Nyoron~

Pretty much always tired, I love games, and manga. 22 years old.

[deerlydedeh]

𝐈. 𑣲 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑺𝒂𝒌𝒆, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒆. 𑣲

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♡ Fandom: Hazbin Hotel. ♡ Pairing: Alastor x female Reader. ♡ Rating: mature, although for now there's nothing too… smut. ♡ Previous │ you’re here │ next.

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♡ Summary: A staged relationship meant to keep Valentino away turns into something far more dangerous and intoxicating when Alastor realizes you two aren't pretending at all. Because some things in Hell don’t belong to anyone else… if not to him.

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╔═══ ⟡ 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 ⟡ ═══╗

♡ possessive behavior ✧ manipulative dynamics ❥ jealousy ✦ coercive flirtation ♡ (un)wanted touching ✧ implied threat / intimidation ❥ power imbalance ✦ “mine” / prey language ♡ bite marks / hickeys ✧ heavy sexual tension ❥ explicit make-out scenes ✦ grinding / implied arousal ❥ Valentino being Valentino ♡ Alastor being worse.

╚═══ ⟡ 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌 ⟡ ═══╝

You were trying to focus on the new pamphlet Velvette had drafted, something about “love potion”, when the main doors swung open with a theatrical sbam. Feathers, pink smoke and menace preceded him. Valentino sauntered in, his coat trailing behind him like a bloody veil. He looked like a king in his fortress. His eyes zeroed in on you immediately, a predatory smile spreading across his face.

“Well, well. Look who’s all alone, finally,” he purred, his voice honey-syrup, sticky and annoying. He leaned against the tv news desk, his frame blocking your exit. “You’ve been avoiding my calls, cariño. That’s not very polite.” Your skin crawled. “I’ve been busy, Valentino. The Hotel fills me with work, you all fill me with work.”

“Hm.” He reached out; a long, lattex, black gloved finger tracing the line of your jaw before you could flinch away. The touch of his glove was cold, loudly, proprietary. A right he didn't have. “You shouldn’t be. A pretty thing like you should be on a screen, a star, not stressing out for the princess of failure.” You tried to step back, but the chair you were sitting on trapped you. “I’m not interested.”

“Everyone is interested.” His vocal timbre more slimy, inappropriate. “I could make you famous, really. All you have to do is… giving me yourself. I'd love to go for a ride with you.” His smile widened dramatically across his entire purple face. Fear and revulsion churned in your gut. You’d known Valentino tangentially for years and you’d always given him a wide berth. His brand of attention was a gilded cage of sex and… control, and you wanted no part of it. Just as you opened your mouth to tell him to leave, another voice joined the room, with a crackle of static.

“Valentino! How… long it's been!” Alastor’s form seemed to materialize from the shadows near the door, his yellow grin fixed and unwavering. His gaze, however, was not on the moth demon. It was fixed on Valentino’s hand, still hovering near your face.

The radio dials in his eyes gave a slow, dangerous turn.

Valentino’s smile grew tighter. “Alastor. Interrupting as usual... a vice you've never lost. Vox isn't here, as you can see. We were... having a private conversation, if you don't mind.” He didn't look at him. At all. “I'm not here for Vox. And...” Alastor’s steps tip tapped as he crossed the vast room, his cane tapping a jaunty rhythm that felt entirely at odds with the tension in the room. He stopped just beside you, his figure a solid, comforting presence at your side. “Maybe it was private just for you, but it sounded to me like the lady wasn’t interested. Am I wrong? Ah! How brazen of you. As always...” Valentino’s eyes narrowed. His face slowly tilted up to look at Alastor, now. “Since when do you care?”

Alastor’s head tilted. His smile widened, showing more teeth. “Since now.” He didn’t look at you. Instead, his arm slid on your shoulder, pulling you gently but firmly from the stool and against his side. You were close. So close. The hard line of his side pressing against yours. His hand left your shoulder to splayed possessively over your hip. “Darling,” he said, his voice dropping into a warm tone, devoid of its usual static. “You didn’t tell me you needed… moth disinfestation.” You froze, your mind blanking.

What was happening?

Valentino looked between the two of you, suspicion etched in every line of his face. “This is new.” “Is it?” Alastor chuckled. He finally looked down at you, and for a fraction of a second, the manic radio-host glint in his eyes softened. Then it was gone, replaced by performative affection. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his black fingers lingering near your temple, mocking intimacy. “We’ve been keeping it quiet. You can understand... The hotel, the image, my (bad boy) reputation…” You found your voice, though it came out as a squeak. “Alastor, I—” “Hush, my dear,” he murmured, pulling you closer. Much more closer. Your bodies were no longer caressing, but touching and moving with each other's movements. His lips were near your ear, his breath a warm velvet veil against your skin. “Play along,” he whispered, the words so low in its combustion of staticity. “Unless you’d prefer to finish your… 'sale' with him.” The choice was no choice at all. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder. The fabric of his coat was silky against your cheek. “You heard him, Valentino,” you said, forcing a sheepish smile. “I really don't think you want to get on the Radio Demon's bad side.”

Valentino watched, his expression unreadable, dark and angry, even annoyed. You were a precious soul to collect, and he hated the thought of never being able to close the deal. Then he laughed; a short, sharp bark. “Clever girl. But this doesn't end here… I’ll be seeing you, cariño. Venadito.” The threat in his tone was unmistakable and, with a final, lingering look, he turned and flowed out of the room, the doors swinging shut behind him with a loud slam. The moment they closed, the chamber felt much more colder. Alastor’s arm remained around you, rigid. The cheerful background music that always seemed to follow him had shifted into a low, ominous of staticity.

“He touched you,” Alastor said, underlining the gravity of the situation. “Just my face. It was nothing.” “It was not nothing.” He released you so abruptly you stumbled. He took a step back, adjusting his cuffs, his expression once again the familiar grin of entertainment. But his hands, you noticed, were clenched. “His kind leaves a stain. I suggest you to wash up.” The merciless distance froze you, which was ridiculous. It was an act. A performance to get rid of Valentino. “Right. Thanks for the… intervention.” He gave a sharp nod and began to turn away, cane in hand. “Alastor?” The name stopped him. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his monocle glinting beneath the glow of the neon lights, one eyebrow arched. “Why did you do that?” He looked at you. The static around him buzzed softly. “The Hazbin Hotel is my project,” he stated, as if that explained everything. “Its occupants are under my… supervision. I don’t tolerate poachers.” He turned fully again, his back to you. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you to your room.” It wasn't an invitation, but rather, a statement with no escape route. You fell into step beside him, the silence between you filled with the echo of your tip tap on the porcelain floor and the melody of a 1930s song that was emanate from him. He opened his elbow waiting for you to slip your arm inside, then you both started walking and the walk to the Hazbin Hotel felt longer than usual. Silent, even.

The hotel was quiet, most residents either in their rooms or out causing the kind of trouble that didn’t involve redemption. Finally, you reached your door. You fumbled for the key in your pocket, aware of him standing just behind you, a tall, silent sentinel.

“Well, goodni—” Before you could finish, his arm shot out; his hand slammed flat against the door just beside your head. The impact made you blink at the suddenness. Then, you turned in the small space, your back now against the wood, and found him standing… impossibly close. He leaned in, his other hand coming up to mirror the first, caging you between his arms. His scent filled your senses.

“Al—Alastor?” Your voice was a whisper. He was staring at your mouth. His own smile was gone, replaced by a tight, focused line. The cheerful radio host was completely absent. In his place was something darker, more intense. You could see the rapid flicker of the dials in his crimson eyes. “That performance,” he began, his voice a low, staticky hum. “It was for your benefit. But it brought something to the surface. Something… interesting.” You couldn’t breathe. “What?” “The way he looked at you.” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “The way he touched you. It was… unacceptable.” He leaned closer, his nose almost brushing yours. “It made me realize the farce was insufficient. If he, or anyone else, gets ideas, a one-time show won’t deter them.” “So... what are you saying?” His gaze lifted from your lips to your eyes, holding you captive. “I’m saying the role needs to be more convincingly. Permanently.” He paused, letting the word hang. “The next time he, or anyone, approaches you… I want you to think of me. I want you to remember the feeling of my arm around you. I want you to remember you're my prey.”

“Your… prey?”

“Yes.”

The word was a hiss of static.

“So. Can you do that for me? The next time some vermin lays a hand on… what doesn't belong to him? Can you?” He blinked, as if surprised by his own wording, but didn’t correct himself. His voice dropped to a murmur, intimate and demanding. “Can you pretend… truly pretend… that you’re mine?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was the strange, push-pull dynamic you’d always had with him—a mix of casual banter and unspoken tension. But this was different. This was a line, shimmering and dangerous, and he was asking you to cross it with him.

“I…” You were cut off by an optimistic and positive voice that was approaching you. “—and that’s why every soul deserves a second chance! Oh!” Charlie’s voice echoed down the hall as she rounded the corner, a stack of papers in her arms. She skidded to a halt, her eyes wide as she took in the scene: you, pinned against your door by Alastor, his body crowding yours, his face inches from your own.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then, her face lit up with dawning, delighted comprehension and embarrassment. “Oh! Oh, my gosh! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt!” She grinned, looking between the two of you. “Are you ok? You need some help, Y/N? Alastor can be quite annoying and intimidating. Oh. Oh. My. Dad. Wait... wh—Alastor!?! Are—are you two together?!” Panic flooded your system. This was Charlie. Sweet, innocent, would-announce-it-to-the-whole-hotel Charlie. Maybe all of hell. Or the whole world. The ramifications of her thinking this was real—the questions, the expectations, the utter demolition of whatever delicate, undefined thing existed between you and the Radio Demon—terrified you.

“No!” you blurted out, the word too loud in the silence of the hotel. Your face flushed a deep, burning red. “God, no, Charlie, it’s not—we’re not—he was just—”

“Yes.”

Alastor’s voice cut through your flustered denial, calm and clear. He didn’t move away from you. If anything, he shifted closer, his thigh brushing against yours. He turned his head just slightly to look at Charlie, his smile back in place, but this time it looked different. Softer at the edges.

Real.

“Yes,” he repeated, his gaze sliding back to you, holding yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. “We are.” Charlie’s hands flew to her mouth, her papers fluttering to the floor. “I knew it! I mean, I didn’t, but I felt it! The tension, the shared glances during activities for redemption! Oh, this is wonderful! Love blooming in Hell!” She was practically jumping with joy. “Don’t let me stop you! Continue, please!” She scrambled to gather her papers, shooting you a gleeful wink before practically skipping back down the hallway, her happy humming fading away.

The silence she left behind was absolute, and heavy.

What game was Alastor playing?

You stared up at Alastor, your mind reeling. “Why did you say that?” you asked, your voice louder than you intended. His hands, which were still braced against the door, flexed. The playful mask he’d shown Charlie was gone, replaced by his intense and murderous gaze. “You said no.” “Because it’s not true!” “Isn’t it?” He pushed off the door, but only to bring his hands to your face, his long fingers framing your jaw, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. The touch was shockingly gentle, even though he was a demon destroyer of souls and bodies. “You agreed to the pretense. The princess is now a witness. The story is in motion.” His eyes searched yours. “Your denial was instinctive. Panicked. But your blush… the way your pulse is racing under my hand right now… that tells a different story, my dear.” His right palm pressed flat against your chest while he was talking to you. You were trembling. You couldn’t help it. His proximity, his words, the weight of what had just happened—it was too much. “This is a bad idea.” “Undoubtedly.” He leaned in again, his lips hovering a breath from yours. “But it's the idea that could be useful to both of us.” His voice dropped to that same intimate murmur. “Let’s see where it leads, shall we?” He lowered his head, his lips tracing a feather-light path from your temple, down the line of your jaw, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, your hands flying up to clutch his pointed shoulders. His breath was cool, but it set your skin on fire.

“You smell like his cheap perfume,” he muttered, the words laced with disgust. “Let’s get rid of it.” His mouth opened against your neck, and you felt the sharp points of his teeth before the gentle, startling pressure of a bite. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was… possessive. A low whimper escaped you, and you felt him smile against your skin. “That’s it,” he whispered, his voice a dark, approving rasp in your ear. His hands left your face and chest to to slide down on your waist and coming up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head to give him better access. “Let him see the mark tomorrow. It will keep him from bothering you again.” He soothed the bite with his tongue, then placed another, just above your collarbone. Each one sent a jolt of pure, undiluted electricity straight to your core. Your knees felt weak. You were melting against the door, held up only by his body and the hands that were now exploring you with bold curiosity.

His hand on your waist slid around to your back, pressing you flush against him. You could feel the lean, powerful muscles of his thighs against yours, the hard plane of his stomach. Through the layers of clothing, the evidence of his own arousal was unmistakable, a rigid line of heat that made your head spin. “Alastor…” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his coat. “Hush.” He finally brought his mouth to yours, but again, he denied you a kiss.

He brushed his lips over yours, again and again… a maddening tease.

“This is just the beginning of the pretense,” he whispered against your mouth. “We have to make it convincing. For the Vees. For the hotel. For Charlie. For all hell.”

His tongue traced the seam of your lips.

So damn slow...

“For me.” He gasped on your mouth.

The last two words undid you. You parted your lips, and he took advantage immediately, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. The kiss was not what you expected. It wasn’t gentle or… detached. It was deep, hungry all at once. It tasted of static and cigarettes. His hands moved over you—one splayed across your lower back, gluing you to him; the other sliding from your hair down your arm, his fingers seeking yours. He found your hand and pinned it gently against the door beside your head. Then, slowly, he laced his fingers through yours, intertwining them. The gesture was shockingly tender amidst the heat of his mouth on yours, the possessive press of his body.

It didn't feel like a farce at all.

You kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with a growing desperation that matched his own. Your free hand slid up his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath his shirt. He made a sound low in his throat—a growl mixed with a burst of static—and deepened the kiss further.

Time lost meaning.

Space lost meaning.

There was only the hard wood of the door at your back, the taste of him, the feel of his fingers locked tightly with yours, and the relentless, building heat between you. He moved from your mouth, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, over the marks he’d left, to the hollow of your throat where your pulse hammered. “Mine,” he whispered, the word a vibration against your neck. A brand not yet tattooed on your skin.

For now.

His hand left your back and slid down, over the curve of your hip, to the outside of your thigh. He gripped you there, his fingers digging into the firm muscle through your clothes, and hitched your leg up around his hip, bringing you even more intimately against him. The move drew a sharp gasp from you. He rubbed against you, the friction maddening through your clothes, and you moaned, arching into him. “So responsive,” he murmured, his lips against your ear. His breath hitched—no, stuttered with static. “The sounds you make… they’re better than any broadcast.” He kept your leg hitched up, his hand roaming over your thigh, kneading the muscle, tracing the seam of your pants with a tantalizing slowness. His focus on that part of you was intense, worshipful almost. There was so much flesh to touch, to explore, to taste… Every brush of his fingers sent sparks through you. You were lost in it, in him, the world outside this corridor ceasing to exist. The pretense, the lie, it all felt flimsy and distant compared to the undeniable reality of his mouth, his hands, his body claiming yours.

The shrill ring of an old-fashioned telephone shattered the silence, echoing from the direction of his radio tower. Alastor froze, his body going rigid against yours. The spell broke like fragile and thin glass. He pulled back, panting slightly, his hair disheveled, his ears flexing agitatedly on his head. The look in his eyes was wild, conflicted—a storm of desire, possession, and something that looked almost like fear. He slowly lowered your leg, his hand lingering on your thigh for a moment before he let go. He disentangled his fingers from yours. And oh… how he suffered for that loss.

The phone continued to ring, insistent.

He took a full step back, straightening his coat, running a hand through his hair to restore its order. His smile was back, but it was tight, strained at the edges. The always controlled Alastor was reassembling the Radio Demon before your eyes.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice regaining its broadcast cheer, though it sounded forced. He reached out and with a tenderness that contradicted his tone, brushed his thumb over one of the marks on your neck. “Sleep well, my dear. Dream of this. Dream of me.” He turned and walked away, his form seeming to bleed into the shadows before he reached the end of the hall. The telephone ringing cut off abruptly. You slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, your legs unable to hold you. You brought your fingers to your swollen lips, then to the tender, marked skin of your neck.

His touch was everywhere: on your hand, your thigh, your mouth...

Your skin breathed his.

Smelling of him.

Your head was spinning and buzzing.

Pretend? How could you possibly pretend when he was already running through your veins like something addictive? Dream of him? How could you dream of a man you had held in your hands, already tasted, already felt breathing against your skin? Dreaming him would have made you live a real lie. He had been fucking real. If anything, you would have to carve him out of your thoughts, tear him loose from the quiet corners of your mind before he settled too deep, before he rooted himself in places you couldn’t reach.

But something terrifying crawled across your heart…

What if it was already too late, for both of you?

Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story ♡

[damianwaynerocks]

ok but if bruce wayne somehow came upon zuko fresh out of banishment he would lose his mind.

black hair? check. bad parent(s)? check. trauma? double check.

bruce: how’d you get your scar?

zuko: my dad got mad at me for saying that killing people is wrong so he lit my face on fire and banished me.

bruce, vibrating with excitement, already pulling adoption papers from his utilility: that’s terrible. how do you feel about capes.

[explorerrowan]

Zuko: Do you mind if I wear this blue demon mask?

Bruce: *sniff, tear in his eye* Not at all.

[kitt-the-werefox]

*Zuko fighting the Joker*

J: "wan na kno w h ow i go t thes e sc ar s"

Z: *rips off mask* i don't give a fuck

[fefeman]

I’m still stuck at the “batman has adoption papers in his utility belt”.

“Quick, it’s time to use the Bat-adoption papers!”

[silverscreenx]

Bat-option papers

[phantoms-lair]

Okay, but you’re missing the best part of this.

Alfred and Iroh complimenting each other on tea while they discuss their overly dramatic children.

[damianwaynerocks]

iroh: once, i told zuko that he needs to work on his inter turmoil. he screamed at me that he had no such inner turmoil, and then proceeded to go to a cliff during a thunderstorm to scream at God to strike him with lightning

alfred: master bruce and i have that interaction at least three times per week.

[coffeebuddha]

@absentlyabbie​

[animate-mush]

I see your "Alfred and Iroh as tea bros" and raise you "Alfred and Iroh as tea rivals"

Consider

Iroh: you too must learn patience. Boiling the water ruins the delicate flavor of the white jade

Alfred: oh I'm dreadfully sorry - for some reason I expected this tea to have TEA in it

(later)

Alfred: *aggressively laying out full tea service with milk, lemon, sugar, and, just to drive his point in, jam*

Iroh: *dying inside*

[damianwaynerocks]

excellent addition

[whetstonefires]

hey bruce spent a lot of his bat-study abroad in the far east and has kind of a weeb weapon collection so proposal, what if Bruce appreciates Iroh’s tea

while Zuko is enthusiastic about cream and sugar

further fueling their dad-figures’ passive-aggressive rivalry?

[princesscolumbia]

You had me at Zuko vs. Joker, I was crying by the Eastern vs. Western tea service

[supreme-leader-stoat]

Wait a minute. Batman and Zuko have the same arch-nemesis.

Mark Hamill

[library-seraph]

Saw the last comment and my brain would not rest until it happened

[darrenpillowscriss]

[lichrelly]

this post has everything

[jumpingjacktrash]

this was an enjoyable ride. i liked the scenery very much. smooth suspension, nice height, several fascinating loops. 10/10 would go again.

[fixated-cookies]

I have to you guys, I have to share my thoughts of Shadow Milk Cookie. I'm just thinking of him being ridden into oblivion, like I'm talking drooling and tears from reader riding him, and it's not like a dom!reader taking the reigns, he just underestimates how much they'd end up getting addicted to him. This writing was actually inspired by a shadowvanilla art from twitter

MDNI-SMUT AHEAD

like my mind's a mess right now, I don't have too much energy but this probably won't flow too well considering it's coming to me as I go, but he'd probably start off so smug, you straddling him with his cock buried in your cunt. he thought he was in control. He thought he could play the part—be the one to lead, to tease, to break you down at his whim. How foolish of him.

It was supposed to be his game. He was the one who toyed with you, the one who pulled the strings, the one who whispered deceitful nothings in your ear just to watch you shiver. He was the grand orchestrator of every little moment.

But now?

Now he’s the one unraveling.

Maybe his back arches against the bed, fingers clutching at the sheets like they’ll somehow anchor him, his breath coming in ragged gasps that hitch every time you move. His chest heaves, rising and falling in frantic rhythm, and his eyes—those sharp, mocking eyes—are now glazed over, unfocused, lost in the sensation. He wants to laugh at you, to taunt you, to spit out some venom-laced remark about how desperate you are, how you've lost yourself completely in this—but his voice fails him.

“You—you succubus!” he barely manages, voice shaking, cracking with something dangerously close to helplessness.his body betrays him. Every nerve is alight, every inch of him responding too much to you.His fingers twitch, his arms reach for you only to tremble midair, unable to decide whether he wants to push you away or pull you closer. His nails dig into his palms, the sharp sting barely grounding him. He can’t even breathe properly, can’t think, can’t—

“Ah—hahh…” The sound that slips past his lips is almost pathetic. It makes him burn with shame, makes his heart pound with something unbearable. His mind is spinning, drowning in you, you, you.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He didn't expect the tables to turn, for the roles to be reversed so suddenly and so cruelly. And now? Now he's the one caught in the performance.

His body shudders, struggling to even prop himself up, his limbs feeling weightless yet heavy all at once. He’s never looked like this before—disheveled, breathless, so utterly unraveled that even he can’t mask it behind his usual smug facade.

But you—oh, you look worse.

You’re trembling, your thighs twitching, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. The heat in your gaze is borderline feverish, your flushed skin glistening in the dim light, lips quivering as you shift, so utterly and helplessly drunk on him.

"Again! Again!"

His lips part, but nothing comes out at first—just a sharp, choked inhale, like he’s struggling to process what you just said. Oh, this is bad.

Because the way you say it—so needy, so desperate—has something twisting deep inside him, his stomach knotting painfully as his fingers twitch involuntarily. "You—" His voice comes out ragged, wrecked, barely more than a whisper. He tries to speak again, but his breath stutters, and his head tilts back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as he tries—tries—tries to breathe through the sheer overwhelming weight of it all.

He was the one who led you here.He was the one who built the path, laid the bricks, spun the perfect, intricate performance that led to this exact moment.And now?

Now, he has to lie in the grave he’s dug.

His thighs twitch involuntarily, the lower half of his body so utterly ruined, drenched in the mess of your shared indulgence. Then you sink onto him again, your cunt tightening around his aching cock, that can't spurt anymore out for you.

And maybe, after a while, he just passes out. He’s completely, utterly spent. The moment it happens, his entire frame tenses, shudders—then slackens all at once. His head tilts back, his breath coming out in a soft, shaking exhale as the tension seeps from his body. His grip loosens, his arms falling uselessly to his sides. and he slumps

His eyes flutter shut, his breath evening out almost instantly, his chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted waves.

Just like that, he’s gone.

---

Shadow milk cookie? more like shadow milked cookie,ahhaha get it? That man needs to be ridden within an inch of his life I'm not playing,make him BEG

Anyways, is it me or am I not that good at smut tbh, like I feel like my work isn't as explicit as it should be? I feel weird typing things like cock, and genitals and all that but I loveee smut so much. I like to try to let the reader imagine it to their own imagination if that makes sense. I'm just scared of overusing smut terms hahah

[hadaldemon-nsft]

tw: suggestive meme

ASFSDGGSDGDGFAHAEVEFE I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS AND THAT MEME HALP

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[yaoimaster2000]

Can we have big sage of truth wife? Pretty please🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

well aren’t you interesting?

[milkamel]

Hey guys waves Here's a truthlesssage doodle hope you haven't been too hungry!

Been feeling demotivated and doubting when it comes to my stuff sooo.. I think I'm gonna be posting less frequently so I won't fall into the art block or something?? Anyway they're still brainrotting me <3

[nagarnia]

Sus...(always been)🌱

[salynaa]

Sage of Truth x Reader Pt.3

Warnings : None, bad writing, shy reader

Part 2

Author note : My stupidity deleted everything and I had to quickly rewrite it all from my terrible memory... Lowkey i wanted die</3 So, sorry but this will be a bit weird with the emotion not developed enough than what I had planned!!

————————————————————————

Despite the revelations of the night before, the week had no choice but to continue.

The rest of the days arrived the way it always did, quietly, as if on tiptoe, bringing with it a hush that settled over everything like dust on old parchment.

You were, as usual, at your post in the library. The sun filtered lazily through the tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured beams of color onto the white-and-blue stone floors, floors that had borne the soft erosion of centuries worth of footsteps. The morning moved slowly, a patient tide. Few students wandered through at that hour, most of them still locked away in classrooms, heads bowed beneath floating scrolls and chalk that whispered their lectures in cursive spells upon enchanted slates.

Only a handful made their way here, those who claimed to be studying for upcoming exams but who, in truth, sought escape from the rigid cadence of academic routine. You could recognize them in an instant, the ones who flipped pages too fast, tapped their quills too often, stared out the windows as if trying to remember what existed beyond them.

With a soft groan, you hoisted a stack of returned tomes into your arms and made your rounds, slipping them back into their rightful places with the kind of reverence usually reserved for relics. When you slid the final one onto the shelf, you released a quiet sigh, not of fatigue, but of something gentler. A moment of pause. A moment that was yours.

You stepped out from between the aisles, casting a slow, attentive glance across the space. Nothing out of place. Nothing calling for your hand.

Everything seemed still.

The kind of stillness that doesn’t simply fill a room, but wraps around you like a forgotten shawl. Outside, birds sang without rhythm or reason. Morning light spilled in through the arched windows, gilding the rows of books in shifting bands of gold. From the far end of the library, you caught the faintest hum, two students, perhaps, murmuring in voices too hushed to decipher.

You hadn’t expected it, as you watched them, those students leaning over their notes, exchanging glances, the occasional stifled laugh, something stirred.

Old feeling, long-buried and softened by time, began to surface.

You recognized the restless flicker of anxiety in their hands. The quiet pride hidden beneath the comparison of scores. The shared secrets, exchanged in glances and half-suppressed grins. That kind of pride was delicate. Fleeting. Beautiful in its transience.

You saw yourself in them. Or rather, the version of you that might have been, if things had been different.

But it wasn’t the laughing pairs that held your attention.

It was the others.

The quiet ones. The ones who came alone.

The ones who wandered the aisles without ever selecting a book, brushing fingertips across spines like they were touching ghosts. The ones who folded themselves into corners, backs turned to the world, pretending to read while their eyes flicked again and again to the clock on the wall.

You noticed one of them that morning.

A girl. She hadn’t touched a single page, just drifted like a wisp between shelves, as if being surrounded by books might keep her from unraveling entirely.

And in her, you saw too much of what you once were.

Not the self who once sat in groups or passed notes between desks.

But the one who had come here for no other reason than to let the hours pass silently.

The one who didn’t know how to speak unless a book first lent you the words.

The one who lived in fear of the question, “Why are you here?”, because you didn’t know how to answer it without shattering something.

You told yourself, perhaps foolishly, that you should let go of such thoughts. That memories were not meant to be summoned so easily.

You were still caught in that quiet spiral when a gentle tap on your shoulder pulled you back.

You turned.

Two students stood before you, uniforms crisp in the morning glow, white trimmed in sapphire, the Academy’s golden crest gleaming on their collars. Their postures were too perfect to be casual. Their expressions held just enough amusement to suggest they’d been rehearsing this moment.

“Excuse us,” one of them said, sweeping a fringe of hair out of their face with exaggerated grace. “We were wondering if you had any books on… Flamecraft?”

You blinked once. “Flamecraft? For what purpose?”

The shorter one cast a glance at his companion, who gave a lopsided smile that barely masked mischief. “A class project,” he added quickly, his hair tousled in a way that suggested either deep thought or a complete lack thereof.

You tilted your head, trying to gauge the sincerity in their voices. You didn’t find much. But you let it pass. A small breath escaped you, your stolen moment of calm scattered now like dust. You gave a resigned nod and muttered, “Follow me, you two…”

You led them toward the far side of the library, your steps slow but sure. “Elemental Theory,” you said, gesturing. “Second row on the left. You’ll find everything the Academy permits on the subject.”

They thanked you and wandered off, their footsteps already lightening with laughter.

Your fingers, by habit, trailed across the labels of nearby shelves. Behind you, the boys’ conversation resumed, this time softer, threaded with humor. You couldn’t catch the words, but you watched the way they leaned toward each other.

And for a fleeting second, you smiled.

Even if they were lying, even if their interest in fire was born of nothing more than curiosity or chaos, it was theirs to carry. And the Academy, if nothing else, had room for that.

Still, you found yourself wondering, what sort of class involves flamecraft?…

But the question drifted away. The Academy had never needed to make sense. Not fully.

And besides, magic had never quite belonged to you.

You had tried, once, when you were younger, a student yourself. You had memorized the incantations, traced the diagrams in ink and ash, whispered ancient syllables beneath your breath until your voice was hoarse. You had followed every instruction with the precision of desperation.

And still… nothing.

No fire leapt from your hands. No shimmer of light danced in your veins. The words, no matter how beautifully spoken, fell flat.

The magic never stayed.

Eventually, you stopped trying.

You found a home instead among the books, among the dust and pages and the rustle of paper that never demanded anything from you.

And you told yourself, over and over again, that it was enough.

And some days, like today, it almost felt true.

———

The rest of the day blurred in small rituals, shelving returned volumes, whispering reminders to students to keep their voices down, gently reprimanding a group of third-years who had turned the history corner into a café... Answering soft-spoken questions about indexes and sections, and many others formalities.

The hours passed. The light shifted. Shadows stretched long across the marble.

By the time the sun dipped fully behind the stone towers of the Academy, the hush had returned.

Evening arrived. You were alone in the library, finding once again the same silence that had welcomed you in the morning, as if it had been waiting for your return.

For once, you closed the library properly. No hidden invitations. No half-unlocked doors. No secret visitors.

Tomorrow was your day off. Another librarian would take your place, your closest colleague. And for once, you allowed yourself the peace of stepping back.

The Academy was quiet now, wrapped in the velvet of night. The moon filtered through the windows as you made your way to the main door, fingertips grazing the heavy wood.

Just as you reached for the lock, a soft, almost apologetic voice stopped you.

“Um…excuse me?..”

You turned, a voice unfamiliar, one you didn’t know by sound alone.

But then, her face stirred a memory, recognition unfolding like a quiet bloom.

It was her.

The same girl from the morning. The quiet one. The one who wandered like she was looking for pieces of herself between the shelves. Her uniform looked slightly wrinkled now, and there was something hesitant in her posture, like she wasn’t quite sure she belonged here anymore.

She stood there awkwardly, hands clasped behind her back, fidgeting with the edge of her uniform, as if unsure whether she should speak or turn around.

“Is the library not open tonight?” she asked, her voice fragile but full of something familiar you couldn’t quite name.

You blinked, caught off guard by how timid she sounded.

You stepped back inside, so your voices wouldn’t ripple into the quiet veins of the corridor, holding the door open with a quiet hand, inviting her into the hush of the library. She hesitated, with the same uncertain grace that haunted her every motion, she unsurely followed you in. After she slipped through like a whisper, you let the door close behind her.

“Well..” you started softly. “I didn’t expect anyone else to come tonight.”

Facing you now, as if the quiet had drawn her closer, the student bit her lip. “I just… it’s easier to read here, it’s quiet.. And no one really notices you here.” Her voice trailed off, like she regretted admitting that.

At her word, your hand tightening around the handle, as though the truth in her words had tugged at your spine.

You understood more than you wanted to admit.

But quickly, you released the handle, gently, as if surrendering something heavy you’d held too long. You offered her a quiet smile.

“Normally, yes. It’s always open at night. But… unfortunately, tomorrow’s my day off.”

She looked down, trying to fold her sorrow neatly behind her eyes, but failing just a little.

“Oh- Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought…”

“It’s alright,” you interrupted softly, while stepping aside. “You can stay for a bit. Just until I finish tidying up.”

Truth be told, everything was already in order, but a small lie seemed kinder than sending her back into the dark too soon.

Her eyes widened, the smallest flicker of gratitude sparking there. “Really?”

You nodded, a smile slipping from your lips at her reaction.

Then, she walked past you with careful steps and vanished back between the shelves. You watched her as she disappeared, drawn not by purpose, but by presence.

And for a moment, in the vast silence of this ancient place, you stood there, she reminded you too much of someone, a hollow bloom unfolding in your chest as you realized who it was. Perhaps, of yourself.

———

The evening unfolded in silence, the moon had climbed to its zenith, draping the Academy in silver silence.

You had just finished locking the last window latch, the flickering lanterns casting sleepy halos of gold over the polished wood floors of the library. The shelves stood tall and dignified behind you, silhouettes of silent witnesses. For once, you were done.

After letting the quiet girl linger in the aisles a little longer, you finally closed the library for the night. The comforting scent of paper and candle wax still clung to your sleeves as you stepped outside into the corridor, wrapping your scarf a little tighter around your neck.

You stepped outside, the halls dim and still, only the echo of your footsteps daring to disturb the quiet. The cold nipped gently at your uncovered skin.

Your mind was already halfway home, imagining the comfort of a blanket, the slow hum of your kettle, maybe a book untouched by academic weight. All you wanted now was to slip away into the city night, into your own little world far from the humming undercurrent of this place.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Just as you turned a corner, steps echoing softly on the marble floor, you froze in place.

In the corridor ahead, two figures stood bathed in pale lamplight, one tall and unmistakably poised.

Shadow Milk, the Sage of Truth, the Academy’s own celestial legend. His blue silvery hair shimmered faintly, even beneath the low glow, as though it remembered the stars themselves.

A figure next to him, perhaps a professor, leaned in to say something, then paused, as his gaze shifted, sudden and sharp, in your direction.

Your breath caught in your throat. Without thinking, as always, you turned quickly, stepping into the shadows, slipping behind one of the tall columns, holding your breath. Pathetic, maybe, but instinctive. You didn’t know why exactly, embarrassment, probably. Or the gnawing feeling that you didn’t belong in his world of perfect prose and gentle knowledge.

You weren’t ready to face him again.

Not after the intimacy of the notes. Not after the quiet conversations pressed between pages.

You stayed behind the pillar, breath held, whispering silent prayers to the witches, let them show mercy, let them have not seen you.

Further down the corridor, the professor of potioncraft kept his gaze lingering where the shadows had stirred. He glanced at the Sage beside him, confusion touching his voice.

“Was that one of the librarians…?”

A pause. Then, the Sage replied, his tone calm, unreadable,

“…Pay her no mind. Come, we’ve somewhere to be.”

The professor simply nodded and continued walking beside him. But with a quick glance, Shadow Milk looked toward the pillar, just enough to glimpse your hand slipping back into shadow.

A wry, knowing smile played at his lips, quiet, but unmistakable.

You waited until their footsteps faded completely, then exhaled and finally made your way out of the Academy gates, this time, you didn’t forget to glance around the corner, wary now of fate’s little surprises…

———

The morning had started with silence. Not the peaceful kind that comforts, but the kind that clings, like dust in the corners of a room too long undisturbed.

You sat curled into your favorite blanket, knees drawn close, a mug of tea resting against your palms. The steam had long since stopped rising. A quiet sigh left you as you stared through the window, watching droplets of last night’s light rain slide lazily down the glass. The air in your home was still. Books were scattered over your desk in a chaotic harmony only you understood, half-open volumes, annotated scrolls, bookmarks poking out like restless feathers. It was your sanctuary.

And then came the tapping.

At first, it was so soft you thought it was a branch brushing the glass. Then it came again. Rhythmic. Persistent. A tap. Then another. Like someone too polite to knock loudly but too determined to leave.

You rose slowly, blanket dragging behind you across the wooden floor. Each step made the old planks groan beneath your weight. You reached the window and drew the curtain back.

A bird.

Small. Blue. Its feathers slick with morning mist. It looked unimpressed, as if it had been sent on errands too early in the day.

You hesitated before unlocking the window, letting the crisp air in with a breath that chased away the fog of your rest. The bird hopped in without invitation, landing gracefully atop your cluttered desk. One clawed foot bore a tiny scroll, tied haphazardly with string. The creature gave a low chirp and then nestled into the papers like it belonged there.

You stepped closer, brushing hair from your face, and reached out. The bird remained still, eyes half-lidded. You untied the scroll carefully, whispering soft apologies to the creature as your fingers worked. With your other hand, you began to gently stroke its feathers, out of gratitude, or habit, or the simple, wordless comfort of contact.

The paper felt familiar. The texture, standard academy stationery. Coarse, but always reliable. The ink, however, was rushed. Still wet in places. You unrolled it.

"I’m so, so, so, sorry, I wrote this in a rush!! An incident happened at the library. And I know, it’s your day off, but I would really need some help. I owe you something if you come!! -A."

You blinked. Recognition came instantly. The crooked letters. The uneven line spacing. Your colleague.

Of course.

A groan formed at the back of your throat as you glanced down at your cup of tea, now lukewarm. Your blanket sagged from your shoulders like defeated wings. So much for a day of rest.

Still, you moved.

It didn’t take long to dress, your usual work clothes were still draped over a nearby chair. Rumpled from yesterday, the fabric smelled faintly of ink, old book, and something vaguely floral. You shrugged into it without thinking, too distracted by the letter and the strange knot forming in your chest.

The bird remained behind, watching you with unblinking eyes as you laced your shoes and grabbed your bag.

Outside, the air smelled like wet stone and distant fireplaces. The streets glistened with rain left from the night before. Your shoes splashed gently in puddles as you walked, each step echoing in the quiet, thankfully the academy loomed not so far away from your home, a collection of spires and stained glass catching the soft grey light of morning.

You took the side path, where fewer students walked. Moss covered the stone steps like a green tide, and leaves clung to the edges of the railing. Your fingers brushed them idly as you ascended, the cold air waking you up more than the duty of work ever could.

By the time the tall spires of the Academy came into view, after seemed like too long, you enter. The closer you got to the library, the more noise filtered through the air, distant voices, echoing footsteps, the hum of worry disguised as curiosity.

Something had definitely happened, you made your way toward the library. A crowd lingered near the entrance of the library, not a mob, but more than usual for this time of morning. Students whispered in clusters, standing too close to the doorway but never crossing the threshold. Some peered in with cautious fascination. Others just stood, arms crossed, clearly waiting for gossip to unfold.

You pushed your way through them with murmured apologies, slipping between robes and bags, eyes lowered to avoid being stopped. Most didn’t notice you. One or two did, but didn’t dare question you.

You stepped over the threshold.

And then the smell finally hit you.

Acrid. Dry. The sharp, unmistakable scent of burned parchment and scorched wood. Smoke still lingered in the air, thin and ghostlike, trailing between shelves like it hadn’t decided to leave yet.

The light inside was strange. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass ceiling above, casting warped colors onto a ruined scene. One of the Elemental Studies shelves had collapsed, its spine snapped like a felled tree. Ash clung to everything, floating, falling, resting in piles like grey snow.

You stood still for a moment, taking it in. Your throat tightened.

A professor was at the far end of the damage, crouched beside a stack of melted scroll cases. They were muttering, inspecting the extent of the damage. You caught one word, “costly” and something twisted in your gut, but your eyes didn’t stay on him for too long.

A few steps further, you spotted your colleague.

His sleeves were rolled up. His hair slightly singed. A smear of soot ran along his jaw. His voice, usually chipper and full of academic optimism, was lower now, strained.

He was speaking to two students.

Pale. Head down in shame. You knew them.

The same two who had asked you about Flamecraft. The same ones who had smiled like nothing was dangerous, like the rules didn’t quite apply to them.

Now they looked as if the ground itself might open up and swallow them.

You stepped carefully across the scorched floor. Your boots left faint prints in the ash.

Your colleague looked up and when he saw you. His eyes flashed toward you the second he noticed your arrival brightened slightly, relief visible in the soft exhale that escaped his lungs.

“Thank the stars,” he breathed, striding over quickly. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

You gave him a tired look. “It’s hard to say no when you were almost begging in the letter…”

He chuckled, but the sound was short-lived. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Listen, I know it’s your day off, witches, I know, but it got bad. They were experimenting. Said they read about a theoretical combustion chain. Thought they could reproduce it. In a library. Near parchment, paper’s…”

You winced.

“I’ve got to finish the disciplinary paperwork. Can you handle the incident report? Inventory, damages, repairs, that sort of thing.”

You nodded. The words wouldn’t form, but your body moved. You turned toward your desk near the entrance.

And that’s when you saw it.

Your breath caught.

There, on the edge of your desk, the book the Sage gave you, your book.

Only it was no longer the book you remembered.

The leather binding had blistered. Gold filigree peeled back like flaking paint. Pages curled and blackened. Some were entirely gone, turned to ash that clung to the desk like ghosts.

You rushed forward.

The heat lingered. But the heat licked at your fingertips, and you recoiled, whispering a sharp breath through your teeth. You pulled back instinctively, then still trembling, you lifted it with your sleeves like sacred glass.

The book’s weight felt wrong. Lighter. Hollowed.

You used the edge of your sleeve to nudge it open, the inside was even worse.

The once-graceful handwriting, the carefully etched diagrams, were now blurred, smeared into blackened stains. Ink had melted into the paper. Pages stuck together. Some turned to brittle curls that crumbled when touched.

You swallowed hard.

This wasn’t just a book. It was a gift. A key to something more. There were so many questions left unanswered in its pages. So many sentences you had reread, knowing they meant something more. You had only just begun to understand some of his words. And now, it was gone.

And now it was gone.

You closed it carefully. Pressed it against your chest, accidentally leaving black ash stains on your clothes.

You sat down slowly, every movement deliberate. You placed the ruined book in the safest corner of your desk, a corner where it might rest, if not recover, away from any lingering sparks.

And after a long, bitter breath, you reached for a blank sheet of parchment. Your pen hovered for a second too long before you dipped your quill. The ink bled slightly.

Your hand hesitated above the page.

Then, you wrote. Slowly. Precisely.

Everything that has been damaged, destroyed.

Because if nothing else could be salvaged, this part had to be done right.

———

You had finished the list.

Your hand, stained with ink and soot in equal measure, moved slowly as you tied the final knot on the scroll. Each name, each item, each burned remnant had been recorded with a precision born not of discipline, but of obligation. The kind of duty that digs into your ribs and makes a home beneath your skin.

You sat there for a moment after sealing it, the rolled parchment resting in your palms like something fragile. Your thumbs brushed over its surface absently, tracing the wax seal you’d pressed only moments before. It was still warm.

Your eyes drifted up, drawn, unbidden, to the far southern wall.

The blackened stain that stretched across the stone seemed darker today, as if it had sunk deeper into the structure. A lingering echo of fire, etched not just into the physical walls but into the soul of the place. The smell was almost gone, scrubbed out by layers of fresh air and lavender, thanks to your colleague who opened the many windows, but the memory still clung to the air like a shadow.

It felt… wrong, somehow, that the world had carried on so quickly. Students laughed again in the hallway, shelves were already being reordered, that ink ran so easily across fresh paper when so much had been reduced to ash.

Your fingers clenched slightly.

You forced yourself to breathe.

Steady. In. Out.

Across the ruined aisle, your colleague made an undignified sound, half a grunt, half a whimper, as he attempted to carry a stack of badly burned tomes in his arms. The topmost book looked as though it had been half-eaten by fire and then spit back out in protest. Charcoal flakes drifted off the edges of the stack like ash snow.

He caught you watching him and gave you a sheepish, crooked smile, the kind that asked not to be judged. You stepped forward instinctively as the books tilted dangerously, but he danced backward with a shaky laugh and somehow managed to regain control before the entire tower of knowledge toppled onto the cracked marble floor.

“Graceful as ever,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

He stuck out his tongue in reply, a childish reply despite his age.

But even as you prepared to turn away, something else caught your eye. Just beyond him, partially obscured by the broken beams of a ruined selves, two figures sat in the shadows. Quiet. Still. They didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Your heart sank.

The same two students whose foolishness had kindled the first spark. The ones who had, in their arrogance, pried open what should have remained sealed. They looked small now. Shrunk. As though some great hand had wrung the defiance out of them and left nothing but brittle silence behind.

Their faces were drawn, lips pale and pressed tight, eyes rimmed with guilt, or perhaps fear of the repercussions.

For a flicker of a second, something in your chest twisted. Not pity, not exactly. Something more like… sympathy. You hated it. But they deserved their fate, didn’t they?

You turned away before the feeling could root itself, walking toward your colleague.

“Where do I take the report?” you asked, your voice low. Steady.

Your colleague blinked, momentarily thrown off by the question. He adjusted the stack in his arms with an awkward grunt. “Hm? Oh- ..uh. You’ll want to bring it to one of the senior archivists or a Circle scribe. If you want to be official.”

You raised an eyebrow, the names being unknown to your ears.

He hesitated, then added, almost apologetically, “Or... the Sage. If he’s in. He’s not lecturing today, I think. Just… sorting through paperwork. It would make the procedure easier.”

You stopped breathing.

The scroll in your hand suddenly felt ten times heavier.

You didn’t need to ask which Sage.

There was only one whose name had become such title, whispered only in the safety of side halls and dormitories. Only one whose presence seemed to pull the air tighter, like gravity had a favorite.

Shadow Milk.

Your chest tightened.

He was the last person you wanted to see today.

Hell, you’d built the last day around not seeing him. You’d traced his patterns like a stargazer mapping constellations, carefully aligning your own routines to avoid shared paths. You’d even lingered in the herbarium an extra hour yesterday during your break, pretending to study root systems when you heard that he was teaching in a class nearby.

And now the stars, or perhaps just cruel coincidence, had decided this was the moment. This was your penance.

You opened your mouth, ready to object, to explain that today was technically your day off, that you weren’t even supposed to be here, and that surely someone else could.

But your colleague was already walking away, wobbling dangerously under the weight of the ruined books.

“Thanks!” he called, voice muffled by a plume of dust as he turned a corner.

You stood in place for a moment. Silent.

Then, of course, you made your way to the exit.

Muttering half-hearted complaints to yourself, you resignedly turned toward the hallway. The paper burned in your hand with phantom heat, as though the guilt of the ruined book, his book, had soaked into the parchment.

---

The halls felt longer today.

Maybe it was the way your shoes echoed too loudly on the stone. Or maybe it was the stillness, how few others walked these corridors now that classes had resumed. You passed a few stragglers, students clutching papers or books tucked under arms, too lost in their own world to notice you.

You envied them.

They walked like ghosts, untouched by consequence. You wondered if you’d ever moved that way.

Sooner than you expected, too soon, you found yourself facing it, the door.

The Sage’s office.

An imposing slab of dark oak, carved with symbols that pulsed faintly at the edge of your vision if you looked too long. It loomed more than it should have. It had always felt like a boundary to somewhere... holier. Or more dangerous.

You stopped in front of it, heartbeat loud in your ears.

Raised your hand.

Paused.

You hovered there, knuckles just inches from the wood, suspended in uncertainty. The muscles in your arm trembled slightly, not from fear, not exactly. From awareness. From the weight of what this gesture meant.

You stared at the grain in the wood.

What if he’s busy? What if he’s in the middle of something important? What if I bother him? What if I bother him?

And more dangerously, what if something’s changed since that night?

The thought slipped in uninvited. You tried to shove it back, but it lingered like perfume. A memory, quiet words in the dark. Fingers brushing yours as exchanged book. His voice, hushed, looking at your book like it mean something.

What if he looked at you now and didn’t see that anymore?

Your fingers twitched and slowly lowered to your side. Maybe you could just slip the scroll under the door and leave. That wouldn’t be too unprofessional, right? Just slip in, place it, and go. He’d understand. He always did.

You took a step back.

Just as you were about to turn away, a gentle but unmistakably weight settled on your shoulder. Warm. Gentle. Terribly familiar. You flinched, heart lurching. Someone had touched you. Someone who clearly thought they had the right to.

Your body locked into place, a string pulled taut.

You spun on instinct, intending to scold whoever it was, only to find yourself face-to-face with the one person you'd hoped to avoid.

There he stood.

Shadow Milk.

The Sage stood just infront of you, his mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement, that ever-cryptic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hand lingered on your shoulder for a second longer than necessary before he pulled it away, as if savoring your shock.

He stood casually, hands now tucked behind his back, his posture effortless yet precise, as though he were always exactly where he intended to be.

His clothes were the same soft white you remembered, layered with navy accents in his back, which follows each of its steps. They caught the light strangely, as if the fabric remembered shadows. A few loose strands of light blue hair fell across his brow, as always, defying the otherwise surgical neatness of his appearance.

But it was his eyes that held you still.

Behind a veil of white lashes, the right one, of deep and quiet blue, caught the light like a frozen pond at dusk, cold, reflective, endless.

The other one gleamed gold, steady, knowing. Warmer… Watching you.

Amused.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, a corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Trying to slip away again I see?” he said softly, his voice low and playful, like a secret joke only the two of you shared.

You stared, had he saw you in the hallway?-

He continued, with a faint sigh of false sympathy. “Tsk. Come now. You’ve come all this way after all.”

You opened your mouth to object, to deny it, but nothing came out.

The last time you’d heard his voice this close, there hadn’t been anyone else in the building. There hadn’t been parchment between you. Just late-night lamplight and the slow, deliberate exchange of stories not found in any other library.

“I wasn’t-” you began, but the words stumbled. “I was just-”

He raised an eyebrow, cutting the space between you with silence alone.

You swallowed hard and shifted your grip on the scroll, suddenly aware of how tightly your fingers had curled around it. The wax seal was half-crushed now. You hadn’t even noticed.

He glanced at it briefly, then stepped past you, not dismissively, not cold, but with the kind of smooth inevitability that said ‘I’ve already decided this is happening.’

You stood frozen as he reached out and touched the door.

The sigils etched in the wood glowed briefly beneath his fingertips, a shimmering pale blue, and the wards parted without resistance.

The door swung open, slow and deliberate.

He held it there, his eyes flicking back to you.

“Well?” he said, voice dry. “You’ve come this far, you're not going to turn around right away.”

You stared at him.

Then, against your better judgment, you stepped inside.

His office hadn’t changed. On your first day you innocently glanced in, not even knowing who owned the desk, luckily no one was there. But this time, it felt different. Because you were welcomed in.

The room was high-ceilinged, book-lined, and filled with light, but the kind of light that didn’t seem to come from anything in particular. No lamps were lit. No sunlight spilled directly through the arched windows. Yet everything glowed faintly. Softly.

The shelves were crammed with more books than a dozen students would read in their lifetime, some leather-bound, some chained shut with delicate silver loops.

You tried to stare at anything but him.

The desk.

Crafted from dark wood, its surface etched with swirling patterns that curled like sea foam frozen in obsidian. It was cluttered, but not chaotically so, open scrolls lay scattered among half-finished notes written in a precise, deliberate hand. A chipped mug of tea rested amid the mess, still faintly steaming. Everything was bathed in the soft, shifting light that poured through the wide window behind the desk, illuminating the scene with a quiet, contemplative glow.

And near the edge, almost like a forgotten relic, sat a book.

Midnight blue cover. Gold lettering faded but intact.

Your eyes recognize it.

It was the second in a trilogy, Celestial Architectures, Vol. II. A story you had once pressed into his hand half in hope, half in something far more vulnerable. He hadn’t said much when you gave it to him.

But the silk bookmark now nestled near the final pages told you everything.

He was almost finished.

You stood there, not moving, as he strode to the desk and sat, elegantly, comfortably, the air shifted, as if the place itself welcomed its owner home.

With a flick of his fingers, the scroll lifted from your hands.

You didn’t even feel it go.

The magic was subtle, no flare of light, no dramatic gesture despite the stories that told about his past. Just a whisper of motion and then the parchment floating gently toward him. He caught it midair, unfurling it with a practiced ease.

You watched as his eyes scanned the lines you had written. His brow furrowed faintly at first, then smoothed as he read on.

His expression remained unreadable.

You stood motionless, a tight knot forming at the base of your spine. Your heartbeat felt slow and heavy now, like a drum muffled beneath too many layers of cloth.

Maybe he would say nothing.

Maybe that would be worse.

Then, finally,

“Scholars,” he muttered, exhaling softly through his nose. “Always so thorough.”

He didn’t sound annoyed. Just… resigned.

You cleared your throat quietly.

“I… I wanted to tell you-” you began.

His eyes didn’t lift from the scroll.

You tried again. “The book you lent me. The one you gave me before- before the fire…”

He looked up, just a flicker of attention, enough to catch the hesitation in your voice.

“It didn’t survive,” you said.

He blinked. Once.

Then, simply “Oh?”

You nodded. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken it out sooner. I didn’t think- I didn’t know-”

He waved a hand lazily. “It’s fine.”

You stared at him, perhaps even bothered by the lack of reaction.

“…You’re not angry?” you asked, the words out before you could second-guess them.

That earned you a longer look.

His mismatched eyes caught the faint glow of the light outside. “Should I be?”

“It was rare,” you said, hesitantly. “It was not just a copy, it was handmade. You spent time writing it.. You said it was part of a-”

“Everything’s rare when it’s irreplaceable,” he said simply. “That doesn’t mean it’s sacred.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

He tilted his head slightly, regarding you with something that wasn’t quite a smile, but not far from one, either.

“Books are meant to die,” he said quietly. “Especially the good ones. Their job is to pass on what they know. Not to last forever.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“No,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “That’s not true.”

His eyebrows rose, mildly impressed. “No?”

“Some books, some stories, should last,” you said, your voice firmer now, but the hesitation persists in your voice, “because they matter. Because they deserve to.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then, with deliberate care, he set the scroll down on the desk.

Folded his hands.

And looked at you.

Not just a glance. Not a fleeting look. No.

He stared, straight into your eyes, with a calm yet unyielding intensity.

You froze, unsure of what you were supposed to feel, perhaps wondering if you had finally crossed the line with your words.

“Are you implying,” he said, voice smooth, “that I just lied?”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the sharpness in his tone.

You opened your mouth, already flustered. “No!” you said, your voice rushing. “I-I didn’t mean it like that, I just-”

And then, he laughed.

Not a scoff. Not a simple breath.

A laugh.

Warm. Real. Louder than any chuckle you've managed to get out of him before.

It startled you.

He leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing as he rested his chin lightly in his hand.

“And here I thought you were the type to believe everything I say without questioning it...”, he murmured low, but that didn't stop you from hearing each of his words.

You blinked, stunned.

A dozen thoughts fought for room in your skull and none of them made it to your mouth in time.

You were still trying to decide what to say when a sharp knock rattled the wood of the door behind you.

Once. Twice.

Rhythmic. Measured.

He sighed. Not loudly. But you knew that sigh.

His gaze drifted toward the door, irritation flickering across his face like the shadow of a bird’s wing, but it quickly disappears.

“Enter,” he called.

The air seemed to tighten around the word.

You turned slowly toward the door.

And just like that, whatever strange quiet had been growing between you, ruptured.

———

Thanks for reading the third chapter!! Don’t forget to like🫶🍊

Lowkey Y/n colleague… HEAR ME OUTTT

I really hate this chapter, it fell weird and even more so since it’s not the original, so many small details and dialogue were forgotten as I result of my dumbass.

I’d rather do my 100 ask in my box than write the chapter 4, I DON’T HAVE IDEASSS!!!😫 I want to finish that fast.

Is Y/n relatable?

Yes🥀

Not really🌹

Voting ended onJun 24, 2025

[salynaa]

Sage of Truth x Reader Pt.2

Warnings : None, bad writing, fluff, shy reader.

Author note : Part 1 by the way, this shit is long asf, coems chat

————————————————————————

The following days passed like breath held too long.

Long enough for your chest to ache with it.

You moved through your shifts at the library like someone walking underwater, calm on the surface, but aware of every sound, every silence, every whisper of footsteps that might be his. There were times you thought you heard him, the soft rustle of fabric near the astronomy aisle, the familiar rhythm of someone scanning spines with intention. But each time you looked, no one was there.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him, the man from that night. The stranger who spoke as if stars had languages, and thoughts were sacred.

You still didn’t know who he was.

Not his name. Not his position. Not even whether he truly worked at the academy.

And yet, every time you shelved a book or turned a page, your mind flickered back to that voice, that presence, and most of all, to the feeling he’d left behind. It wasn’t just admiration. It was something stranger. Quieter. Like the calm before a change in weather.

A kind of wonder.

You’d placed Celestial Architectures, Vol. I back on your desk, not to be reshelved, but to be kept close, like a letter from a friend you hadn’t decided how to answer. You opened it again days later, your fingers hesitant at first, and reread the notes you'd once scrawled in the margins. They were clumsy, full of half-formed questions and unpolished ideas.

But between them now were his responses, precise, thoughtful, sometimes even playful, but never mocking.

He’d transformed your scattered thoughts into something alive, something more.

Reading the dialogue you’d created together felt like finding a secret trail of stars drawn just for you, one you hadn’t realized you’d been following.

But he hadn’t returned.

Not yet.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he’d simply borrowed a book and moved on. That you were being foolish. But even as you tried to reason with yourself, your eyes would drift toward the entrance of the library in the quietest hours of the evening, hoping.

You thought of finding the second volume, but hesitated.

What if he never came back? What if those few pages were all you’d ever share? A single conversation, brilliant, strange, but unfinished.

Still… part of you, perhaps, the part that had once believed in things beyond the rational began to prepare. Not with grand gestures, but with small, deliberate choices. You lit the lamps a little earlier. You cleaned chair he could possibly use, even though no one else sat there. You took the second volume of Celestial Architectures from the restricted archives, its binding delicate and its cover soft from age.

You began to reread it, not as a scholar, but as a conversation partner. At first, it was to refresh your memory. Then, it became more.

You started writing again.

This time, it wasn’t unintentional.

Your notes curved with a kind of quiet anticipation. Not just private reflections now, but questions meant to be seen. Ideas meant to be met. You wrote not with the expectation of being read, but with the hope of it. It was terrifying and strange and somehow thrilling. You weren’t sure if he’d come again, but if he did, you wanted him to know you had been waiting.

And three days later, he returned.

You felt it before you saw him, the air shifted, as if the library recognized him before you did. The silence pressed differently. The lamps flickered a little warmer.

He didn’t knock. He never had.

He simply appeared, quiet at the entrance, framed by tall stacks and amber light. In his hands, he carried a book you hadn't noticed before. Not from your collection, something older, private. Bound in deep golden cloth, worn at the edges.

He looked at you the way someone looks at something they’re relieve to find again. Then, his eyes flicked on one of your hand holding the book.

“I see you found the volume two,” he said, with the smallest of smiles, just enough to soften the space between you.

You straightened, your pulse loud in your throat. You hadn’t realized you’d been gripping the edge of your desk with your free hand.

“I… I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” you said, voice too quiet.

He stepped further inside, the distance between you shrinking with each careful movement.

“I wasn’t sure either,” he replied.

Then he paused, just long enough for the moment to settle.

“But I hoped.”

You said nothing at first, your throat felt too tight to allow much more than a breath. You watched as he moved closer, the book in his hands catching the soft amber light. The cover was marked with intricate runes you didn’t recognize, and yet… it looked strangely familiar.

“I meant to return sooner,” he said, his voice as calm as always, though this time there was something in it, an undertone, like a shadow passing under clear water. He was looking down at the book in your hands, but his thoughts seemed elsewhere. “My schedule… doesn’t always belong to me.”

You blinked at that. The way he said it, not with frustration, but with the tired acceptance of someone whose time was no longer truly their own. Someone constantly summoned, expected, consulted.

It sounded familiar. In the way a story feels familiar even if you’ve never read it before.

“I imagine you must be… busy.” you said cautiously, unsure whether you were stating the obvious or something more delicate.

His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.

“That’s one word for it,” he replied, and you thought you saw a flicker of amusement behind his eyes, quickly gone. “Let’s just say free hours are a rare commodity these days.”

You found yourself nodding, but questions rose anyway, quiet and persistent.

Why?

Who exactly was he, to be so needed? So tethered?

And what kind of responsibilities could keep a man like him away from something as small as a conversation, or as quiet as a library?

You wanted to ask. The words were right there, sitting on the edge of your tongue.

But something in you hesitated.

Because the truth was, you still didn’t know who he was. Not really. He’d never given his name. Never said what he taught, if he taught. And yet, the way he moved through this place, with a kind of quiet familiarity, like the stone and shelves knew him, told you he belonged here in a way few ever did.

It struck you then, in the soft light of the reading lamps, that he wasn’t simply another professor passing through.

There was something different. Higher. Heavier.

You remembered the way your colleagues sometimes spoke in hushed tones about “certain figures” at the Academy, those rare, elevated individuals the rest of the scholars or even colleagues admired from a distance. You’d never cared to pay attention before.

Now, you wondered if you’d unknowingly found yourself speaking to one of them.

But still, you didn’t ask. You told yourself it didn’t matter.

And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder,

If someone like him was so occupied, why did he come back at all?

But instead of sharing your thoughts, you simply nodded, and offered the faintest smile. “I’m glad you came back.”

And you meant it more than you expected.

His eyes flicked to yours at that, and held them just long enough to make you feel it. Not just seen, but read, like a favorite passage in a well-worn book.

“I brought you something,” he said, breaking the moment with quiet grace.

He extended the book toward you, carefully, as though it were fragile. Reverent. “It’s called The Soul Scripts of Silent Scholars. It’s not part of your collection.”

You took it with both hands. The cover was velvet-dark, bound in deep golden cloth, worn at the edges and humming faintly with something just beneath the surface. Not magic exactly… or maybe a kind of magic you couldn’t name.

“This book is extremely important.. I can tell by its quality…”. You murmured, unable to stop your fingertips from tracing the edge of the title. “Where did you-?”

But he only tilted his head, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Let’s say it found me.”

You looked up at him again, wanting, perhaps needing, to ask more.

But something about him always made your curiosity fold back on itself. He never seemed to be hiding anything… but neither did he volunteer anything unasked. Like a book that could only be opened one page at a time.

And so you said nothing more, and instead reached beneath the counter for the second volume of Celestial Architectures.

“I’ve… added some thoughts,” you admitted, your voice a touch self-conscious as you held it out to him.

He accepted it gently, opening to the first page, and the tiniest light passed through his expression when he saw your handwriting.

A flicker of recognition. Of shared space.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

He offered you a polite nod, then slowly reached into the folds of his sleeve. “I must attend to another engagement,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “Please excuse me for now.”

A small pause stretched between you as he prepared to depart. For a moment, the world in the library felt suspended, a gentle lull between pages yet to be written. You wanted to ask more, to tease out the secrets behind his cryptic replies. But his departure was inevitable.

With a final fleeting smile, he turned and walked toward the grand arched doorway. His steps were measured, leaving you with a mixture of longing and quiet introspection. The library’s silence seemed richer with his absence, as if the very air missed his presence.

Left alone with the soft rustle of pages and the steady beat of your own thoughts, you hesitated for several minutes. Then, with trembling hands, you unfolded the book he had so delicately given you. The cover was as enchanting as before, but this time you noticed something new, inside, handwritten notes in a neat, refined script that you recognized instantly as his.

You ran your fingertips slowly over the lines, reading the annotations with a sense of awe and curiosity. Each note was meticulously composed, elegant and measured, transforming the ordinary commentary of a scholar into something almost lyrical. Compared to your own hastily scrawled thoughts, messy, passionate, and uncertain, his writing was pristine, as if he had transcribed the very essence of truth with each pen stroke.

As you turned the pages, a growing question tugged at your mind, should you respond to these notes? Yet, you hesitated. Your own annotations, though honest, felt raw and jumbled. They were the whispered musings of a soul unsure of its own voice. How could you possibly match the measured perfection of his words? And yet, the thought of maintaining the silent conversation between you both was irresistible.

Your gaze lingered on a final inscription at the book’s end, a signature, written in the same elegant hand; “Shadow Milk.”

A chill ran down your spine. You recognized the name immediately, the murmurs in the corridors of the Academy spoke reverently of Shadow Milk, the Headmaster of the Blueberry Academy, the elusive figure whispered about in faculty halls. The one they called The Sage of Truth. This book... wasn't just important.

It was his. Written by his hand. A personal copy. Annotated.

Your first thought was, how could he possibly own such a book?

Did he know him personally? Were they friends? Had he somehow simply stumbled upon it?

No, that was unthinkable. A volume like this couldn’t simply be found, not by accident. And certainly not a handwritten copy. It was the kind of treasure students would dream of glimpsing behind locked glass, let alone touching.

So how, in the quiet hush of this quiet library, had it found its way into the hands of a humble librarian as you?

Gathering your courage, you resolved to ask him about it during his next visit.

To your surprise, his visit came sooner than expected, just as the evening settled into its quiet rhythm. After gathering the books a few students had deliberately abandoned on the reading tables, you made your way back toward your desk near the entrance, only to find him already there.

Bathed in moonlight that seemed to trace the lines of his face with gentle familiarity, he stood silently, as if waiting for something, or someone to arrive. You approached the counter where he was. You hesitated, tempted to call out to him, but you didn’t know how to address him. With a soft, hesitant tone, you broke the silence.

“Excuse me?” The words left your mouth before you had time to really think them through, soft, uncertain, like a whisper breaking the silence.

At the sound, he turned toward you slowly, as if surprised, though not unpleasantly so. His expression shifted, mild curiosity warming into something gentler.

“Oh,” he said, a faint smile brushing his lips. “So you were here, after all.”

You froze, heart stuttering in your chest.

There were so many things you could have said. A polite greeting. A question. Even just a simple apology for startling him. But instead, you merely nodded, wordless, small, and quietly moved behind the counter, as if it might shield you from the intensity of the moment.

You busied yourself with nothing in particular, pretending to organize the scattered papers or adjust the pen jar, anything to avoid looking up.

Still, you could feel it, his gaze.

Not invasive, not harsh. Just… present. Steady. Calm. And somehow, that made it all the more difficult to breathe.

You waited for him to speak first, as he always did. It had become an unspoken pattern between you, a rhythm that let you hide behind the comfort of his voice.

But this time, he said nothing.

Instead, he stood there in the quiet, watching you with that calm, unreadable gaze. Not expectant exactly, but still, it felt as though he were waiting. Not for something in the room. For something from you.

And suddenly, the silence that had once felt gentle now pressed in at the edges, awkward, unfamiliar. So, to free yourself from it, you spoke about the first things that crossed your mind.

“I must ask… how did you come by such a book?” you ventured, your cheeks warming with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. “It feels as though I should not have dared to touch something of so immense value… How did you come to own it?”

The question left your lips before you could second-guess it. You hadn't meant to sound accusatory, just curious. But something about the weight of the book had been lingering in your thoughts ever since.

He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement, as if he were delighted by your cautious wonder. “First, could I ask… What do you think of Shadow Milk?” he asked lightly, saying his name with such ease while tilting his head in curiosity. His question was casual, yet laden deference, inviting you to share your own impressions without revealing too much about himself.

You paused, considering your words carefully. “I’ve never seen him,” you admitted slowly, “so I cannot say I truly know him. Yet, everyone speaks of him with such admiration, so I imagine he must be as refined and mysterious as the legends suggest.” You hesitated further before adding, “Owning such a book… it seems far beyond my reach. It is not something I believe I should claim as my own.”

A soft chuckle escaped him at that. “Knowledge, however, is meant for everyone,” he replied gently. “It is not the possession of a select few, but a light to be shared with all.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to suggest that perhaps the book should be returned, that it was too grand a responsibility for someone like you. “I… perhaps I should return it,” you murmured, conflicted, “I’m not sure I’m worthy of handling such a treasure…whether it be a friend’s or merely an acquaintance’s.”

“No,” he interjected kindly, his voice imbued with quiet insistence. “Consider it a gift. Let it be yours.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, mixed with a gentle protest that nevertheless waned in the face of his warm yet unwavering tone. “But… wouldn’t the Sage of truth be displeased if he knew that such a book, a handmade copy, had passed into my hands?” you asked softly, as if the very sound of his tittle might summon a weight greater than you could bear.

He offered you a smile, one that carried both reassurance and a playful gleam. “I’m certain he would not mind..” he replied lightly. “For knowledge is not confined to titles or position. It is a shared treasure, after all.”

Before you could voice another thought, he reached the doorway once more, gathering his belongings, your book in his hands. Then, just as he paused at the threshold, he added with a light laugh that echoed faintly off the stone walls, “And I could always remake another copy of it, if need be..”

And as the echo of his words faded into the quiet air, you remained standing there, heart gently fluttering and mind alight with questions, with the mysterious book clutched in your hands and his parting words still resonating, you couldn’t help but wonder about the secret behind his every action and words.

..

But then, just for a moment, you tensed.

Had he said “I”?

The word echoed back to you, faint but unmistakable. A single syllable, slipped into the quiet like a thread pulled too far, revealing far too much for your poor little heart to bear.

Everything had started to align in your mind, slowly at first, like stars shifting into a pattern you weren’t sure you were meant to see.

Was that why the notes had looked so strangely familiar?

So eerily close to the handwriting in the book?

The thought had crossed your mind once before, briefly, flickering like a match that refused to catch. You’d dismissed it then. The tone of the margin notes had felt… lighter. More relaxed. They carried an ease that didn’t quite match the formality of the written manuscript.

And yet..

Even in their quiet confidence, they held the same elegance. The same quiet control. The same deliberate beauty. You hadn’t dare to face it then. But now… it was harder to look away.

Gosh, maybe a day off would be great…

Chapter 3

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Thanks for reading!! Don’t forget to like🫶🍊

ET À MON AMIE, TA INTÉRÊT À AIMER ENFOIRER

Do I make more chapters of it?

Yes🌹

Hell no🥀

Voting ended onJun 8, 2025

[salynaa]

Sage of truth x Reader

Warnings : None, bad writing, fluff, shy reader.

Author note : The link to Part 2 is at the end!!

————————————————————————

You were one of the librarians at the prestigious Blueberry Academy, an ancient institution nestled between forested hills and timeless traditions, a place of marble halls and old ivy, where magic and intellect danced hand in hand.

You had worked there for years, long enough for the walls to recognize your footsteps, long enough for the books to trust your touch. And yet, despite your time there, you remained something of a ghost to your colleagues. It wasn’t for lack of kindness on their part; rather, it was the weight of your own timidity, tied with the fine thread of shame, that kept you apart.

You lived mostly in the silence between conversations, avoiding attention with the practiced ease of someone who had long since given up on being seen. Not out of bitterness, no, but from that gentle kind of shame born of being too awkward, too shy, too... much in your own head. You had tried, once, to befriend your colleagues, to join their laughter and complain about reckless student on breaks, but your words always felt like mismatched shoes, clumsy, uncomfortable, out of rhythm. Eventually, you stopped trying.

But you had the library. And that was enough. You found peace in the solitude of your work, in the quiet breathing of the library’s walls, and in the whispering rustle of pages turned by unseen hands.

You often left the doors unlocked late into the evening, even when the Academy’s magical curfew should have sealed the building. A few students would slip inside, grateful for the quiet space to revise, ask whispered questions, or simply rest their thoughts between the bookshelves. You never reported them. After all, you remembered what it was like to be a student, desperate for answers, afraid of failure. If they sought knowledge in the hush of ink and parchment, who were you to deny them?

One dusky evening, as twilight spilled through the stained glass and painted the library in hues of sapphire and gold, you heard the creak of the door open behind you.

You didn’t look up immediately. Expecting another student slipping into the library for unknown purposes.

“Good evening,” came a voice, not youthful, but calm, smooth, precise.

You turned, and the world stilled.

He stood near the entrance, framed by the dying light, cloaked in a white clothes in long navy sleeve lined with golden runes that shimmered faintly as though breathing. His presence was... magnetic, but quiet. Like a forgotten star remembering how to shine. He walked not as though he belonged there, but as if the place had waited centuries just for him to return.

You had never seen him before.

And yet...

“I was told the library had a copy of Celestial Architectures, Vol. I,” he said surely, but keeping his voice low as not to disturb the quiet of the place, while stepping closer he continued. “Would you happen to know where it is?”

You blinked. That book. Of course. A rare tome, often requested, rarely understood. Unfortunately.

“I’m afraid... our only copy was badly damaged last month,” you said, hesitant. “Some careless hands. …Student.” you muttered the last word under your breath, filled with bitterness.

His expression didn’t change, but you noticed the way his fingers twitched slightly, disappointment perhaps, expertly hidden.

Then you remembered.

“I-I might have... a version,” you said, already moving toward the back. “An older edition. I kept it for myself years ago, since the new edition came. Not for lending, but... well, it’s better than nothing.”

He inclined his head. “If you’d be willing to share it, I would be in your debt.”

You found the book quickly, worn but well-loved. Without hesitation, you handed it to him.

He accepted it with reverent hands, your fingers lightly brushing against each other as you offer him the book.

“Thank you, I will take good care of it.” He simply responded with a smile.

Then, he left without another word.

Only after the echo of his footsteps had faded did your stomach twist with sudden dread.

The notes.

Oh no.

You had filled that book, completely, with your own thoughts over the years. Scribbles in the margins, musings in the blank spaces, questions addressed to no one. Your imagination. Your thought. You hadn’t opened it in so long, you’d forgotten the ink-stained map of your mind you’d left behind.

You cringed, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

Days passed. You told yourself he would not return, that it would be better if your gaze’s never met again after such a embarrassing event…

But on the fifth night, he came back, unfortunate for you.

You were shelving a stack of returned scrolls when his voice, as soft as silk over stone, came from behind you.

“I believe this is yours.”

You turned, startled. He was holding the book, your book, in both hands.

“I-I’m so sorry about the notes,” you directly blurted before you could stop yourself, face already flushing. “I forgot I’d written in it, I never meant for anyone to read them! Especially not someone like-”

He raised one of his hand, stopping you gently.

“There is no need to apologize,” he said, his lips slightly curved, as if the situation amused him more than anything else.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed.

“Truly. It was...” He paused, taking his time for searching for the right word. “..Interesting.”

You stared.

“I’ve read that book a dozen times before, and yet your interpretations offered an entirely new lens. I would had never imagined the constellations to be seen in a such way by myself... But now I fear that I cannot see them otherwise.” His voice faded like a whisper, chased by a laugh so delicate you thought it might have been your imagination.

Your heart thudded somewhere near your throat.

“I-I didn’t think anyone would ever read them,” you murmured. “They were just thoughts. Silly ones…”

He gave the faintest smile.

“Thoughts are never silly when they ask the right questions.”

You looked down, overwhelmed. No one had ever spoken to you like that, at least not about your ideas.

When he handed the book back to you, your fingers brushed his just briefly for a second time.

The book felt heavier than before, though you didn’t yet understand why and didn’t bother to understand more.

“Thank you again,” he said, giving a small bow of his head accompanied by a faint smile.

Then, with the same quiet grace he had arrived with, he turned and walked away. The long folds of his sleeve swept softly behind him like waves in deep water. You watched him until he disappeared between the columns of the library, his footsteps fading into silence.

And then he was gone.

You stood still for a moment, your heart oddly unsettled. The lamps hummed faintly above you, casting shadows on the marble floor.

…Who was he?

You hadn’t even thought to ask his name.

Should I have? you wondered. But the moment had passed, and you’d let it go.

You sighed and glanced down at the book still in your hands. Adrift in solitude with only the book and your thoughts now, you let your fingers wander through its pages, searching for a whisper of something new, maybe a response of your endless thoughts.

Yet as your fingers brushed across the turning pages, your gaze fell upon something that shimmered with quiet beauty, something far too radiant to be your own.

His handwriting, elegant and deliberate, had answered every one of your scattered thoughts on small note. Not correcting. Not judging. Simply responding, like a conversation that had waited years to be heard.

And that’s when you saw it, tucked delicately between the last two pages, just beneath one of your messiest notes, written in a precise and graceful script.

“If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I would love to read the second volume. And if possible, in similar condition as the first one.”

————————————————————————

Part 2

EH J’ÉCRIS TELLEMENT MIEUX, je crois, coems🤑🙏

My bad for the terrible writing, English not my first language so it can sound weird sometime🙏 Next post is about Fire spirit and Wind archer (human drawing)

[mercuryflan]

[behind the castle]

[mercuryflan]

[behind the castle]

“First pull” - ngl Miko is not prepared for the next cookie’s thats also gonna live there in the castle alskskdk

“outside help” -just player helping them on their journey like a guardian behind the scene

[cookierunoutofideas]

Just Make More Dragons (Longan Dragon Cookie/Fem! Reader) [SMUT]

“I mean, if you want the age of dragons to return, shouldn’t you just... I dunno, make more dragons or something?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Warnings: no beta we die like elder faerie, smut, PWP, probably out of character, probably not all that well written, neutral pronouns for Longan Dragon Cookie, oviposition, breeding, mating, double dicks, Longan Dragon has some sort of aphrodisiac pheromones that I honestly don't care to explain I just wanted to use the fact that longan fruit apparently smells sweet and is used for relaxation–

Read at your own risk!

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

“I mean, if you want the age of dragons to return, shouldn’t you just... I dunno, make more dragons or something?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Maybe you didn’t think it through before opening your mouth, but, then again, it’s hard to think when Longan Dragon Cookie is looming over you, eyes piercing yours for daring to direct your pathetic cookie voice their direction.

Honestly, not a single part of your current situation makes thinking an easy task. Out of all cookies and out of all places, it shouldn’t be you standing in the lair of the Ivory Dragon. Even if it was originally your idea to do something to distract the guy so the others could regroup and plan the next step to prevent the extinction of all cookie kind, you didn’t mean it had to be leaving you behind! It’s all Pitaya’s fault for throwing you at the pissed white dragon and leaving to lick their wounds somewhere, when you get your hands on that damn lizard-

“You haven’t answered, weak one.”

“I... I mean...” you stammer, taking a shaky step back, but they follow without much effort because, again, Longan Dragon is so damn tall.

You repeat that clumsy dance a few more times, quickly, eyes anywhere but the dragon. While you’re thankful they haven’t killed you yet, you’d rather not test your luck by sticking too close. Though it seems they don’t get the memo, meeting every step with one of their own, an oppressive waltz that ends with you against a hard wall.

“I wouldn’t dare suggest that! I’m just a lowly cookie!” you frantically wave your hands, fear running through your dough. Maybe if you act humble enough, they won’t crumble you for another few hours.

Damn it, Ginger Brave and gang, come faster!

Longan Dragon shortens the distance between you two, forcing you to lean your head back as much as you can to avoid touching their chest with your forehead.

Oh, they smell oddly sweet.

What a rich scent.

And their hands are so big, sharing their warmth—so far, all dragons you’ve met are pretty warm, must be a dragon thing—with your cheeks as they lift your face.

The sweet smell of fruit envelops you, relaxing your muscles without your permission. Not that you’re trying to fight the sudden wave of calm that hits you, no, you’re greedily breathing in all sensations, even the sensation of a much larger body pressing you against the wall, the difference in temperatures on your front and back making your breath hitch. It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything but tension pressing down your back that the small respite brings too much relief to your body and soul.

Then a thumb presses on your lower lip and you remember just where you are. And with who.

You open your eyes with a loud gasp, trying to free your body—and fuzzy mind—from the Ivory Dragon’s claws, but they don’t budge. No, they seem pleased.

“What...” you swallow saliva you hadn’t even noticed filling your mouth. “... are you doing?”

“A mate presents so willingly to be bred,” the dragon purrs—literally, you can feel the vibrations, “and responds to me so eagerly, what is this one to do other than claim them?”

Whatever happens between that low growl and your back meeting soft silken sheets simply doesn’t register in your memory. After all, the sweet scent filling your nose and the maddening kiss stealing your breath make remembering anything else difficult.

Longan Dragon Cookie’s body is hot and heavy on yours, their tongue insistent and their hands adventurous. Gone is the quiet intensity that made the Ivory Dragon a suffocating yet majestic presence, in its place is fervour you simply can’t comprehend, urgency and hunger and desire and want and need—oh, you can’t help but tug at their ivory strands, making them as messy as the kisses you two share. They growl, animalistic, finally acting like one would expect a dragon, instinct guiding them into manhandling you until your clothes are ripped off, exposed—offered to them.

You don’t bother to muffle your voice as sharp teeth finds the soft dough around your nipples. The dragon seems to like that, too, making sure to bite and suck and lick whatever place gives them the louder, needier noises. They move down your body, giving special attention to your navel, to where your womb rests, marking you with claws and fangs. Your vagina pulsates when they look up at you, locking eyes as they lick, long and slow, up the valley of your breasts. It’s so hypnotizing that you barely notice the sharp claws rubbing against your clit and folds, the danger making your toes tingle.

“This-” you gasp, pulling at their long hair—beautiful, like all of the dragon. “Keep... keep them outta me...”

“Do you think me foolish to risk hurt the one who’ll carry my eggs?”

“Eggs?!”

And the bastard only chuckles! A deep, rich sound that comes from the depths of their lungs, a sound no one ever thought the Ivory Dragon capable of. Feeling annoyed, you quickly hoist yourself up and do the unthinkable: you sink your teeth on the Ivory Dragon’s neck, completely forgetting that a dragon’s dough is much more resistant than a normal cookie’s. You can barely move your jaw, your tongue touching the smooth scales curiously.

Longan Dragon Cookie pulls you away from their neck with one harsh tug to the back of your neck, and for a second you fear that you’ve finally crossed the line and won’t see the next sunrise... but then they purr—or growl? Hard to tell—and oh.

They smile, predatory and pleased.

“A weak little cookie won’t be able to mark my scales, little mate,” they rumble, shuffling a bit until their robes fall off their shoulders. “But go ahead and try still.”

They bring you to another kiss with the hand on your neck, thrusting their hips on your unclothed pussy, allowing you to feel what awaits.

There’s two of them, your brain figures, there’s no way that bulge is only one dick.

There absolutely is two of them.

You watch as the rest of their robes fall off their body. It is like watching the most wondrous sculpture be revealed, like the ultimate piece of art finally leaves its artist’s studio to grace the world with its existence. Here is a being no one could ever dare deny their beauty, doing so would be to boldly lie to an omniscient god’s face.

And there are two dicks standing proudly, already leaking at the anticipation of  tearing you apart.

Because that’s what going to happen, you’re sure. The one on the top is thicker while the one bellow is thinner, but they’re both far too much for a little normal cookie such as you. Longan Dragon Cookie, however, seems to care not—in fact, they seem to simply believe you can take it, take all they give you... which may or may not include eggs. Eggs.

“Wait!” you yelp, pulling at their hair, undoing whatever held it up and out of their way. To your surprise, Longan Dragon does listen, halting their clawed attack at your hips. “You- this- won’t fit!”

“They shall,” they simply answer, pressing another kiss to your navel before finally giving your wet folds—when did you get so wet?—their attention. “I shall make them.”

One long lick to your folds stops whatever protests you still have, instead freeing a long moan. Oh, their tongue is forked. Of course it is, they are a dragon, dragons have forked tongues, why wouldn’t the Ivory Dragon have a forked tongue—and why wouldn’t the Ivory Dragon be so good at using it?

Keeping their words, the claws stay away from you sensitive genitalia, instead drawing scratch lines one your thighs, some even painted blood red. The pain stings just enough to add to the pleasure the tongue stretching and exploring you gives. Giving up any sort of hesitance, you give in to your odd situation, enjoying with abandon the dragon’s ministrations until the knot built inside your tummy snaps and you cum the hardest you’ve ever done, pulling at ivory hair and squeezing a beautiful face between your legs.

Though despite that incredible orgasm, you still don’t feel satiated.

No, part of you still feels empty, craving more of the sweetness coming from your... your lover? No, what was it the dragon called you earlier—mate. Your mate.

As if feeling your desire, Longan Dragon Cookie crawls over your body, still licking their lips and chin to savour every drop of your juices, resting on top of you like a giant, warm cover. Strong arms hold you against a hard chest, prompting you to brace your arms around their neck and sink your nails on their back—thankfully, the scales don’t cover their cookie form completely, so you actually have a chance of scratching them, marking them.

If you could purr at that thought, you would.

Instead, you gasp as a fat cockhead pokes your entrance. Longan Dragon Cookie isn’t exactly gentle—the many bleeding marks all over your body show that pretty well—but they’re considerate enough to stop and wait every time you show signs of pain. Once the thicker cock is inside, they start moving in slow, deliberate circles, still holding you to their chest, giving you no chance to escape the addicting scent of their dough.

Not that you want to.

No, you want to drown in it. You want to be covered in that scent, suffocated in it, buried within it.

The stretch of the second penis entering you makes you whimper, but you can’t tell if it is from pain or pleasure—nor do you care, really. Not when your mate rocks the both of you steadily, thrusts slow but hard, resolute, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back, kissing the entrance of your womb. It’s so hot, it’s too hot and you want more more more more!

“As you wish, little mate” the dragon growls in your ear, the breathlessness of their voice causing shivers to run down your back. “I will breed you round.”

Let no one ever say the Ivory Dragon doesn’t keep their word.

You whine your agreement, pleading for whatever they will give you. Something inside you had snapped into place earlier; suddenly, you are exactly where you should be, exactly with who you should be. Nothing else comes to mind but the one making you feel so good, taking you as theirs, giving you themselves. You turn your head in hopes to get a kiss and, much to your pleasure, you get exactly what you wanted. Longan Dragon Cookie is such a good mate, providing everything their mate wants without delay or confusion.

A good mate who’ll take care of your hatchlings—

Hatchligns.

Eggs!

Holy shit, Longan Dragon Cookie, the Ivory Dragon, is going to fuck eggs into you!

“Please...!” you beg, not sure what for.

Now, would carrying the eggs of your mate be so bad?

No, you figure as another orgasm washes over you, it wouldn’t.

An ever louder growl-purr answers your begging, claws mimicking the scratches left on a ivory back. Your mate starts thrusting faster, harder, deeper, as if trying to force your uterus to open to their cocks—no, not “as if”, that is what they will do. For the sake of your first clutch.

Your first clutch.

The thought alone triggers another orgasm and you repeat the earlier bite to Longan’s neck, not caring that your cookie teeth won’t pierce a mighty dragon’s scales. No, you must mark your mate however you can, no matter how difficult.

That is the limit for the dragon as they roar, shoving their cockhead into your womb with one last hard thrust.

You feel so damn full.

It is amazing.

There is nothing left in the world but you, your mate and where you two connect to become two. You scream to match their roaring, wild harmony ending in a passionate kiss.

Then you feel it. Something round travelling down their thicker cock, stretching you even more. A weak moan slips past your lips only to be greedily devoured by the dragon. The round thing must be about the side of your closed fist, maybe a bit smaller. The journey is slow, a sweet torture you endure in between the arms of your mate. When you dare open your eyes to look at them, your breath gets stolen by the sight of their pupils blown wide, eating away everything else. A forked tongue licks away your tears and sweat, the purring intensifying when you give their face your own, much shyer, licks.

Finally, the eggs pops inside your womb, getting comfortable in the empty space. The second cock gushes out a warm liquid; to fertilize the eggs, no doubt. Then another egg starts the journey. And another. And another. The first one arriving safely seems to have opened the gates as the others now rush to join their sibling. Another world shattering orgasm hits you when a particularly big egg presses your inner walls.

Ten eggs. You now carry ten eggs from the Ivory Dragon. Your belly looks round like a normal pregnancy. The cum inside you keeps you warm. So does the arms wrapped around you and the chest you nuzzle. You fall asleep, content and full, not a care in the world. Nothing can bother this serene moment with your mate.

A loud noise wakes you up hours later, and you recognize the voices of GingerBrave and the other cookies.

Ah.

[allimili]

Ever thought of making mini sandwiches of the truth holders and then making yn show them to them

Ik this aint much but i think it would be a lil funni

[allimili]

alli... i need to know your opinion on sage of truth.... and for you to maybe draw him pls. of course i love regular shadow milk but sage of truth is so cute and i need to kiss him until hes breathless..!!

-shy anon

I like him too

[allimili]

https://www.tumblr.com/allimili/780718581717549056/i-love-how-you-gave-the-beast-cookies-pointy-ears?source=share

I saw this, and a thought hit me right in the fave, Y/N kisses shadow milk ears

[allimili]

How much flirting do you think it takes to make shadow milk flustered? Surely y/n cookie can figure that out!

Your smile.

[karver518]

Imagine if the dream weaver boss picks up y/n and tries to fly away but is stopped hy shadow milk...cue the boss being terrified until shadow milk drops onto his hands and knees, sobbing and begging for y/n to stay with him, that he can't have good dreams if he doesn't know if y/n is safe and sound or not...full on tears and puppy eyes and begging for y/n to be assigned their personal Dreamweaver...

To show what's going on in my head lines wise:

Shadow milk: head dreamweaver...*suddenly drops to his knees-* LET Y/N STAY! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! I CAN'T HAVE GOOD DREAMS IF I DON'T KNOW WHERE Y/N IS! WHAT IF THEY GET INTO AN ACCIDENT? WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPEMS TO THEIR ADORABLE LITTLE WINGS OR ANTENNAS??? PLEASE LET THEM STAY AND WEAVE DREAMS FOR ME AND MY MINIONS AS OUR PERSONAL DREAM WEAVER! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! ILL GIVE YOU ANYTHING YOU WANT! A ROOM IN MY DOMAIN TO USE AS A PERSONAL OFFICE? PART OF MY POWERS TO MAKE DREAMS MORE EXCITING WITH ILLUSIONS YOU CAN CREATE WITH IT? IT'S ALL YOURS JUST PLEEEEHEHEEEEEASE! BWAAAAAAAAAAH!

Boss: 0-0' ok I thought I was going to die but now...wow.

Dreamwatcher Moonstone being absolutely dumbfounded that he's this desperate to keep Dreamweaver y/n with him