk, still marveling at how close you were allowed to be at how natural it felt to sit here beside him, as if the centuries of scholarly silence in this room had made space just for you. 

Your thoughts spun, full of quiet wonder and a thousand unasked questions, but one in particular itched at your curiosity. Still half-draped over the parchment, you turned toward him, eyes wide with the beginnings of something dangerously close to awe.

“…Wait,” you said slowly, “can you shapeshift into a different person?” Shadow Milk Cookie did not look up from his notes. “In theory.” 

“Like… a full disguise?” you pressed, voice softer now, but undeniably more alive. “Could you look completely different? Sound different?”

He finally lifted his gaze, and the look he gave you was… unreadable. As always. But there was a spark behind it, an almost imperceptible gleam of amusement at your obvious interest. You leaned in, unable to stop yourself.

“Have you done it before? You have, haven’t you?” He didn't answer. Not directly. Which was as good as a yes. You blinked, startled by the mental image forming in your head. “You could’ve walked through the Academy and no one would’ve known it was you. You could’ve sat in a lecture, or oh gone to the dining hall without people staring the whole time. That’s incredible.”

The words tumbled out before you could filter them. “Would you-could you show me?” There was a pause. 

Then you caught yourself. You sat up straighter, cleared your throat, and immediately looked away. “Never mind. That’s-never mind. Forget I asked. It’s fine.” 

Dignity. A fragile, flickering thing. He was still watching you, you could feel it, but he said nothing. You braved a glance. His expression was unreadable again but softer than before. A knowing sort of silence. Like he could do it, probably even without standing. Like he would, if you asked again.

But he didn’t tease. He didn’t say a word. And somehow, that was worse. You exhaled, trying to look busy, trying not to think about what it might be like to see someone else in his place to hear his voice from a stranger’s face. 

“…You’re terrifying,” you muttered under your breath. 

“Still,” he replied without looking up, “you remain seated beside me.” You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat and turned sharply back to the parchment. For your own dignity’s sake, you did not speak again for a full three minutes.

You stayed quiet for exactly three minutes.

Which, considering the swirl of thoughts ricocheting through your head, was an act of monumental restraint. But eventually even as your eyes flicked between the complex diagrams on the parchment and the steady movement of Shadow Milk Cookie’s quill you couldn’t help yourself. “…That would be so cool.”

He didn’t glance up, but you could feel the subtle pause in his motion. You leaned forward, chin resting lightly in your hand. “To just… change the way you look. Just because. No spells, no glamours, not an illusion but real. Tangible. That’s… amazing.” 

His tone, when it came, was even. “It has its uses.” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “Could you… become a woman?”

His writing stilled completely this time. “I mean-” you rushed, hands lifting as if to catch the question and stuff it back in your mouth, “not right now. I’m just curious. You said you could change your form completely. So… could you?” 

He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned his gaze to you, patient and unblinking. You faltered, looking away. “That would be incredible. Like… becoming someone else entirely, even for a little while. To see how the world looks at you differently. To see what you would look like.”

You paused, biting your bottom lip. “I was going to ask if you’d show me,” you admitted, face warming, “just once. Just so I could see. But then I realized that’s probably weird. So I’m not asking. I mean I was asking. But I’m not now.” Silence. You sighed. “I’m digging a hole, aren’t I.”

“A deep one,” he said calmly. “Though I’m impressed by how quickly.” 

You groaned quietly and buried your face in your hands for a moment. “Forget it. Pretend I said nothing.” But you didn’t really want to let it go. Not yet. You peeked at him between your fingers, voice quieter now. 

“Is that… is that why you don’t do it often? Because it feels like lying? Pretending to be someone you’re not?” His expression didn’t shift much but it didn’t need to. There was something in his stillness that gave you pause.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Partially.” 

That surprised you. He turned his gaze toward the far bookshelf, where soft blue sigils pulsed like a quiet heartbeat. “To alter form is not merely to change appearance,” he said. “It requires the reshaping of self. The adjustment of voice, movement, weight, presence. It becomes easier to forget what is real. What is yours. And what was only borrowed.”

You listened, quiet now. “I do not lie,” he said simply. “Even when I could. Especially then.”

“…Because you’re the Sage of Truth.” He stared at you with a look, as if to say exactly. You sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in. 

Then, almost without thinking, you whispered, “But… if it’s not lying. Like if you’re not using it to deceive, then maybe it’s not wrong.” His gaze found yours again. Something gentler there now. Not agreement. Not argument. Just… interest.

“You are curious,” he said. You nodded. “It’s just if I had that kind of power, I’d want to know what it’s like to be… everything. Everyone. Not to fool anyone. Just… to understand.” You hesitated. “To know what else I could be.” 

He watched you for a long, long moment. And then, very quietly, he said,  “Perhaps… one day.” And your heart stuttered like a secret had just been offered, tucked between his words like a folded page in an ancient book, waiting to be read.

You stared at him.

Not in the way you usually did when you were trying to follow his explanations, or pretending not to notice the way his voice dipped when he got caught up in thought. Not in the way you caught glimpses of him during lectures from the back row, scribbling his theorems in sharp, fluid strokes with the same grace he used to tear your logic apart. This was different.

You tilted your head, gaze softening as you studied the arch of his cheekbones, the delicate precision of his fingers as they returned to the page. 

His features were already… beautiful. Refined. Thoughtful. There was an effortless elegance to him like he was carved from the same stillness as the night sky itself. You genuinely tried to imagine what he’d look like differently. 

Sharper jaw softened. Shoulders a little narrower. Hair pinned up or let loose in long, astral waves. The clothes the same…no, maybe not. A different cut, perhaps. Same celestial embroidery, but traced along a different frame.

Still poised. Still composed. Still him. You squinted slightly. “I think I can picture it.” 

He glanced up at you, mildly. “Ah.” You blinked, realizing you’d said it aloud. 

“I wasn’t! I mean, I wasn’t trying to picture it, I just… you know, you said it was possible, and now I can’t not wonder what you’d look like.” You paused. “That sounds weird.”

“It does,” he agreed without missing a beat. You huffed and sank a little lower in your seat, fingers fiddling with the edge of the parchment. “Well, now I’m curious and mildly horrified by my own imagination, so thank you for that.” 

He didn’t respond immediately. But something in the line of his mouth hinted at quiet amusement. You dared another glance at him. “Would you still talk the same?”

His gaze slid to you steady, unreadable. “I imagine the voice would change,” he said. “Cadence, tone, presence. But the truth would remain the same.” 

You blinked. “Of course it would,” you murmured. Because of course he would say that. Still, you couldn’t help it. Your eyes drifted back to his features already graceful in ways you couldn’t explain, already walking some fine line between myth and scholar and something too vast for either. 

You imagined the same gaze behind longer lashes. The same smile, but curved in a slightly different shape. The same voice no, not the same, but still his saying something that left your thoughts in disarray.

You bit your lip, looking away. “I think you’d be… terrifying.” He hummed. “Only as terrifying as I am now, I hope.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s the problem.” 

He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. And you didn’t stop thinking about it. Not really. You were quiet again but not the kind of quiet that meant you were done asking questions. He knew that. He always knew. You sat there beside him, still half-lost in thought, eyes on the parchment but your mind drifting far beyond it. You weren’t even pretending to read anymore. Not really.

Then, you softly spoke up. “What else can you do?” He glanced sideways at you. You didn’t meet his gaze. You were still staring at the page, as though the question wasn’t meant to land too heavily. But it did. 

“I mean,” you continued, a little bolder now, “you can shapeshift. You can move furniture with a thought. You’ve probably memorized half the Nightmare Archive, and I’m pretty sure you once stopped someone’s ink from spilling mid-air and reversed the stain on their robes.”

You finally turned to him. “So what else? What else can you do that you just… don’t?” He considered you. Not in the usual way that academic, thoughtful narrowing of his eyes when weighing an idea. Like he was trying to decide how much of himself to place in your hands. 

“There is much I am capable of,” he said, voice level. “But very little I find necessary.”

You blinked, unsure what you expected, but somehow that wasn’t it. “I am not interested in spectacle,” he added. “Power is not worth much if it eclipses the very people I wish to reach.”

“…Eclipses?” He turned his eyes back to the parchment. “I could levitate,” he said plainly. You blinked again. “You what?”

“Levitate,” he repeated. “Easily. Effortlessly.” Your eyes widened. “And you don’t?!”

“No.”

“Why not?! That’s so so cool! You could float into a room and everyone would just know you’re the Sage of Truth. Not that they don’t already, but-!” 

He raised a brow. “Exactly.” You faltered. He continued, “I do not need to hover above the ground to make my presence known. More importantly, I do not wish to place myself so high that I no longer feel reachable.”

Your breath caught. Oh. You looked at him again and it struck you how often he chose stillness over grandeur, presence over performance. 

How he walked with quiet steps, sat at eye-level, answered your scattered questions without ever making you feel foolish. 

“You think… levitating would make you seem out of reach,” you said, more softly now. He nodded once. “It is not power that makes one respected. It is how one wields it.” 

You were quiet again. Not because you had nothing to say this time but because something in your chest had gone very, very still. And then, almost as an afterthought:

“…So… you’re telling me you’ve been walking this whole time. When you could have been floating.”

“I will walk for centuries,” he replied, not looking up. “I can continue a while longer.” You stared at him. “…You’re ridiculous,” you said, half-laughing. He glanced at you one brow raised, not unkindly. “Again, you remain beside me.”

You smiled, helpless against it. “Yeah I suppose I do.” You leaned back slightly in your chair, the weight of his words still lingering, but already your thoughts were shifting restless, mischievous. The parchment between you lay untouched. The notes, diagrams, and spells sat waiting, but your focus had long since wandered from the ink.

Truthfully, you had no intention of revisiting spell theory today.

Not because you didn’t need to.

But because you’d been sitting through Almond Custard Cookie’s lecture earlier, caught between half-sketched notes and a mind that couldn’t seem to land anywhere useful. You already knew you’d absorbed more from that hour of droning monotony than you had the last three practice sessions combined. So why not… use your time wisely?

You glanced at the Sage beside you, who was carefully adjusting the position of a crystalline magnifier without glancing up.

“Do you think time has a taste?” you asked, casually.

He didn’t look at you. “No.”

You tapped your finger thoughtfully against the desk. “But if it did, would it be more like burnt sugar? Or something cold? Maybe iron.”

“You are not serious.”

“I might be.”

He finally lifted his gaze just a fraction, enough for you to catch the brief flicker of disbelief.

You grinned. “What about shadows? If a shadow had weight, do you think you could pick it up? Like, peel it off the wall and fold it in your pocket?”

“That would violate at least three natural laws,” he replied, “and several codes of campus conduct.”

“But could you do it?”

“No.”

“But what if you really, really wanted to?”

“No.”

You hummed, undeterred. “What’s your opinion on cursed forks?”

He paused. “That is not a real classification.”

“Okay, but should it be?”

A breath. Measured. Silent. Not quite a sigh but it teetered on the edge of one.

You smiled wider. “What if the moon is just a big eye and we’re in denial?”

“Then denial,” he said smoothly, “is the least of your problems.”

You were beaming now, delighted. Not by the answers though those were entertaining in their own dry, exacting way but by how far you could go. How long you could press before the Sage of Truth, who had debated archmages and outlasted eldritch storms of cognition, would finally crack.

“Do you think ghosts get offended if you walk through them on purpose?”

He didn’t blink. “Only the theatrical ones.”

“Are you offended when people walk through your lectures mentally?”

He turned to you fully now, expression calm, unreadable, but there was something in the set of his mouth something dangerously close to a smirk.

“That depends,” he said slowly, “on whether they come to my office hours seeking guidance… or entertainment.”

You straightened up like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “Who’s to say I’m not doing both?”

“Indeed,” he murmured, returning to his notes. “Perhaps I’ll start testing for comprehension mid-riddle.”

You squinted at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“You are welcome to find out.”

The air between you held a subtle charge now like the beginning of a storm made of wit instead of thunder. You leaned closer, chin in your palm, smile curling at the edges of your lips.

Challenge accepted. You weren’t sure when exactly it happened.

One moment, you were testing his patience with questions you had no business asking questions about the philosophical implications of sentient shadows, about whether constellations could be rearranged like furniture if someone tried hard enough, about whether forbidden spells had feelings about being forbidden.

He had fielded each one with unnerving poise, answering without so much as a raised brow, every retort calmly measured, never quite giving you the satisfaction of cracking that collected facade.

And then you asked “If someone dreamt of a spell like, it came to them fully formed in a dream would that count as plagiarism if it already exists in another plane?”

There was a pause.

A longer one this time.

Shadow Milk Cookie lowered his quill. Slowly.

“You’re asking,” he said, voice unhurried, “if unconscious thought, which one cannot claim to have constructed through intention or study, has the same scholarly ownership as consciously crafted magic?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Um. Yeah? I guess?”

“Then allow me to reframe.” He steepled his fingers, the light from the desklamp catching the gold edges of his sleeves. “If a spell comes to you in a dream, are you its author? Or merely the vessel through which it traveled?”

Your eyes widened, mind stumbling to catch up. “Wait, I didn’t mean”

“Does inspiration absolve one of authorship? Or is it only through understanding, through repetition and mastery, that creation becomes real?”

You straightened in your seat. “Well, if you use it without knowing why it works, that’s dangerous, right?”

“Indeed. But dangerous knowledge is still knowledge. And what of those who share the same revelation in different corners of the world? If two scholars dream the same spell, is the truth theirs equally?”

“I” You hesitated, frowning. “That depends. Were they both influenced by the same source? If it’s a shared memory from some ancestral magic, then maybe it does belong to both of them.”

“Then you admit it’s possible for truth to manifest independently through different minds.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And yet,” he said, tilting his head, “you asked if dream-born magic was plagiarism.”

You gawked at him. “You’re twisting my words!”

He arched a brow. “I am following them.”

You leaned in, now fully engaged, hands animated. “Okay, but that assumes the dreamer didn’t learn it beforehand and forget. What if they read about it once, years ago, and their subconscious is just recycling it?”

“Then intent becomes the measure,” he replied evenly. “But intention is notoriously difficult to prove especially when memory fails.”

“So you’re saying there is no answer?”

“I am saying,” he said, folding his hands once more, “that the question you posed in jest has weight. And that if you wish to treat nonsense as philosophy, you must be prepared for the responsibility of engaging with it.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Somehow, in the span of five minutes, you had been tricked guided, really into a fully fledged academic debate.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“…Are you proud of this?”

He didn’t smile.

But he did say, in that maddeningly calm voice: “I find it… enlightening.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the desk with a quiet thump.

And from somewhere beside you, you heard the faintest breath of amusement so soft it might’ve been imagined.

But you knew better. You didn’t lift your head right away.

Not because you were embarrassed though the thump of your forehead meeting the desk echoed with more drama than you intended but because you were thinking. Hard. You couldn’t let him win this easily. Not when you’d been the one to start the game. Not when you could feel the shift in the air, the kind of quiet that happens just before something changes.

He thought he’d steered the conversation back into his realm, into his carefully ruled systems of logic and layered philosophical precision. But you had something he didn’t.

You were willing to be ridiculous.

You lifted your head slowly, brow furrowed in faux seriousness, eyes narrowing just slightly as you stared him down.

“Alright,” you said, voice calm, collected. “Let’s say a spell is born in a dream. The caster uses it, unaware it already existed. The result is identical to something written a century ago. But the caster didn’t know that.”

He tilted his head, watching.

You continued, “Now if they go on to teach it, to claim it, to build on it… are they a liar?”

His gaze sharpened, just a little. “Not if they believe it is theirs.”

“But what if their belief is rooted in a lie? Not one they told but one they were told?”

He paused.

You leaned forward. “Say someone erased the original record. Altered the texts. Buried the memory. The truth is gone, and now this new caster, completely unaware, is praised for innovation.”

You folded your arms. “So. Who holds the truth then? The one who first discovered it? Or the one who remembers it?”

He studied you quiet, calculating.

“I see your point,” he said. “But you are equating ignorance with deceit.”

“I’m equating truth with who tells the story,” you shot back, now on a roll. “You said it yourself intent is hard to prove. So how do we know a truth is true if it’s passed through a hundred uncertain mouths before it reaches us?”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You seized the moment.

“What if the Sage of Truth,” you said, eyes glinting, “has built his name on truths told by liars? On conclusions passed down by biased minds? Even if you corrected the language, even if you refined the spellwork, what if the foundation is still cracked?”

He stared at you.

Not with offense.

Not even with disbelief.

But with that rare, sharpened stillness that meant you’d gotten to him. Even just a little.

You leaned back in your chair, triumphant. “Maybe truth is just a prettier form of deceit. One that sounds more palatable when spoken by someone eloquent. Someone like you.”

A long pause.

“…Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your grin widened. “Did I just make the Sage of Truth question one of his core beliefs?”

“No,” he said calmly.

You deflated slightly.

“But,” he continued, eyes still on you, “you have demonstrated something far more dangerous.”

Your brow rose. “What?”

He leaned forward slowly, voice low.

“You have proven that you’re capable of challenging a truth by mimicking the structure of it enough to create doubt.” A pause. “Which means, were you less honest, and more invested in persuasion than clarity… you would be very difficult to argue against.”

You blinked. “Was that a compliment?”

“That,” he said, finally soft, amused, and a little too proud, “was a warning.”

And you weren’t entirely sure if that made you want to argue more…or smile like you'd won something you hadn’t meant to claim. You tilted your head, still half-smiling caught somewhere between pleased and confused. His words hung in the air, and you replayed them once. Twice.

“…A warning?” you echoed.

Your brow furrowed. “Why would that be a warning?”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he regarded you with that maddening calm of his like he was already four steps ahead of this conversation and simply waiting for you to catch up.

You shifted in your chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you saying you don’t want me to argue like that?”

“I did not say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He closed the tome in front of him with deliberate grace, fingers folding lightly atop its cover. “You have the mind of a scholar,” he said. “Restless. Quick. Willing to chase the shape of a question even if the ground beneath it is uncertain.”

You blinked.

“That is admirable,” he continued. “But also dangerous. Because a sharp mind that does not ground itself in intention… can unravel truth just as easily as it reveals it.”

You stared at him. The smile was gone now not out of hurt, but out of attention. He had spoken softly, but the weight of it settled into your chest like a stone dropped into still water.

He didn’t look harsh. Or disappointed. Just… honest.

“You mean I could be dangerous,” you said slowly, testing the words.

“I mean you could be persuasive,” he replied. “Persuasive enough that you might lead others without meaning to. Or worse persuade yourself.”

You didn’t answer.

He went on, voice lower now gentler.

“There is power in being able to twist an idea. Even in jest. But there is also responsibility in knowing when not to.”

You looked down at the desk, tracing a thumb along the edge of the parchment.

“…You think I wouldn’t know when to stop?”

“I think,” he said softly, “you are still learning what you are capable of.”

And there it was again that same steadiness, that same truth-speaking tone that never scolded, never shamed… only revealed.

You didn’t speak for a while. You weren’t upset not really. But something about what he’d said sat with you. Tugged at the corners of your thoughts.

Then, after a pause “So… is this the part where you tell me to stop asking dumb questions during tutoring?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation.

You blinked.

“This is the part,” he added, “where I begin writing them down for later discussion.”

He reached for a fresh page of parchment smiling looking pleased. Not the teasing smile. One you interpreted as.

I see you.

And you are worth the effort. 

You watched him write.

For a moment, you let the silence settle. Not because you had nothing to say but because something about what he’d said stuck. The idea that you could be dangerous. That your questions weren’t just distractions, or games to test his patience, but sparks something he might carry with him.

You tapped your fingers lightly on the desk, thinking.

“…I don’t think you could ever lose to deceit,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look up.

You continued, “You’re you. You know too much. You’d see through it. You’d feel it before it even took root.” You looked over at him, more serious now than you intended. “You have enough truth in you to recognize a lie before it even finishes forming.”

His pen paused just slightly.

But you were already fidgeting, lips pressing together like you regretted saying something so honest out loud. The weight of it pressed down too heavily on your chest. So, like you always did when things got a little too close to real you pivoted.

“Unless,” you said suddenly, “the deceit came from a sentient muffin. Like, one that could rewrite history through crumbs.”

A beat.

He looked up at you slowly.

You met his gaze, dead serious. “How would you even prepare for that? What if it weaponized frosting?”

Silence.

His expression was unreadable.

You smiled innocently. “Just asking for research purposes.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. Not in disapproval. In quiet recognition. Like he could see what you were doing, and maybe even deep down understood why.

He didn’t call you out.

Didn’t drag you back to the previous moment, or make you sit with the weight of your own sincerity.

He simply said, “The frosting would need to be laced with temporal magic. Otherwise, it would be too sweet to anchor historical revision.”

You gaped at him. “You’re engaging with this?”

“You brought the muffin,” he said, returning to his writing. “I’m simply considering the battlefield.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh, the tension in your chest loosening like thread unspooling.

Maybe he did know the truth.

And maybe he knew when to let it rest.

You let the muffin debate go, for now. Mostly because he was too good at it and also because the image of him seriously counter-strategizing against a frosting-wielding pastry was starting to unravel your composure.

But your curiosity didn’t settle. In fact, now that you’d steered him off-course, it only flared brighter.

Your gaze flicked toward him again steady, focused, annoyingly unreadable as ever, like the concept of flustered had barely touched him.

You decided to change that.

“So,” you began casually, stretching your arms behind your head. “Do you wear pajamas?”

The quill didn’t stop moving.

You kept going. “Like, do you sleep in your Sage of Truth outfit? The high collar? The hat?”

Still no reaction. His expression didn’t shift.

You leaned a little closer. “Be honest. Do you have a closet full of the exact same outfit? Just five identical sets of the same dramatic outfit? Or do you enchant the same one every night to repair itself?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Okay, but do you ever wear anything else?” you asked. “Like, do you own normal clothes? Casual ones? Have you ever worn a hoodie?”

“I do not see how this is relevant to spell theory,” he said without looking up.

You grinned. Now you were getting somewhere.

“It’s not,” you replied. “But I’m invested now.”

He sighed very softly. Barely there. But there.

“So you do sleep in this.”

“I did not say that.”

“Oh, so there’s a different outfit for sleeping? What is it? A silk robe? Do you own luxurious scholar pajamas? Do they have constellations embroidered on the sleeves?”

“I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”

You gasped. “So you do have scholar pajamas!”

He paused.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

“Are they navy blue?” you pressed, delighted. “Midnight-themed? Do they shimmer when the moonlight hits them? Are there moon phases sewn into the hem?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Do you sleep with the hat on?” you added, voice rising with mock incredulity. “Or is that a daytime-only kind of Sage thing?”

“Stars above…”

“Do you ever take the outfit off at all? Are they bound to you? Is that the source of your power? If you take them off do you cease to be the Sage of Truth? Is it like a magical girl transformation but reversed?”

He turned to you, finally, with the thinnest blade of exasperation in his gaze.

You grinned like you’d just won a war.

“Are you truly this determined to derail our spontaneous study session?” he asked, voice perfectly dry.

“Oh, I’m not derailing anything,” you said brightly. “I’m investigating. You’re the most enigmatic person in the Academy and it’s honestly suspicious. I’m trying to be thorough.”

“Thorough,” he repeated.

You nodded. “A good scholar asks questions, right?”

He stared at you.

You stared right back.

Then, with utmost seriousness, you added: “…Does your coat have pockets?”

That did it.

His eyes closed for a long, steady breath, and when they opened again, he gave you a look that said, I have answered riddles from crying apprentices, debated headmasters into silence, and outlasted three hours locked in a library with insufferable scholars but you will be my undoing.

You beamed. He stared at you.

Not with anger. Not even with true frustration. Just that deep, silent, measured stillness he used when someone had challenged a principle of logic, or when a scholar misquoted an ancient theorem so badly it physically pained him.

Which only made you press further.

“So you’re not going to tell me if the hat comes off when you sleep?”

Silence.

“Because now I’m imagining you just lying there, completely still, clothes perfectly pressed, hat on, hands folded like you’re about to wake up and recite a prophecy.”

Still silence.

“And I mean that with all the respect in the world,” you added helpfully. “But also, you’d be so uncomfortable. It would explain the permanent posture. Do you even have a bed? Or do you meditate in a chair surrounded by floating scrolls?”

He blinked once. Slowly.

You clutched your hands together in faux pleading. “Do you sleep on a sugar cloud? Is it made of truth vapor? Are your dreams alphabetized by theme?”

His head tilted, just slightly. “Do you plan to ask every personal question imaginable today?”

“Obviously.”

His sigh was quieter than a breeze but more dramatic than thunder. He resumed writing but his movements were sharper now. More precise. Like he was focusing harder in protest.

You leaned your chin into your palm. “What about shoes? Are they enchanted to follow the Moonstone’s orbit? Do they come off? Have you ever worn boots?”

He didn’t answer.

“You have a favorite set of clothes, don’t you?”

No answer.

“Do you name them?”

Still no answer.

“…Are they sentient?”

He finally looked at you.

That was progress.

You blinked innocently. “If they are sentient, that would explain a lot. The way they always catch the light dramatically. The fact they never wrinkle. The suspicious timing whenever you arrive in lecture halls.”

“Do you realize,” he said very quietly, “that I could silence this room with a word?”

You sat back in mock horror. “You’d silence me?”

“You’re attempting to extract classified robe data from a national figurehead.”

You paused. “So you are a national figurehead?”

His lips pressed into a flat line.

You leaned forward, triumph blooming. “So you do have a favorite set.”

He looked heavenward for strength.

You smiled, the kind that meant you were nowhere near finished. “I just want to know you,” you said, honestly this time. “And clearly, you won’t tell me voluntarily.”

“That is correct.”

“So I’ll just keep guessing.”

He picked up his quill again, deliberately slow. “Then let me offer this: every time you ask a question like that, I will assign you an additional footnote to explain the underlying arcane theory.”

You stared at him.

He did not blink.

“…You wouldn’t.”

“I have already begun,” he said, dipping his quill in ink.

You leaned back in your chair, frowning.

“…Are the footnotes handwritten?”

“Yes.”

“…In ancient script?”

“Naturally.”

You groaned and let your head fall to the desk again.

He resumed writing quiet, calm, unbothered.

But you could see it now, just at the corner of his mouth.

The smallest hint of a smile. You lifted your head from the desk with the exaggerated slowness of someone rising from the ashes of scholarly tragedy. One hand braced dramatically against your heart.

“You wound me,” you whispered, voice thick with theatrical despair.

He didn’t look up.

You slid off the chair with a quiet thump and shuffled dramatically toward him, falling to your knees like a character in a five-act tragedy. Then, with great ceremony, you clasped his hand in both of yours.

“Please,” you begged, clutching his fingers like he held the final thread of your academic fate. “Sage. Oh wise, noble, needlessly composed Sage of Truth. Spare me from the horror of handwritten ancient script footnotes.”

He didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of surprise. His gaze remained on his parchment, quill poised as if considering whether he should draw a very serious rune or a very petty line through your name.

You doubled down.

“I was young. Reckless. Curious.” You squeezed his hand gently. “I didn’t understand the depth of your cruelty. Of your methods. Please have mercy on a scholar who simply wished to know if your hat ever leaves your head while resting.”

Still, no reaction.

You squinted up at him. “Do you not feel my sincerity?”

“I feel many things,” he said, finally glancing down at you. “None of which resemble sympathy.”

You gasped.

“You’ve become inhuman,” you accused. “You’ve spent too long among the constellations and forgotten the touch of mortal empathy.”

He withdrew his hand calmly, setting it back on the desk. “If you’re finished attempting to avoid the assignment-”

“I surrender,” you cried, pressing your forehead to the hem of his robe like a dramatic supplicant. “Assign the footnotes. Curse my pen. Brand me with the ink of academia. But know this”

He waited.

You looked up at him with a solemn expression, utterly serious.

“one day, I will find out if your coat has embroidery on the inside, too.”

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly.

You smiled.

The war, clearly, was not over. You slowly rose from the floor less dramatically now, your flair for theatrical groveling giving way to something quieter. Something a little more real.

You brushed your hands against your robes and returned to your seat beside him, the wood creaking softly as you settled. The joke still lingered in the air, light and teasing, but your smile faltered around the edges.

And then, without looking at him:

“…Sometimes I really wonder what it is you saw in me.”

Your voice was soft now genuine in a way that didn’t try to hide behind questions or flourishes or games.

You looked down at the desk, fingers fidgeting slightly against the parchment. “I mean, look at me. I ask if your hat sleeps with you. I derail entire sessions with nonsense. I pry and push and argue. Personally, if I met me… I’d find me a little off-putting.”

The last part came with a half-hearted smile, like it was meant to sound like a joke.

But it didn’t land like one.

Not entirely.

And beside you, Shadow Milk Cookie stilled not in that usual, unreadable silence, but in a quiet that felt aware. Present.

He didn't speak right away.

Instead, he placed his quill down with care, turning toward you fully. His gaze settled on you, unwavering, as if trying to peer through the noise of what you’d just said to reach the place it came from.

And when he spoke, it was soft.

Measured. Unshaken.

“I saw someone who asked questions no one else dared to.”

You looked at him, startled.

“I saw someone who did not pretend to understand when they didn’t, who spoke even when their voice wavered, who let their curiosity carry them past their fear.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You did not seek me out to impress me. You didn’t want to prove your worth.”

His eyes held yours.

“You only ever wanted to learn.”

A pause.

“And that,” he said, quieter now, “is what makes you remarkable.”

Your breath caught. Words gathered at the back of your throat, but none made it out.

He turned back to his parchment without another word, lifting his quill again with the same calm, steady hand.

But just before ink touched paper, he added softly, without looking at you:

“And for the record… I don’t mind the questions.”

A beat.

“They remind me that I’m still allowed to be me.”

And for a moment, you couldn’t tell if the warmth blooming in your chest was embarrassment… or something gentler. Something that made you feel like maybe you were never off-putting at all. The rest of your “tutoring” session passed in a blur though whether it was from the heat lingering in your cheeks or the sheer effort of forcing your brain to process spell theory after a pseudo-philosophical meltdown about pajamas and truth, you weren’t sure.

Shadow Milk Cookie resumed his role as tutor with little ceremony. No mention of your dramatic kneeling or the accidental soul-bearing that had happened in the span of five chaotic minutes. He simply returned to the text, referencing obscure theory with casual ease, guiding your attention when it drifted, clarifying only when you asked. His presence, as always, was calm and unwavering. Comforting in a way you still didn’t quite know how to name

A/N I'm not sure if I love this chapter but I've already written the next 3 chapters so to avoid writing anything wrong and ruining pacing I'm keeping it as is.

Also update: I'M MARRIED NOW/j but no seriously my wifi was so bad recently and it was probably because of the heavy rainstorm last week with strong winds.

I start my first day of work tomorrow so excited to get back on the grind exams went well and I've kept my good gpa <3!!!!

oh and I'll look at my inbox tomorrow there is some wonderful art I can't wait to share with everyone!!! My moots are so talented it's such a joy to see the art!!! I know I'm a little behind on my inbox so sorry about that y'all

Anyways...

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

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