Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The expanse of the lands of trust and hopes was steadily graced by the beams of sun—promise of hope and new chances for the citizens.

He found it ironic, then, that the same light irritated his eyelids as all the days before. The curtains were left open on purpose, and as before he couldn't think to reach far enough to untie them. 

The beast’s body moved slowly, softly, unbothered to take the appearance of the room. His eyes avoided the brightness of his clothes, the pastel of the furniture. 

As all things, it followed a simple scheme; gentle yellows which made him burn with despise, and the blues as accents—never on their own. 

Never as anything else.

Sluggishly he grasped a pillow, throwing it onto the carpet beneath. Thick, soft and yellow—all with the purpose of nearly baby proofing.

His legs dragged over the mattress with difficulty he hadn't known before, filled with numbness. With his shaky movement, he placed his hands underneath his knees, swinging them over the edge of the bed. 

Then, as most days before—when he didn't feel like decaying for hours—he allowed himself to slide forward, with his knees hitting the pillow beneath. 

A wince was all he allowed himself. He couldn’t be more pathetic.  

The hair which expressed his state in the past was now tied, tightly coiled into a braid, layered with a ribbon of gold. His gaze remained on the carpet, then on his clothes.

Even sitting like this now, it couldn't reach his knees—a loose, yellow material ending with white ruffles. 

Cruelty.

He didn’t allow himself to grieve. Didn't allow himself to stare more than necessary, and he didn’t permit himself to cry ever again.

Instead, he placed his hands on the flooring, dragging forward on all fours, with his knees needing more time to move. The weight of his unmoving calves served as a reminder. A crown of thorns. 

The beast’s weight carried over in front of the expanse of the three-door wardrobe, trying not to look at the various toys scattered in the room. Blocks, stuffed animals—each one was a reminder. 

A petty needle into his cheek for what he, apparently, had done wrong. 

If you're going to act like a child, you may as well have these.

Shadow Milk glanced to one side—near the long locked doors. A giant bear which could fit his entire body on it stood there, its limbs tilted from the mass it held.

Yet against its white stood out something else. A thick, golden thread, joining its body with its head. The memory nearly made his lips quirk upward, if it wasn't for the punishment that came from his outburst.

It shouldn't matter, really—beheading a doll was not even a part of the anger that boiled in him all these months ago. 

His gaze travelled up, to where his hands couldn't reach anymore. There, above the bed, lay a paddle; hung up and exposed, far from reach, yet visible. Placed meticulously, with purpose—because everything here thus far meant something. 

Everything here was a statement. 

Shadow Milk glanced at that piece of carved wood and remembered its taste on his bare skin. The sting, the tears, and then—the comfort. 

He hasn't felt angry since. 

On the slow journey to the wardrobe, his gaze flicked over the desk, placed for no reason other than cruelty. He couldn't climb the chair on his own, after all, and the hands which would drape him over the yellow surface never allowed him enough space for spilling tears on paper. 

Finally, he stopped lingering. He moved to sit in front of the wardrobe, where the mirror stood. It was still clear, still pristine—despite the many times he hit and clawed at it, it never broke. The messy prints of his hands stained with tears or worse never damaged its perfect surface.

When his eyes met himself in the mirror, he wasn't someone he recognised. This image of him—with perfectly framed hair and soft clothes—was not truly him. 

Has it become him? When?

A loose article of clothing was laid on his body, with softly puffed white sleeves and a loose dress moving down. It only reached half the thigh, decorated with tied ribbons at the sides. 

He never bothered to fasten them. And then the socks which hugged his legs, all the way up to the rounded flesh on his thighs. It wasn't by his own hands that they stayed upright. 

In retrospect, it wasn't much clothing. The dress held nothing else beneath, no secrets which hadn't been pried from his hands. And then his neck, graced with a thicker yet snug necklace, bearing the shape he now hated to see.

Shadow Milk didn't know what he was anymore. Not a jester. Not a beast. A doll—a replica of a real thing, dressed in glitter and clothes which did not belong to it. 

The shape on the soft yellow choker was not the dark blue he found much comfort in—his own Soul Jam was long gone. 

He did not know where. He asked, he yelled, he pleaded for it. 

And so it was here—just not his own. A button which held a mocking shape of magic. Not the magic of deceit, but the magic of truth.

Shadow Milk tore it off many times—tried to move the necklace to conceal the symbol of Soul Jam of truth behind his neck. Then, when it was always put into the correct position for him, he too gave up.

With the sunrise having passed, he had seconds—minutes, at best. 

He took a last flick at himself in the mirror. Involuntarily, his hands curled at his dress. Tight and tense, his once sharp fingernails dug into his skin. The sensation remained dull as even that aspect of the once-feared creature was simply…

Nullified.

Shadow Milk found himself staring right back. Mocking. Judging. The one in the mirror was but a copy—a doll subjectively tailored. 

It wasn't fair.

When has life ever been fair to him?

The emotional numbness and detachment gave way to anger—the very two things he was capable of feeling. Perhaps in losing his autonomy he has lost his ability to grieve. Maybe in being stopped from being an animal, he has become one.

His jaw became tense. Shadow Milk long stopped grieving the torment, stopped pitying himself. Only when he had recalled—this isn't fair—he mustered enough courage to fight.

Not to win. Not to show his declawed hands and filed down teeth—but to be difficult. Because if it wasn't for himself, it was for not making his compliance easy.

A minute stretched too long before the doors finally clicked, a lock pushed and twisted out of its place. Shadow Milk's face slowly moved to have the doors within his view, never looking too high. 

It was enough to see the legs, enough to watch the doors pushed to a close with the gentleness of a man who had known no violence. 

That much was accurate, he was never violent. 

“Ah, what did I tell you?” The soft voice carried through the air like the chirp of morning birds, forcing Shadow Milk to tip his head higher. “I wouldn't like you to leave the bed before I come in the morning.”

There were ways to go about this. Ways to comply, to not try anything. Shadow Milk could nod, let the other have his fill, and go. He could do that and not make it harder. 

But it was unfair. It was fucking unfair.

Shadow Milk's jaw tensed more, teeth grit together in a poor attempt at composure. But, his impulse control was never big—he would drink scorching tea if it had meant it was sweet. 

“If that stupid curtain hadn't allowed the sunlight in, maybe I would've still slept.” He bit out, purposefully emphasising his anger. 

The taller's smile never faltered, even though his brows furrowed slightly. “Kings rise before sunrise, my dove. I wouldn't wish you to still be asleep when I arrive.”

“It's not like me being asleep would particularly stop you.” Shadow Milk dusted off his dress with little care, just a pretense of casualty. The bite in his voice seemed to have returned after a days streak of earlier compliance.

With the king’s closer approach came the sight of his long locks, ends brushing the ground near his feet. Shadow Milk willed his body into stiffness, holding in the shakiness of his breath. 

“Oh, it would,” A soft murmur, as pillowy as feathers. The taller’s hands gently slid underneath Shadow Milk’s arms, and he bristled—but before an attempt was made, his body was already pulled upwards. The care put into the movement was guaranteed to make Shadow Milk feel sick—he was nearly boneless, only a frown betraying his current agitation. 

Pure Vanilla moved with a steady hand, really, the weight in his arms less than that of a feather. With a graceful step he approached the mattress, first gently sitting the other on the centre, before pulling him up.

The pillow bent under Shadow Milk’s head, soft and wide—embracing the sides of his skull like a protective foam used to package delicate items. Yet, he would be far less than wrapped.

With the expanse of the bed underneath his nearly-bare body came another realisation. Perhaps with how routined things were—with how practiced they were—the thought of defiance simply… stopped crossing his mind. It frequented the width of his thoughts sometimes. And in the past, he would’ve acted instead.

Now, all he could do was to furrow his brows.

”It wouldn’t.” Shadow Milk’s hand moved over the silky sheet, his body involuntarily tensing his digits in response to his defiance, as if readying for a consequence. His mind trailed back, to these ‘affections’, or Pure Vanilla’s ‘tenderness’. And at the end, it always finished the same way.

It had the beast’s blood boiling, then, that the king would justify his actions by saying otherwise—

“But it would.” The soft, sun-kissed fingers gently grazed Shadow Milk’s tinted cheek. It gained on flush since he first arrived here, filling out where it once was empty and pale. Pure Vanilla’s other hand rested on the mattress near the other’s body—gently, yes, but caging nonetheless. “It takes two to make love.”

If anything, it caused the blood in his body to boil further. With impulse and less thought, his hand shoved away that of the king’s—only to earn a surprised blink. Shadow Milk’s teeth grit, before he finally managed to bite out; “Stop acting like you don’t come here for one thing only—

—get on with it and leave me alone.”

The hand stayed in the air for a moment, loose digits curling into a fist not yet tense. 

Pure Vanilla’s eyes fluttered open, just slightly. The smile softened into almost neutral, and for a moment, only the sound of the doll’s breath was heard—as if uttering such a thing took a toll on his already learned mouth. Or, perhaps the minutes that he’s held back left him ragged.

After taking in the image of Shadow Milk beneath, his hand came up once more, brushing a lock of silky blue hair behind the doll’s ear. The near-constant presence of light in the room lightened his curls not too long ago, and the eyes which used to have lined each cranny of the strands did not take any joy in the brightness.

They simply have..vanished.

An unfortunate hint of understanding passed on the king’s features—a comprehension. “You think that I only come here to satiate myself?” The fingers moved behind Shadow Milk’s ear, tracing down to his jaw. 

Pure Vanilla’s eyes softened, and his hand left the other for a single moment. He hated when he looked at him this way—hated that stupid calm on his face as if he wasn’t—

For all Shadow Milk wished to complain, there could’ve been hardly any words to properly describe the soft torment at the king’s hands. All the words to nudge at immoral implications seemed to have been too harsh to be fitting. But no words which were soft could be applied either.

The situation would have nearly been tender and domestic if not for the obvious containment. 

“It’s not about what I want,” His hand shifted off the bed, instead moving to the other’s waist. His digits felt the skin through the material, thumb rubbing lazy circles into it. It grew softer since Shadow Milk's initial arrival, fuller—just as intended. “It’s about what you need.”

The touch wasn’t laced with an ulterior motif. A comforting gesture, if the fact of all the previous comforting gestures was overlooked.

”According to whom?” Shadow Milk bit out, allowing himself more fire this time. “To you?” His hand moved to try and brush off the king’s. It didn’t budge. 

“Now, now.” He chided, leaning closer. “We both know you’re not exactly known for good decision making—just like right now.” 

His hand moved up, to where the beast’s rib cage started, feeling the faint running of his heart beneath the skin, fast and heaving. The other hand remained on the bed, giving Pure Vanilla a leverage to lean over. 

His golden locks fell around his face slightly, tickling some of Shadow Milk’s skin—successfully blocking out the view to anything else. “You can’t see it, but I do. Which begs the question…

Why ever would you believe that this is for me?”

It needed no answer. The reluctance within Shadow Milk’s body, the way he seemed to want nothing more than to be left alone. Under Pure Vanilla’s surgically precise gaze, the beast felt like a pinned butterfly, analysed by two curious eyes of a collector.

He hated the vulnerability—the exposure. Yet there was nothing he could do.

Perhaps Shadow Milk wished that the other could see the unadulterated despise. That he would stop trying to dig beneath the grave, as if hoping to find treasure the further he moved his shovel. He wanted Pure Vanilla to finally see that maybe this disinterest wasn’t from a lack—that maybe, there was nothing else to see to this hatred than just that. 

But Pure Vanilla was nothing if not a comprehender, especially once he too nearly ended in the jaws of a beast. 

“I haven’t… neglected you, have I?” The hand on Shadow Milk’s side idly moved, resting on his stomach flatly. The words were spoken with softness and care that was nearly natural. The doll’s eyes widened for a second, astounded by such a disregard—only to narrow.

His lips opened, but a finger was already on them. “Hush, now. It’s okay. I had plenty of things to do around the Kingdom lately,” he mused. “I understand. Maybe with me temporarily leaving you alone more often, you feel…” Pure Vanilla trailed off, looking for the word.

”Used?”

Shadow Milk couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His body felt hot and cold—warm from anger and cool from the disregard. It wasn’t just that Pure Vanilla predicted his reactions, his feelings—because Shadow Milk could too see the intent behind the other’s words.

And then, like a rubber band, the beast snapped. ”I don’t need anything of you—“

Once more Pure Vanilla’s hand was swiftly shoved away. Shadow Milk’s fingers pressed into the bed to try and pull himself to sit, the limbs beyond his knees dragging like numb weights. The braid which was weaved neatly the evening before seemed to have moved out of place, with some of the locks having left the tight binding. 

“You think you’re doing me a favour by—“ his voice shook. “By what? Keeping me here?”

Pure Vanilla’s hand moved back. He didn’t reach to drag Shadow Milk back, didn’t make a reprimand yet. No, he allowed the dam to break. 

“By—by making me this, by touching me, by—“ he swallowed back. It felt as if all the feelings he repressed for months came back, cascading like a waterfall. But he couldn’t allow himself to cry. He couldn’t.

Don’t cry. 

Shadow Milk pulled his knees with difficulty, the calves weighing. With hands shaking in melted fury, he pressed his limbs to himself. “I won’t—won’t forget what you did. My—“

”Legs?” Pure Vanilla mused, offering an answer. As softly as a spring’s breeze, as casually as if this was perfectly normal. He knew what buttons to push, what to say to have Shadow Milk break. And then, be rebuilt again.

That implication itself, spoken the same way as it had been a while ago—when he kicked, when he ran. 

If you don’t yet know better uses for the gift of mobility, I’ll remind you to be grateful.

The memory pierced him: the weight of the ancient’s body pressing him into the bed, the feel of golden light shimmering to life, that radiant thread sinking into the skin just below the knees. Not burning. Not sharp. Just sliding in, like silk through butter. Wrapping itself deeper than Shadow Milk could ever dig out again.

And now, each time the ancient returned to reshape him—each calculated visit, each touch disguised as kindness—the outbursts grew quieter. Fewer. The fire was still there, but burning behind glass.

Just as intended.

Pure Vanilla watched with keen eyes as the beast’s eyes glossed over, as the reminder moved past his eyes like an old film. The way his breathing got shakier—deeper, more ragged. As if nothing gave him enough air.

His hands, still tender, wrapped around the doll’s ankles, dragging him back down to lay in the middle of the mattress. One hand came to stop near the hip, the other moving to Shadow Milk’s chest. 

“It’s alright.” He felt the rapid beating beneath his digits. Pure Vanilla’s lips curled into a softer smile, feeling the flesh between the ribs be fuller now. He had taken good care of this frail thing after all. “I understand.

I’ve failed to do what you needed of me, and you don’t know why you’re acting out.”

It was so ridiculous that Shadow Milk found nothing else to retort. The ancient’s head was above his own, golden locks blocking out everything that wasn't Pure Vanilla’s face once more.

”I’ll give you the care you need, as I always do.”

Because it was practiced—routined. Shadow Milk felt sick when he realised that, in the habit, it became expected. 

“We can do everything, today.” Pure Vanilla moved on the bed, hands on the other’s knee to pull his thighs apart, if only so he could settle between them. Shadow Milk’s mouth opened, as if the defiance hadn't truly been quelled.

And—in all honesty—Pure Vanilla didn’t expect it to be. 

The king’s hands grazed down Shadow Milk’s thighs, barely brushing on the edge of the loose dress. “I’ll rebraid your hair as all mornings, but we can take a nice bath before that.” With precision the hold shifted, from the hips to the waist. The material riding up wasn’t fully intentional.

Shadow Milk didn’t know whether he wanted to stare at the ceiling and allow his mind to escape, or if he wanted to fight. Get it out of his system—tire, and then forget. 

“I don’t need—need you to do anything.” The beast hissed, hands sliding down to try and shove Pure Vanilla’s through the material. 

The king clicked his tongue, head tipping. “But you do. You need structure.” Pure Vanilla moved forward, his lips marking the beast’s cheek with a chaste kiss. “Routine. It keeps you healthy.”

There—a crack Shadow Milk had assumed he could exploit. His hands suddenly pushed into the ancient’s chest instead, never strong enough to make him budge. 

“Being stuck here, in—in this—“ he couldn’t finish, couldn’t find the word. “That is definitely healthy for me—“

The beast felt Pure Vanilla’s mouth curl against the cheek, where it was slowly moved over his jaw and then, the neck. “I was thinking of going somewhere with you soon, but each time I make plans, you find a way to make yourself not worth my trust.”

It was as if cold water was splashed onto Shadow Milk. He may not have power, not his Soul Jam, but he was still deceit. And he still didn’t feel any from Pure Vanilla. Not months ago—and not right now. 

“You just keep doing this to yourself, my dove.” As a reminder, his hands slid back down. “I told you, didn’t I? If it had meant you suddenly got better, I would’ve undone the thread already.”

There, the touch traveled back to the soft thighs. A faint bruise here and there, yet not done with violence. With the frail and delicate exterior that the doll had, even him stumbling down off the bed on his own earned his skin a shade of purple. They had rounded more—still soft, yet not as healthy as they could’ve been.

Shadow Milk’s breath caught as the skilled fingers found the ties at the sides of the dress, undoing them with a single pull. 

“But—you just keep acting out.” He tutted. “I suppose it is my fault. I’ll take care of you better now.”

With a measured grace, the dress around the doll’s waist loosened, allowing Pure Vanilla to slip his hands into the space even better. It was done plenty before. Once upon a time, he would think to shove. To push, scream. To cry. 

Now, it mattered not.

He laid there, like a doll, too occupied with horrors of his own body and situation to waste the energy on fighting. These outbursts of defiance never lasted long, and each time, it seemed it was easier to nullify them.

Shadow Milk’s mismatched eyes focused on the ceiling for a moment. Pure Vanilla’s lips parted, warm breath greeting the beast’s neck. Wet, open mouthed kisses were left down the surface, to the shoulder, where he nuzzled. 

“It was never about me, Shadow Milk. It was always about you.”

The king pulled back from the warm spot between the neck and the shoulder, hands moving higher to pool the dress around the beast’s waist. It complied, folding over like thin silks, exposing the doll’s abdomen and the skin above the long socks. He was bare spare for these two articles—something Pure Vanilla said that was made to give way to trust.

”I don’t do these things for my own joy.” He mused, bunching the dress up slightly. Shadow Milk didn’t bother to drag a limb, not even as the dress was folded beneath his neck—exposing his chest and stomach. “I understand you, I really do.”

”That’s why I know I don’t do this for my own satisfaction,” Pure Vanilla shifted back just a little, enough to allow him to lean over. His lips met the beast’s sternum, kissing down right where the soft flesh of his stomach began. “a sentiment you probably wouldn’t share if our roles were reversed.”

Shadow Milk’s mouth went dry—he was no fool. He knew what this meant.

This isn’t fair. This fucking isn’t fair.

A low hum left Pure Vanilla as his lips ghosted over the surface, measured and slow. Each time he parted his lips lightly, he left warmth behind—an all too familiar sensation. 

The beast looked down once, meeting the king’s open eyes to his dismay—and so just as quickly he looked elsewhere. He couldn’t see his body. Not in this state. Not like this.

“You think I did this for myself?” A kiss was pressed like a mark, right above Shadow Milk’s heat, one which had no right to exist. One which the beast hadn’t chosen to will into existence. “You think it is for myself that I wished you no more soreness?”

Then, the touch trailed lower—teasing at the inside of a thigh, with his warm mouth parted against the softened flesh. 

“That I didn’t want you to be in more discomfort than necessary?”

It was as though another punch to the gut, veiled with plush—a hit carved into him with feathers. The sensation of warmth in his abdomen all these weeks ago was still fresh, a wound not yet scarred. He recalled how it felt to feel Pure Vanilla’s radiating light against him, and how it dug its filthy fingers into his skin. How it changed him.

Shadow Milk knew this was less about his own power to shift and more about how his body had been rewritten—delicately, deliberately, a form imposed on him. The softness between his legs was no longer his own, a quiet testament to the changes forced upon him without consent.

Pure Vanilla allowed the beast to get lost in the memory—allowed him to relive it as a reminder. The touch on the thighs dragged from the mattress to the knees, where his hands pressed to the top of the flesh. Then, they trailed downward; to the hip and up, feeling his waist.

For a moment, it was as if the beast froze over entirely. The flutter of something in him—something traitorous. A thing of habit, an expectation his body grew to have. 

Using the moment opportune, the king grazed his half open lips down, keeping a keen eye on the other.

”The only pleasure for me here is an opportunity to give you what you clearly need.” He muttered, his breath tickling Shadow Milk’s heat. “And right now, what you need is to be loved and cared for.”

Pure Vanilla’s lips parted as he leaned in forward, eyes searching Shadow Milk for a moment. The king gave him a moment to argue, if only so he could personally retort.

Yet, it didn’t come.

The beast’s fingers twisted into the sheets as the king’s hold on his waist became firmer—like a cage. One arm draped over Shadow Milk’s stomach, firmly enough to keep him down—and there it was again, treacherous betrayal of his own flesh.

“I’ll take my time today.” Was all the warning he received. 

Pure Vanilla’s warmth gently brushed on Shadow Milk’s heat, parted lips moving to his slit. His tongue dragged upwards, tasting his petals to spread them more; earning a shiver of approval. It was practiced, lacking the diffidence one would’ve expected. 

Routined. Expected. As if Shadow Milk’s muscle memory already reminded him of the sensations to come.

Then, another drag, until he could make out the outline of where his doll was most sensitive. Pure Vanilla traced it around once, finally pressing his lips closer.

Shadow Milk’s body moved involuntarily, spine arching as the ancient’s mouth closed around his clit. Being used to something never meant he became dull to it, and as if in a comforting motion, Pure Vanilla‘s hand rubbed circles on the beast’s hip. 

“Hmn—“ 

He almost could hear Pure Vanilla shushing him in the depths of his mind, the pressure on his pearl deliberate. A hum vibrated against Shadow Milk’s heat as the king slowly but surely moved his lips, sucking onto the bud. He could feel the shorter’s body tense beneath, the slight angling of his lips from the feeling.

Pure Vanilla wasn’t one to relent, eyes closed as he hummed again—pressing himself closer. His lips released the spot that made Shadow Milk tremble, if only to mouth at it with a slick noise.

The response of his body was humiliating, as if he was Pavlovian trained—like an animal. His flesh became entirely separate from his mind; enveloped by warmth and anticipation, already salivating like a dog at a morning plate. Disgraceful.

“Hn—m…” Shadow Milk’s lips pressed together, breath hitching. He wanted to hate it. Wanted to be done with it, wanted it to hurt.

But it never did. With tenderness, the ancient’s mouth coaxed at his clit, a sound of approval leaving Pure Vanilla. The taller hummed once more as a sign of enjoyment while Shadow Milk’s hands desperately curled into his wrists. Never quite able to wrap fully.

There was nothing the beast could do to stop his core from tensing, from the need pooling between his thighs. Not as Pure Vanilla drew the sensitive nub back between his lips, not as his mouth ssqueezed and suckled.

Pure Vanilla could tell that his body began to warm up—and he knew Shadow Milk could hear it himself. His hands tightened on the beast, pressing into the soft flesh before his touch became more coaxing.

The firmer hold was always a warning to Shadow Milk, even now. 

Before proper resistance came, the ancient pressed his lips further down, taking more of Shadow Milk’s ache—his flattened tongue moving against the sensitive bud reverently, yet with no mercy. 

“N-No w-wait—“ His body tensed, the hands at Pure Vanilla’s wrists sliding off the skin from his attempt at freedom. His back arching didn’t break the hold, the twist of his upper body only making the king tug the doll towards himself. “..Mnh-“

The ancient knew where to touch. Where to coax—and so he greedily dragged out the reactions, humming against Shadow Milk’s folds as he devoured him like a starved man.

But he was far from starving; he had the beast like this everyday, after all. Maybe then a man who enjoyed his favourite breakfast.

It didn’t take long for Shadow Milk to writhe against the silken sheets, thighs shifting in place as they tried to work around the weight of his numb calves. As the soft flesh pressed to the sides of Pure Vanilla’s head, the king only hummed lowly in approval. 

He tasted the other through the quiet shaking, the soft moaning, the helpless whimpering. The curl of something in his stomach only grew as the ancient suckled onto him yearningly, as if for himself. Soft hums followed.

Shadow Milk’s throat felt tight, his breathing growing shallow—scarce. He tried to hold reactions in, not look desperate. But as Pure Vanilla worked his wonders between Shadow Milk’s heated thighs, his back arched involuntarily. Each breath out made another sound spill from his lips, sounding out with Pure Vanilla’s sounds of praise and approval.

The king moved his head along to the motions, keenly aware of how the other’s body trembled beneath his hold. How the flesh tensed underneath his touch, how rigid the doll became from the overstimulation.

He just kept going.

Up until when the final cry left Shadow Milk, his hips stuttered involuntarily. “Nh—hAa.. Mn-nh..” It snapped within him like a rubber band, sudden and from too much tension. As the pleasure washed over him and his body trembled, Pure Vanilla’s hold lessened.

”h-ha..Mhh—“

The soft mouthing on the other's heat came to a gradual slow, not stopping right away. A tremor ran down Shadow Milk’s body, making him physically shiver—and only once his thighs were quivering from the overwhelming sensation had the king pulled back.

Shadow Milk was still laid on the soft bedding, the braid’s end becoming nearly undone. His eyes remained half-lidded, head tipped to look at the wall. The breaths he drew in were shaky, his body trying to self regulate from care it had just received. 

“You look so lovely like this…” the king pulled himself up to sit properly again, uncurling his grip from around the smaller body. His hands grazed their way from the hips to the knees, where he parted them slightly more. “All undone and lost.”

The beast felt a hard nudge at the back of his thigh, but even Pure Vanilla brought no attention to it at all as he shifted. Instead, his digits ran their way back down, this time on the inside of his thighs. The flesh felt tender still, muscle beneath the skin tensing on occasion. Shadow Milk found no will to pull his gaze back to the other.

“It almost makes me want to simply sit between your thighs,” Pure Vanilla mused, tracing his hands up to the beast’s abdomen. Shadow Milk has grown softer—quieter. Not just mentally, but physically, “but we still have a few more steps.”

He traced a line up the doll’s stomach, as if in unspoken devotion. Pure Vanilla kept him preened and cared for—well clothed. Well fed. His thighs gained a healthy curve to them, the bones of the beast’s pelvis and ribs not as noticeable as they once had been.

The king relished in the thought. 

“Maybe if I’m done with the festival preparations, I’ll make it up to you with more attention,” he cooed. Pure Vanilla’s hold finally moved, one hand gently placed on the shorter’s hip. The soft shake of Shadow Milk’s head didn’t go unnoticed. 

“But for now, this will have to do.”

Once Pure Vanilla’s digits gently dragged against the beast’s wet heat, he gave a hum of approval. Maybe Shadow Milk enjoyed himself far more than he has let on—but that was alright. The ancient could tell, after all.

As two fingers gently rolled against Shadow Milk’s clit, his hips buckled—the nub still sensitive from such passionate treatment before. The threat didn’t last long; just enough for the digits to collect enough of the doll’s arousal. Then they dragged down in a slick glide, to his aching entrance.

If months taught Shadow Milk anything, it would be routine. This was routined. This was normal.

”Ah, did it feel that good?” With practiced ease, the two digits pressed into Shadow Milk. They sank smoothly—only a hitched breath leaving the beast as they moved to the knuckle. “You really do need the attention.”

The slight tension of his thighs was soothed by Pure Vanilla’s thumb, rubbing circles into the flesh of the hip. “There we go, my good boy.”

Pure Vanilla enjoyed it, really. The flutter of the other around his digits was nothing if not pleasant, the steady beat of his pulse as he tried to deny his body’s reactions. It was sweet, really. Once, he would kick, maybe twist and hit. Then he just pleaded—cried.

And oh, how pleased the ancient was when all this became acceptance. Like a treasured thing, having to just take all the love poured into it without breaking from the overfilling extent. 

The sheets were grabbed onto by Shadow Milk’s hand, but Pure Vanilla never stopped him.

”You’re already so nice and open for me, aren’t you?” Another murmur, as if praising lack of defiance rather than compliance. Pure Vanilla allowed his fingers to press more, lightly grinding into the depths of the doll’s heat. With practiced ease they moved, hooking to test the tension. 

”You’re doing better each time, you know?”

The hold on the hip grew slightly tighter as Shadow Milk shifted, the cool sensation of the satin beneath doing little to calm down his frayed nerves. Pure Vanilla moved the digits carefully, withdrawing his hand slowly to then press it back. 

“There we go. My good boy.” he cooed, each draw of his hand accented by increasing firmness. Pure Vanilla allowed himself to play with his doll faster, feeling his heat greedily swallow whatever attention it could.

Shadow Milk didn’t look. He couldn't look. Even as the hand pressed into him more, as soft thrusts gained in depth, as the open palm lightly pressed into his clit with each pump. It was enough stimulation to make the doll flutter, not enough to truly overwhelm again.

“Nh—” his hand came to clutch at the ancient's arm, as if pleading. “e—enough… enough—”

“Shh,” Pure Vanilla only moved his hand faster, keenly aware of the slightest breaths the other held in. “Let me do this for you.”

The wetness only gave the air a different sort of quality, the slick sounds forcing Shadow Milk to accept the way he reacted. 

The king leaned over, drinking in the sight, as if nothing else in the world could draw his gaze. “Let me take care of you.”

He moved down to press a kiss to Shadow Milk’s lips, right at the corner. “There we go. If you keep getting used to this so nicely, maybe I'll get to be inside of you longer.” his words were accompanied by a firmer push of his fingers—steady and slick. 

“A-ah—” The mattress shifted when Shadow Milk arched, two fingertips denting into the barrier of his heat with each slick thrust. 

The corners of Pure Vanilla’s mouth curled a little more, and he lightly moved his fingers over the very top of the other's heat, before finally drawing them out. “But you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

With a steady shift Pure Vanilla pushed himself to sit.

Shadow Milk’s lips parted, his breath short and shallow. A cheek pressed into the coolness below, the ribbon at the end of his hair becoming undone. Pure Vanilla left it like that for now.

His hands returned, gently gliding over the inner thighs. They quivered under his hold, still hot in the aftertaste—Pure Vanilla wasn't parting nor commanding. He was admiring. 

Slow and reverent, he savoured the soft skin he cultivated with lotions and oils. 

“You've come such a long way,” he whispered, head tilting. “When I first brought you here, you could hardly bear to be touched. And now, look at you…”

His hands pressed gently at the hips, palms molding the plush curve like they were made to do so. “See how well your body takes to care?” A coo, thumbs pressing into the soft love handles wantingly. “You've softened so beautifully. Not a sharp edge left.”

Shadow Milk looked aside, at the pastel wall. He couldn't drown it out, not as the king leaned to press a kiss to his forehead, where the mark from his eye had moved.

“All of this—” Fingertips moved over the love handles, to the hip where they squeezed in admiration. “—was made to be held.”

The hands gently moved to the beast’s midsection, knuckles brushing against the soft swell of Shadow Milk’s lower belly. His palms then spread over his waist. “This is how you were meant to feel,” Pure Vanilla murmured, as if worried that too harsh of a breath may shatter the porcelain. “Warm, supple. Easy to cradle.” 

Pure Vanilla moved, a kiss to the doll’s cheek next. “Easy to care for. Easy to love.”

He adjusted his grip on the smaller's skin, pressing his digits into the junction between thigh and hip. Single hand slid lower, below the doll’s knee. The calf weighed limply along, but it stopped bothering either of them. 

“Easy to fill.”

Shadow Milk found his mind long forgotten the days of grandeur. Even now, the memories no longer responded. Not even as a distraction. 

His body shivered softly as the lips pressed to his knee, laced with nothing but devotion. “You don't even realise how perfect you've become.”

He touched everywhere with reverence: the soft curve of his stomach, the dip of his navel, the skin on his sides. Not groping, not indulging—cupping, cradling, as if handling something sacred. He held the body like a silk that easily could be ruined had he pressed too hard.

“All this skin,” Pure Vanilla murmured, thumbs tracing the shape of the curve. “Softer, smoother. Fuller.” 

The hands finally slid to the knees, where one palm stayed. The other slid down on the calf, the limb unable to shy from the ticklish sensation even if it tried. “You don't even flinch like you used to.”

Soft noise of a click carried through the air as the king finally pulled the button of his trousers open, freeing his own ache. 

Instinctively, Shadow Milk stirred, breath catching—but a firm hand on his hip guided him back down. 

“Now, what did I say?” Pure Vanilla's tone was light, like a carefree reprimand. “You're being so good, don't ruin it now.”

His hand wrapped around himself with calm efficency, stroking once, twice, letting the slick remnants of his fingers ease the glide.

The tip lightly nudged against the other's folds, glazing over the still sensitive clit. Shadow Milk twitched beneath from the insistent sensation.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice weighed with praise. “You've been kept carefully. You know I made sure of it.”

The warmth of his tip nudged the others sensitive nub again, before moving down in a measured manner. With the head of his length nuzzled in just enough, he adjusted his hold on the shorter. 

“Be good, Shadow Milk. I'll put it in now.”

The beast parted his mouth more in protest, but the only sound that came was the sound of a whimper. Pure Vanilla's hips moved forward with an unsteady breath, his aching need inching into the other. 

“O-oh…” he breathed out. His thumb pressed into Shadow Milk’s side, his other hand on the mattress near the blue locks. “T-There we go… it's in…”

As he rocked his hips forward once more, the soft textured heat enveloped him fully. 

The sensation of being pushed into never failed to draw a whimper from him, and Pure Vanilla allowed his elbow to sink into the mattress instead, slightly above the other's head. 

His face was close to Shadow Milk's now, only a breath apart. Just enough for Pure Vanilla to press his lips to the doll’s forehead, feeling his head turn. 

The ancient softly pressed his hips into the beast more, a steady roll—equal parts experimental and pleasurable. Shadow Milk found his hands tight on the bed, cheek once more pressed snug to the stuffed pillows.

An unwanted whine left his throat. It was as though his body was trained through practice—through routine. How his heat seemed to ache the moment Pure Vanilla did what he did every morning. He was conditioned, he—

This is unfair.

Pure Vanilla hummed shakily, his hips never withdrawing more than by a breath. His next steady push was accompanied by a twitch of thighs at his sides, the sensation of the rings of muscles against his own need. A soft, slick sound through the air—far too grotesque for such a tender moment. 

More of a grind, really, and as he angled his hips slightly higher, Shadow Milk shivered. “A-ah…”

“It's okay…” he cooed, parted lips tracing on Shadow Milk’s jaw. Caged like that, he couldn't see anything but the blond locks, spilling like honey, and he heard nothing but the king's breaths, harmonised with the wet hush of the thrusts. 

“M-mhm, stay just like…–” Pure Vanilla groaned. “Just like that.”

Shadow Milk’s hands shakily lifted to the other's sun kissed arms, fingers twitching as Pure Vanilla sank into him. “Hn-” fingers pressed into the tan skin, the hold laughably weak.

It wasn't affection, just the need to have something grounding. To Pure Vanilla, however, it was all the same.

Soft shifts remained gentle and patient, the hand on the hip moving higher. Fingers slid between cheek and pillow, cradling Shadow Milk's face.

Once it turned, the ancient finally captured his lips in a damp kiss, angling his head to devour Shadow Milk’s lips with silky tenderness. 

“Mhn…” Pure Vanilla moaned into the kiss, and the sound itself sent the other kindling. The shorter’s hands gripped at the ancient tighter, if only to pathetically attempt moving his face away. 

The kiss broke with a damp hush. 

“No,” Shadow Milk inhaled sharply, eyes shutting tightly. “Hn… don't—”

With a soft huff, the ancients' brows furrowed. The beast felt his chin grasped, face turned again. “Be nice.” The hold was firmer, far from harsh—a statement as good as any.

Only a whine managed to spill before Pure Vanilla stole his lips again, his hips withdrawing slightly more to push back into him again, no longer comfortably shallow. The kiss lasted for a few moments more, gaining on passion just before he allowed the shorter to break it again. 

Pure Vanilla pulled back just enough to take a good look, his elbow still supporting his weight. The sound of him gliding into Shadow Milk was rhythmic, deliberate—too consistent to allow the doll to take his mind off it. 

His cheeks were flushed with fire he wasn't able to put out, eyes lidded with something more than just the eyelids.

And for some reason, the corners of the ancient's lips raised—a smile which fully reached his eyes.

“H-here-” his voice broke off with a shiver, face lightly lowering from the sensation. “Here we g-go— such a good boy.”

With a kiss to the doll’s eye his moves slowly halted, bottomed out quite far into him. The tip of his length kissed at the very depths of Shadow Milk, only a whimper leaving him as Pure Vanilla raised to sit up. 

His touch moved to both sides of his doll, gently gliding down to his hips. Shadow Milk’s lips parted, he knew what came now—and in some strange move, his hands moved as well. 

Smaller fingers grasped at Pure Vanilla's wrists, but the taller only hummed.  

“It's okay.” He adjusted his position, sitting back better. “I'll be careful, I always am.” 

Shadow Milk shook his head, but it wasn't from fear of pain. It was something far more raw, something born from the routine. His protest was dismissed with a click of the tongue, the strong hands pulling him closer—further sheathing him on Pure Vanilla's still aching need. 

The sight bordered on pathetic. If anything, the king would call it cute.

“You always seem so lost in pleasure whenever we get to this part,” a soft chuckle, as airy as spring’s breeze. Carefully, he moved his hips back—easily pushing back in. A slow, measured shallow thrust meant to send Shadow Milk’s nerves on fire.

And it did. “N—mnh…” The new angle forced him to focus on Pure Vanilla pushing up against him, Shadow Milk’s hips pulled back onto his length with yet another glide. 

A hum. “Easy, easy.” 

The words did little to reassure, the subtle sound of wet skin on wet skin only growing as Pure Vanilla allowed himself to pick up the pace. The depth didn’t change at all, causing the doll’s upper body to twist on the bed.

“Mhm, just… like this—” one hand slid off the skin right above the hip, beneath Shadow Milk’s back. The moment Pure Vanilla made him arch slightly, the thrusts gained another sensation. There was no hiding the way the ancient's muscle tensed, the way his breathing caught.

Shadow Milk shivered, a profuse tremor running down his flesh. His body felt warmer than it should've, the flesh beneath the skin tender. The patch of skin above Pure Vanilla's member pressed up against his spread petals, gently stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

A caring gesture made to please, not take pleasure. 

“Still,” he gasped, eyes watering. “Sensitive— not l-like tHis—” The whimpers weren’t heard, overshadowed by the rustle of Pure Vanilla's hips. 

“No, no.” He hummed, pleased. As casually as rejecting an apology for someone spilling tea. Shadow Milk whined again, the moves methodical yet wanting. Faster. Quicker. “It's o-okay. Mh— hn…”

Shadow Milk felt his grip on the wrist tighten, his heat filled over and over until he could see white. Not rough, no. “Y-You've filled out nicely. Not… mh-” a moan cut him off. Shamelessly, Pure Vanilla hasn't even attempted to compose himself. 

Instead, he allowed Shadow Milk to know just how much he was enjoying it. With wanton little exhales or moans, or his breath hitching each time his hips dragged away and into that lovely heat. 

“Not as.. a-ah— fragile. You can take it.” a low whine. “Witches, you w-wrap around me so tightly whenever we get to tthat part—”

The sensation of being pushed into and pried open only got faster, Shadow Milk’s body tensing with familiar sensation. It started inside his abdomen, coiling and coiling. His mouth fell open with a cry, but no amount of twisting stopped his body from shaking.

“Don't… don't fight it, love.” A faint scold, plausible if not for his burned up cheeks. The feeling of Shadow Milk’s heat greedily wrapping around his length was all it took to make him whimper. Sucking him in so greedily as to milk him as it usually did. 

He doubted he would be satisfied enough with just that.

It didn’t take much for Pure Vanilla to figure out that rhythm and external stimulation was all that it took to get Shadow Milk unraveling. 

His body felt hotter as he was coaxed and pulled to the edge again, eyes watering—the moans that slipped Shadow Milk were shaky, cut off. Pure Vanilla paid keen attention to the shift of his body, the arched back.

“HMh…~ ngh-” The orgasm was shocking like cold water; sudden. A cry tore out of him as his hips shifted on the sheets, bucking for reasons more than one. White flash of bliss seemed to have blinded his mind.

For a moment he just allowed his body to stutter from tension, to feel Pure Vanilla bucking into him through the orgasm with a groan of his own. 

“O-oh-” his face was back near Shadow Milk’s neck, as he gently bottomed out. “H-hn…”

The shorter’s limbs fell uselessly to the sheets, breathing heaving from the intensity of the burst tension. Pure Vanilla held onto him throughout, but something was off. 

“H-Here… mngh- You feel so good…”

Usually, he would've allowed himself to finish with Shadow Milk. It felt good when they shared that moment, even better so when his insides held onto him so keenly. 

Today wasn't an usual day, in that regard. Shadow Milk blinked, the water in his eyes finally spilling from the corners. He hiccuped as he always did afterwards, as his body shook with each cry.

Pure Vanilla leaned in to press his lips into the salty tears, a thumb wiping one away as it always did. “Let it out.” 

And so he did. 

Heaving with sobs. It was far from a cry caused by the violation. All the feelings he shoved away, all the tension and anger from injustice—it always gave way in the mornings, just to be locked away until the hours have passed for his next dose of love making.

“Mhm, I'm here.” Another kiss. 

Usually he would've lingered longer, collapsed near Shadow Milk and pulled him into a coddling hug. Now he just wrapped his arms around his frame, withdrawing his hips more. Right to where only the tip remained. Then, slowly gliding back in with ease—and again.

And again.

.

.

. 

Shadow Milk’s tears were kissed away. Once he received his fill of love, Pure Vanilla cleaned him in the bath. A slow morning, accompanied by being lathered in lotions and expensive materials, draped over his body like silks over porcelain. The light blue of his frosty hair was once more carefully detangled.  

With a smoothing solution gleaming on Pure Vanilla's hands, he carefully covered the strands in the substance, soon enough tying them back again. The braid was looser this time, allowing his scalp to relax as the ancient's fingertips rubbed into its surface.

The shorter kept quiet. 

As the sun positioned itself on the sky, the blond gave it an occasional look. A gesture, Shadow Milk found, meant to measure the time. 

Soon socks slipped onto his legs, the soft flesh between another dress and his knees grazed with watchful fingers. Shadow Milk remained laid on the pillows beneath once he was preened, looking anywhere at all.

Instead of leaving to bring food with himself however, the weight of his body moved near the doll. The pillow dipped beneath the additional weight. An arm draped around Shadow Milk’s waist, firm and steady, pulling him over.

The change, as strange as it was, felt more nauseating than the act of love done to him nearly an hour prior. His throat felt dry as his lips parted, body turned on its side so he could easily be spooned.

“Don't…” he cleared his throat. “Don't you usually go at this time…?”

There was no offence taken to the question. Pure Vanilla felt the corners of his mouth raise.

“Of course.” His body moved, the upper half hovering over Shadow Milk’s body. His fingers tucked a strand of his white hair behind his ear. “However. I do believe that you've been.. adjusting well recently.”

“...and?”

“And, I think I trust you enough to have someone bring food to us instead.”

Pure Vanilla pressed a kiss to Shadow Milk’s temple, enjoying the floral scent of the lotion for a moment, the gentle hair oils in the light blue locks making the shorter smell like a bouquet. 

The doll blinked, but he didn't ask. He didn't want to know anymore.

“This means I will have more time with you here, uninterrupted.” A hum, gentle like sway of curtains. He didn’t really care that Shadow Milk most likely hated the prospect. It was what he needed.

The doll said nothing, at first. He didn't have to.

“Not even your friends know I'm here.” Voice void of its usual bite. “I find it hard to think you'd.. “

“Trust someone to do that?”

Right. More like feel comfortable enough with your deprivation. Shadow Milk said nothing. 

“Mm..” Pure Vanilla leaned in to press another kiss, to the doll’s already dried lashes. “I suppose you're right.” His eyes flicked to the window again. 

“Perhaps I found the beauty in… personal servants..” 

He didn’t want to know. Didn't care. Shadow Milk would rather believe no one knew what happened to him. What he became. He'd rather believe he was stuck here not because no one wished to help, but that no one knew. 

It felt cruel, then, when a knock came. To a room that, apparently, only Pure Vanilla should've access to. 

“Come on in,” the taller one called, not needing to raise his voice to have it carry over the walls like a needle. “It's about time.”

Nothing happened. 

For a moment, Shadow Milk allowed his brows to knit, arms folded to his chest in an almost defensive manner. Only then did the handle turn, released as soon as the doors began to move.

Slowly they revealed a figure, first thing to come being a tray full of food. Golden, shimmering with nutrition that Shadow Milk was sick when thinking about.

The vague shape of white gloves on pale skin, then the muted shades of lilac. 

As the doors opened fully with no creak, as they had done a thousand times, Shadow Milk’s eyes widened.

He looked different. Softened. The dark which defined his outfit was replaced with domesticated purples, void of its bite and edge. He looked tired, yet the single eye visible through his hair widened with vigor. 

There was a pause. 

The purple one's mouth opened, as if willing to say a thousand and one words. Yet, no sound came. Not even a bob of his Adam's apple.

Shadow Milk pushed himself to sit upright, but his vision moved when he was pressed to lay. Pure Vanilla hummed, as if pleased with himself. 

“My new butler,” he cooed, fingers playing with the end of the doll’s braid. “And, as you know, your personal servant.”

Chapter Text

The air was heavy with the scent of sweetened goods and the waft of fresh fruit. Stacked upon a golden tray sat waffles and plenty of sweet treats of nature; berries colourful enough to be mistaken for cereal, and a glass of clear water sitting beside.

In the end, the smell of comfort it should've provided couldn't compare to the sense of rot in him. The silence stretched for seconds, unwilling to yield from the weight of unspoken words and promises.

Only a clatter sounded as the tray trembled. It happened steadily.

His fingers curled on its edges with growing firmness, and his jaw set. The teeth and the gums hurt from how hard he had tried to keep his lips shut.

“I do believe that there's plenty that he needs to get used to.” Behind the beast, a voice echoed. Soft as a songbird which had only begun, and gentle like the sway of clouds. “But he will do just fine.”

Shadow Milk's lips pressed together just as tightly. The softness of the mattress beneath his body made him feel sick, and the warmth right behind him only earned his repulsion.

The arm around his waist remained both an assurance and a warning.

Before the bed, Black Sapphire was rooted as he was before. The beast's eyes searched the other's face for anything. Recognition, anger, spite. Even pity, he would take, if it had meant knowing what Black Sapphire may be thinking.

But there was nothing.

Shadow Milk shifted to lift onto his elbow at least, his lips finally opening. But what was there to say?

The expression of his minion—if he could still be called that—remained as it was. Firm, unyielding, as if with a sense of anger. Yet, even that wasn't explicit enough to know. The grape coloured eye only flicked, as a statue analysing whatever was before it. Then, Black Sapphire blinked.

That was the most reaction he's gotten.

His throat felt sore, tight—choked by tears he couldn't let himself cry. It wasn’t from agony, or fear. The humiliation of being seen at his worst by someone who regarded him so highly once.

It stung worse than all the hits that life had thrown his way.

For all the others who yielded to his deceit, none chose it. None who turned away from the world in servitude to an agenda as idealistic as that of a lie.

None, but Black Sapphire.

Now, the same person looked at Shadow Milk as if he weren't even there. And the worst remained, that he just couldn't tell what Black Sapphire was thinking.

Don't think I'm weak.

“Black…” his voice wavered. Damn it all. “Black Sapphire—”

Before Shadow Milk could say anything more—as if he even knew what there was to say—Pure Vanilla nodded to the one before them. The tray gave a loud metallic smack as it landed on top of the emptied nightstand.

Was he angry? Was he disappointed to see the beast of deceit reduced to this?

Immediately after, what was now left of Shadow Milk’s minion turned on their heel. He didn’t look behind when the doors parted just enough to let him out, nor did he hesitate to let them close.

Once more the silence lingered around them, just in a different form entirely.

“Give him time”, Pure Vanilla mused. He leaned over Shadow Milk’s frame just a little, fingers slipping to cradle his cheek. Softly, almost fondly. “He's adjusting.”

Adjusting.

Shadow Milk’s brows knit together, but the ancient only leaned to press his lips to his forehead.

.

As the doors clicked shut behind him, Black Sapphire felt his knees give way like crumpling flowers.

A few steps after he turned a corner—enough to not be heard—he collapsed. His hands dropped to his sides, knees hitting the carpeted flooring.

Black Sapphire’s breathing was faster, heart thudding in his chest like wildfire at its death. Or like a star dying, exploding in its final moments. Only when he wasn’t seen did he allow himself to really, truly break.

A ragged inhale was the single sound he made. Despite the eyes glossing over like springs, no cry followed. No audible sob nor whimper, as if the figure had long lost its voice.

His eyes remained wide open, pupils shrank in full alarm. A hand came to the lime-washed wall to support him, but he sat back on his calves nonetheless. Many thoughts wound through his head like water through a mill, spilling between his fingertips like unsteady freshwater streams.

Black Sapphire didn’t allow himself to react around Pure Vanilla. He didn’t need to show weakness—not again, not after what happened.

He couldn't look fragile, either. Not around Shadow Milk—the person who needed him to stay steady the most.

And so he stayed there, for a moment, far away for his breathing to remain unheard.

It wasn't that he expected this to come easily. It was that he wasn't ready, no matter what he profusely claimed before. Now there he was, picking up the shards of his mind in ignorance of their bite—letting them bloody his hands far more than he had to.

But Black Sapphire wouldn't wash his hands of this blood. Not again.
.
.
.

Sun spilt into the room as it had for months, holding onto its early course in the season. Through the pettily opened curtain, it silked by the stained glass, casting a long streak of light across the beast's face.

Mockingly, it painted the black in his vision a warm shade of orange, causing him to groan. The perfect bait to make him infuriated the very second he rose to wake. Just enough to have him roll over—the blanket was tugged over his face.

Yesterday replayed through his mind like a broken record, keeping him awake at night. A plausible explanation for his state of unrest, yet never enough to get away with any less-than-perfect behaviour.

The routine would unfold as it always had, with a new addition. Because now, another piece was at play.

He quickly realised there would be no rest.

Shadow Milk blinked his eyes to sharpen his vision, the rounded pupils returning to their slit shape. That was the most he managed to change.

The blanket remained over his head like a hood, never as an actual shield. For a moment he wondered how exactly today would look. For months, everything remained the same, with small adjustments over time. The breakfast brought over once Pure Vanilla made love to him, the habit of refreshing Shadow Milk by doing his hair and dressing him.

And then, the ancient would come at specific intervals during the day. As Pure Vanilla said, so he wouldn't be bored.

Bullshit.

Now, with the addition of another person, what exactly would change? How would the sun keep the planets and the moon on a leash?

Nausea ran over him as a thought crossed his mind, steadily—like a thief. Black Sapphire did not know the routine.

And then, most worrying of all; the chance of someone seeing him in a compromising state.

Shadow Milk jerked himself upright, a sharp inhale following. His fingers dug into the sheets. For months, his temper was nullified. Like stone flattening from the river's flow, or as caves forming over centuries from water's drip.

It was no surprise, then, that he had stopped caring about being humiliated in front of the main perpetrator. Because he could do nothing. Because there was no room for him to hide in anymore.

Pure Vanilla performed a vivisection on him, utilizing subduing and authority. He peeled open not only his mind but his body; adjusted it, sewed it shut.

The beast simply became… desensitised emotionally.

But only when it came to Pure Vanilla.

During the routine, there were too many instances where Shadow Milk was handled like an item. Draped, touched, kissed, braided—

Too many moments which forced his submission. Plenty of space where he was nothing but a toy compliant to its fate. In this, too many chances to be seen as what he had become.

He couldn't be seen as weak. Especially not by his servants.

Shadow Milk felt his body grow colder, the anticipation and anxiety finally giving way. Once, he was above that. The towers and the fields yielded to his will, he had not once tasted true fear.

Until now, maybe, if his imprisonment in the silver tree had been ignored.

His hand yanked a pillow off the bed, and before he could consider the consequences, he slid downward. Shadow Milk’s knees hit the soft surface of the feather-filled cushion, the thud muffled by the fluff.

The beast couldn't have known when exactly the food was to arrive. He was not allowing himself to be caught in a compromising state.

If he allowed things to run their course, maybe he'd make it in time to look proper. The chance of being seen exposed and used was just as high, then, if he complied.

But what about prolonging? If he did all he could to delay the inevitable, maybe it would help him remain at least appearing decent.

The uncertainty rather quickly erased the hunger that began to bloom in him over the months. Eating consistently—without his own will—in the end altered him. Shadow Milk’s treacherous body craved the routinously given nutrition, same how it began to crave whatever else was forced upon him.

Still, the anxiety from all the possibilities halted, if temporarily, his empty stomach. The consequence of imagination is fear.

There was only one option he could pick, one path to take, and it wouldn't be to allow himself shame. He would not be humiliated. Not like this.

Shadow Milk dragged his weight over to the desk. He couldn't climb it up, not really. His arms were never used enough to gain the strength for independence.

Instead, he pulled the chair down, hearing it smack into the carpet below, narrowly missing his legs. He had no intention of using it.

Just prolonging. Only prolonging. Shadow Milk stopped hoping to win.

Inevitably, the king would come. The beast moved his hand down, taking the end of the braid to grab the golden ribbon. It was solidified on his silky, sky coloured hair, making it near impossible to untie.

Instead, he moved his fingers underneath the gold material, shoving it all the way down. As predicted, it slipped off with difficulty, landing on the floor from the tug.

Shadow Milk untangled the braid, tilting his head forward to watch the locks unravel.

There was nothing he hated more than their current colour.

With quick movement, he pushed his fingers up to his scalp, rubbing the skin with vigor. The strands of hair moved and swayed to the harsh treatment, disheveled and tangled even more so.

Shadow Milk grabbed the entirety, pushing it back once more as he sat straighter. With the chair down already, as if to pretend he might've messed with the desk, he took the ribbon, crawling to the doors. The carpet softened the movement, but it remained hasty.

As he sat in front of the wood, his fingers quickly folded the ribbon, condensing its texture. Shadow Milk gave the flat square a pinch, pressing it to the floor to slide it underneath the doors with strain. His brows knit together as he nudged the piece into place, watching it get stuck.

By no means would any of this stop Pure Vanilla. Slow him, yes, but this was never enough.

With the item in place he moved back, more and more until he finally felt the bed behind himself.

A pathetic display. There was nothing else for Shadow Milk to use for this act of sabotage, though. He had to make do with what he had at hand.

And then—the unbearable wait.

He wished he could curl his knees to his chest, if not for his unmoving calves. Shadow Milk never lost the feeling in them—the nerves were fine.

It was just the tendons.

To compensate, his arms wrapped around his frame. Shadow Milk’s hands lightly brushed against the skin of his shoulders, trying to soothe the natural reaction his body grew in the face of his disobedience. There needn't be any immediate consequence for the beast to brace himself.

Predictably, the doors clicked.

As the lock fell open, the handle moved down. Shadow Milk’s lips pressed together as he watched the doors budge, before they stilled entirely.

Then, the doors tried once more, pulling closer to shut, before the force beyond attempted again. All he heard was a murmur, the wood finally shoved open.

Too much strength was used, it seemed, as they slammed onto the wall which held them, bouncing off. The sheer echo of whipping them open made Shadow Milk flinch in suddenness.

Pure Vanilla's figure was revealed beyond, his head tilting.

Shadow Milk knew he had been noticed. His brows knit together, and then, the monarch's gaze flicked down, to his own feet. The glimmer of gold was stark contrast to the soft yellows of the carpet, and he easily leaned to bring the material closer.

Once Pure Vanilla straightened, he tilted his head. The soft furrow of his brows did not go unnoticed.

“Shadow Milk.”

The monarch passed the threshold, regarding the doll for a moment. Not where he was supposed to be, again. And this time, the defiance has seemed to come back doubled.

Pure Vanilla held the ribbon up, one hand sliding the doors behind himself. They closed with an obedient click, just as he liked it.

“What is this?”

“You know what it is.”

The monarch's mismatched eyes opened, giving the doll a look. Shadow Milk remained sat, defiant and unruly in all his might.

“Yes,” he affirmed, still gently, still kindly. “But I'd like you to tell me how it ended up there.”

Shadow Milk felt his grip on his arms tighten, fingers pressing into his flesh. He'd allow himself this—if only for momentary satisfaction.

“Why?” A scowl formed on his face, and he shrugged. His thorns might’ve been sliced away, but he still remembered how they worked when he had them. “Too blind to connect the dots?”

The king’s lips parted, but Shadow Milk wasn’t made to wait.

“All that power to fix others and you can't fix yourself.”

There.

Pure Vanilla blinked, his head tilting curiously. He watched Shadow Milk’s breathing quicken, as if his mind already anticipated trouble. But it was still something he could latch onto. And, much to Shadow Milk’s own displeasure, the king smiled. Only smiled.

“Assuming that my sight needs fixing implies it had once been whole,” Pure Vanilla opened his palm, letting the golden ribbon dematerialise. “Fixing something partially means reverting it to its original state.”

Shadow Milk felt his blood thicken, curling just above the muscle of his heart. His jaw tensed, and his eyes set with unpasteurised anger.

There was no retort, truth be told. All the beast had now was a sharp tongue and stalling.

He pressed into the mattress more, steadying his head to flick his gaze over Pure Vanilla. Casually, purposefully judgmental and oh so unbefitting to how he looked like now.

“So this is what you're doing, huh?” He brushed the material on his waist. “Reverting people?”

Pure Vanilla never got angry. Not when Shadow Milk lashed so ferally, like a wounded animal. And not now, when the words were carved to hurt.

“Healing magic, my dear, is that precisely.” He stopped shy of Shadow Milk, looking down at him. Not just from pity, but to establish something. “Pulling the open wounds together by reversing their state, mending broken bones once they have been aligned properly.”

Leaning down, the king pressed a hand to his own knee, the other one stretching to Shadow Milk’s face. “But you know that by now, don't you? First hand experience.” His fingers grazed the doll’s chin to grasp it. Shadow Milk, in all his defiance, snapped his head aside.

Pure Vanilla's hand remained where it was, before he retreated it. A sigh accompanied the move.

“And once again, you're not where you're supposed to be.”

“I'm not supposed to be anywhere but where I want to.”

The smile faltered, but only slightly. To react was to give Shadow Milk the power. Instead, he chose a practical approach. Hands slid underneath the beast's armpits, dragging him up to drop him onto the bed.

Shadow Milk remained boneless, if only for a moment. The movement earned Pure Vanilla's head tilting aside, noticing the thrown off chair. With furrowed brows he stepped over, leaning to pull it up again. Then, he pushed it towards the desk once more.

Nothing seemed out of place. The paper laid as it had yesterday, the materials he saw so vaguely were as they had been before. Pure Vanilla came to realise nothing was amiss, yet his brows furrowed once more when a thump echoed from behind.

He turned, the robes swirling around him like a blooming flower. The doll was on the carpet. Again. As a porcelain fallen off a shelf, or as a pen having rolled off a table.

Shadow Milk crossed his arms, his sat position more than unsteady. Underneath the defiance-laden expression hid a sense of desperation. He didn’t want to win. He wanted to…

Do something. Pure Vanilla wasn't sure what, yet.

“Now, what are you up to?” he chided, moving his arms towards the doll again. Instead, Shadow Milk dug his hands into the carpet, jolting himself backwards, causing Pure Vanilla's hands to miss the target.

Shadow Milk hissed. “Go to hell.”

He was overdoing it, if his only goal was to stall Pure Vanilla enough. But like a dam, once the doll allowed his anger to boil out of the pot, it ended up spilling all over the stove. Pure Vanilla knew he was the only one brave enough to turn the fire off no matter how much the water splashed.

Had Black Sapphire’s presence sparked such a reaction?

How very predictable.

”That’s not very nice.” Without missing a beat, he seized Shadow Milk by the edges of the material draped over his shoulders, tugging him up on the bed by his clothes. Slightly rough, more so than Pure Vanilla would’ve liked.

The doll’s defiant gaze met that of the king’s steady, decided one.

“Are you planning to keep this up,” Pure Vanilla’s arms crossed. “Dove?”

Such a charged question meant one thing only. You will be punished if you continue. Will you behave?

Shadow Milk’s lips pressed together with a less-than-threatening growl, his hands on the silky mattress beneath to keep himself sat. His hair remained disheveled, the frosty locks spilling far and wide behind him. Never once cut—not since he came here.

The question went through one ear, leaving the next. Shadow Milk’s averted gaze spoke volumes, and in the end, the monarch only sighed.

“I understand this is difficult. You don’t take to change well, especially with the addition we have,” Pure Vanilla mused. “but that doesn’t suddenly make the rules change. There are things expected of you, whether you like that or not.”

Feeling that he was on the very edge of regretting his choices, the doll chose not to speak. He rolled his eyes instead, stilling his body when the king came too close.

“Now,” Pure Vanilla gestured to the wild locks behind the beast. They didn't raise—not anymore. “Let's get those out of the way. This must feel uncomfortable.”

The life in the strands seemed to have dried, replaced with… nothing, but the pull of gravity. At most they swayed like clouds, not individually per lock as they once had. In unison, as if blown by a metaphysical breeze.

Shadow Milk’s fingers dug into the sheets.

He so wished he still had his claws—but the sharp fingernails were flattened every other evening, rubbed in with oils to soften the skin and the surface. Domesticated and made doable.

Like every sharp part about him.

As the beast leaned away, the bed beside him dipped from Pure Vanilla's weight. Shadow Milk’s body twisted to shift aside, but he was caught easily.

With a move far too smooth, he landed atop the monarch's lap. The beast's hands curled on his lap, feeling the disgustingly smooth surface of his dress.

Something silkier was put on him the prior evening. A simple satin with two thin straps, decorated by an occasional bow.

The hair was slowly but surely collected all together, and Pure Vanilla opened his palm. There, with the swirls of gold, a small yet smooth comb glistened to life. It was pressed to the very bottom of Shadow Milk’s hair.

With a stifled groan, the beast jolted forward.

“Shadow Milk—!” The shorter's weight slid off the lap, nearly crashing forward into the carpet; stopped only by the sudden lock around his waist.

A quick and decided move, and he was yanked back—flush to Pure Vanilla's chest.

“Why must you disobey me so?” Shadow Milk was tugged a little closer, before the grip released. As the ancient chided, he brought the comb to the very ends of the now tangled hair once more.

There was only a momentary reprieve. The comb gradually brushed down the sky-hued hair, moving higher. About where it finally began to brush downward from the middle, the doll moved his body aside.

Pure Vanilla grabbed his waist, a little harder than he would've liked. His strength was still something he had to get used to—proven by the many times a glass broke in his grip. Shadow Milk’s body was hoisted straight again.

“I don’t appreciate this, my dove.” The comb found his blue locks again. It looked as if it were glowing, emanating light—and then, the frosty blues of Shadow Milk’s hair.

As a sun in the day's sky. And, without it, the soft blue would surely descend back into the starlit night.

“And—” Shadow Milk sucked in a breath, as if trying to pump himself with courage. “I don't appreciate fucking being here.”

A click of Pure Vanilla's tongue. “Language.” The beast's hair was parted smoothly, gently. Never tugging, no matter the slightest strand of irritation that caught in the ancient's mouth. “Such words don't suit you.” The comb disappeared on his flattened hand, like ice melting in the sun. “Not anymore.”

He got so far. Maybe he could get further.

“Like you know.” bitter, like left out tea. “Like you know what suits me.”

“Don't I?” Pure Vanilla prompted. By no means was he forbidding Shadow Milk from important conversations. It was just that the beast simply didn’t know the line between engaging and defying.

Shadow Milk flinched as his hair was slightly tugged back, much to his own slouching. Still, it was equal parts a warning.

The very last straw.

“Sit straight.” A reprimand, the three separated parts of his locks slowly interwoven. “It's not healthy to let your spine rest at such an angle.”

The beast muttered something under his breath, defiant and definitely insulting. Pure Vanilla was nothing if not patience, however. Like no other, he understood the difficulty in acepting… change.

Dismissing it as nothing but the doll's outlet, one hand cradled the end of the braid, ensuring the strands did not fall apart. Pure Vanilla's other hand, gently open, summoned a long golden ribbon. His favourite ability, as of recent.

The gold unraveled like molten metal, and before it came close to the hair, the beast moved. Fast little hand grabbed at the braid, pulling it to the side—out of reach.

Due to the silky texture of the now smooth hair, the braid fell apart before Pure Vanilla had a chance to salvage it. Using the moment opportune, Shadow Milk twisted, nearly sliding off the lap again. Only this time, the arm that tugged him back felt firmer.

Sharper.

Done.

“I can see that the recent development is a lot to handle,” Pure Vanilla's voice gained an air of firmness. Not unkind, still laced with the spring's softness. There was an undeniable authority in the tone of his voice, however. “But it will not excuse the way you're behaving, my dove.”

“Excuse you?” Shadow Milk’s lips parted before he could control it.

Pure Vanilla's hand gave up on the braid entirely. It slid to the doll's waist, his other palm joining the hold on the other side. It was meant to still Shadow Milk—and remind him just how much larger the ancient's hands were now.

Not the same as they have been a year ago, incomparable with how equally sized they had been to Shadow Milk’s.

“We can find a solution,” he mused, thumb tracing patterns into the silk of the nightgown. “but I cannot keep allowing you to overstep.”

A chill crept up Shadow Milk’s spine, all the way to the neck, where the mockery of a Soul Jam laid.

“That's well over five transgressions in a single morning.” Pure Vanilla reminded, leaning in a little—the bangs tickling Shadow Milk’s shoulder. “Two swats for one.”

With a sudden jolt, the beast attempted to slip away again. But he hadn’t shifted more than a few inches before the hand at his waist moved—swift, practiced.

Pure Vanilla’s arm wound around him like it always had the right to, tipping him over without hesitation. Shadow Milk’s vision tilted—sideways, then—downward.

Until he found himself draped stomach-down across Pure Vanilla’s lap.

It was almost absurd, how easily his body gave way—how natural the motion must’ve looked to the man holding him. His calves dangled, useless as ever, a dead weight. Comparable to a chain at his ankle, or a shackle with an iron ball.

And then came the aftershock—the desperate fistful of white caught between trembling fingers. Reflexive. Humiliating.

Too late.

Some of his blue locks tickled whatever laid exposed of his skin, while the other ones ran down to the floor like a waterfall.

“Will you behave, Shadow Milk?”

The beast's breath caught in his throat. Pure Vanilla needed no effort to pose him however he wanted. “Wh—”

“Dove,” the king's warm palm gently pressed to the small of Shadow Milk’s back. “It's a simple question, answer only with a yes, or a no.”

As the doll's gaze snapped to the doors, he realised that this would be it for him. Consequences of his actions, but humiliating still.

“I'll ask again. Will you behave?”

Shadow Milk gripped the material tighter, white robes which made Pure Vanilla feel like a cruel prayer personified. His mouth didn't open—no, he just nodded.

That had been enough.

“Good.” The warm palm moved, gently tracing towards Shadow Milk’s hip. There, it crossed over to the back of the doll's thighs, enjoying their softness. After relishing in the pliability of the skin below, Pure Vanilla’s fingers hooked at the edge of the dress.

Shadow Milk sucked in a breath.

Please. Don't.

“Now, since you said you'll behave.” Instead, his knuckles moved, taking in the gentle texture. The warmth, remnants from the morning's haze, remained as cozy as ever. “I'd like an apology.”

“I— I'm… sorry—”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Pure Vanilla chided. “A proper one. Tell me what you did wrong and how it will change. Otherwise I can't be sure that you understand what this is for.”

Of fucking course.

The ribbon that the ancient held slipped away from his hold, twisting like a serpent towards the wardrobe.

Shadow Milk cursed himself silently.

“I'm… sorry for—” his eyes followed the streak of gold, as the end rose to wrap around the furniture's pastel handle. “For disobeying.”

Pure Vanilla's open palm lingered on the back of the doll's thighs, rubbing soothing circles. It then crept higher, underneath the silk, too innocently cupping the bottom of Shadow Milk’s buttocks. “Good, good. How did you disobey?”

He wanted nothing more than to let out a blood curdling scream. “I… was—difficult.”

Thoughtful, Pure Vanilla's touch moved up onto Shadow Milk’s back. The silk pooled and folded, exposing the beast from the waist down. “How were you difficult?”

Shadow Milk grit his teeth. His head hung low, trying to focus on the pastel yellow carpets.

“On… purpose.”

Pleased, the ancient hero moved his other hand, to where Shadow Milk’s shoulder blades were. The dress’ thin strings were softly unclasped, the golden ribbons which held them to the material easily melted.

“I—I won’t do it again—“

“Good, good.” Before Shadow Milk knew it, the simple material of his nightgown was gone—slipped from his body as easily as his pride.

Now, the previously slithering ribbon finally pulled open the wardrobe’s doors. Made out of light-coloured wood, with golden hinges. And, as everything made out of gold, it was perfectly poseable.

The doors were double folding, wide.

Pure Vanilla's hand gently lifted, a finger curling towards the reflective surface—and oh, did it answer. Slowly, the gentle silver mirage shifted towards them.

The mirror changed its angle due to Pure Vanilla's call, now perfectly poised to reflect what laid in front.

Considering Shadow Milk seemed less than willing to raise his gaze, Pure Vanilla's fingers tangled into the locks at his scalp. A soft scrunching hold right where his skin was, carefully lifting his head.

The beast's eyes narrowed, and then—widened.

Ahead, was his own face. Tilted slightly, due to the mirror not being perfectly in front. Its silver lining gave enough of view; Shadow Milk’s humiliated face, his bare body draped over Pure Vanilla's snow coloured robes.

The image wasn’t whole, but enough to catch that of his face and his backside.

Slowly, the ancient’s hand lowered back down—fingertips tantalisingly brushing the dip of his spine. Pure Vanilla glanced to the mirror, his lips curling at the sight. The warm and radiating palm of his hand rested on the skin soon after—as if it had always belonged there.

Shadow Milk’s lips parted, but all the air was gone from his lungs; same for saliva. The absence made his mouth dry.

”Now,” Pure Vanilla hummed, fingers lightly massaging over the scalp—deceptively soothing and all the worse. “That counts for… ten strikes, doesn’t it?

The beast’s heart sank as the realisation settled upon his body like morning dew, fingertips straining on the white cloth.

“No—No I said I—“

”That you’ll behave.” He affirmed, still syrupy. As stinging honey on a wound, or salt on a cut. “But you could change your mind anytime.”

The hand that then ran down back to the back of his thighs felt almost reverent. On its way back up, Pure Vanilla allowed his fingers to graze the inside—not directly touching his slit yet.

“Because of your rudeness, I'm forced to add five more.”

Inside Shadow Milk, something shattered. Broke. Many months ago, yes. But it stung nonetheless. His own silence, his own lack of resolve—it was worse than whatever else he was put through.

With trembling lips and against himself, he finally forced any type of words past his lips. Whispered in sheer desperation.

“Please…”

“Shh, I know.” With a voice as sugared as ever, his fingertips moved their way up and down the soft and pliable flesh. “I know. But, if I keep dismissing your behaviour, it will teach you nothing.”

Shadow Milk felt his lower lashes cluster from the moisture in his eyes, and he could only blink away. Unfocused, his gaze moved elsewhere.

“Tsk.” The softest click of a tongue, as a branch breaking. “I'm willing to take remorse into consideration, however.” Pure Vanilla's fingers scrunched the hair which they held more—not painful and still tender.

“Keep your eyes where they should be, and I'll lower it to twelve.”

Twelve. What a ridiculously high number—the majority would've expected nine, at most.

Pure Vanilla's patience, although seemingly never ending, still held a price. And despite the soft-spoken question, there was firmness in the way his fingers sank into Shadow Milk’s skin.

The flesh of the beast's soft and pliable thigh was squeezed, and Pure Vanilla tilted his head at the warmth. It felt undeniably good in his hand, fitting and full.

Once his hand tightened, Shadow Milk felt compliant enough to finally look back at the mirror. He knew he had no time—if he didn't get this over with fast enough, then no doubt, he would be caught looking like this.

At one point, it became less about the humiliation and more the perception.

“Good, good.” Pure Vanilla hummed, his voice carrying as first droplets of a summer shower. “I really hate to do this. Alas, if I remain ignorant to your deliberate disobedience…”

The ancient trailed off, a sigh slipping by. “and continue to let you get off the hook, then no doubt you'll think you can get away with everything.”

Shadow Milk unwillingly looked at the mirror still. The reflection was clear, enough for him to see his own shame, and wide enough to see Pure Vanilla's hand lightly draw circles on his flesh.

“But I'm afraid I can't keep forgiving.”

A hand was raised.

“My hands will forget how to scold.”

The second that the beast's mouth opened, the sharp sound of skin hitting skin cut through the air. Shadow Milk jolted from the impact, heavy handed and still not as hard as Pure Vanilla could've made it.

The ancient kept his palm where he had just struck, gently drawing a pattern on the tenderised flesh—all the while he ensured Shadow Milk’s eye contact with the mirror.

“Count it, Shadow Milk.” He cooed, all too soft and kind to have been fitting for the situation. As if he had the right. As if it hadn't been humiliating.

The doll's voice broke slightly, and it took all he had not to lower his head. “O-One…”

“Good.” Pure Vanilla's hand rubbed the reddened spot, before rising. He never kept it in the air too long, not a fan of this idle suspense. No, it landed right on Shadow Milk’s backside once more, causing the beast below to tense.

His shoulders shook, breathing heavier. “Two—”

With a hum of approval, Pure Vanilla's palm soothed the struck skin, creeping up the soft flesh to stop atop Shadow Milk’s back. Gently stroking the curve of his spine, Pure Vanilla tilted his head.

“It really pains me more than it does you.” A tap of his hand on Shadow Milk’s skin. “But you just can't behave. You never could.”

The monarch's hand rubbed the dip of his spine in false comfort, the fingertips gently dancing across the surface like droplets of rain over a pond.

Once more Shadow Milk felt his eyes sting.

The very second that he managed to get his mind away from the consequences of his actions, the warmth of Pure Vanilla's palm left his shaking skin, just to land on the lower part of his thigh with a slap.

Shadow Milk held back a sob. He really did.

“–Th-three…”

“Mm.”

Then, nothing again. Just the soft coaxing of fingers on the skin of his backside, the subtle caresses which meant to prolong more than they had meant to soothe.

Keeping him tense. Keeping him ready and in anticipation.

“Don't blame me by any means, dove.” A murmur filled with something. Still as soft as a freshly baked croissant, and as warm as tea with milk.

Still kind and gentle despite what was happening. “All this is your doing.”

Pure Vanilla never meant the punishment only. He meant all of it.

From the confinement, to the room—all the way down to his restrained leg tendons.

The reddened skin was rubbed once more, before another strike. And then another, and by the time they reached the number seven he was heaving—and his eyes filled with more water than he could've hoped to hold back. And his fingers dug into the white, and the warmth dribbled down his flushed cheeks, and he trembled and counted and whimpered and—

Pure Vanilla's hand raised once more, the pace as consistent as metromone. He would know—he played far enough on the piano to feel the inspired rhythm.

Yet, the sound that now severed the silence wasn’t the sound of the palm making stinging contact.

It was a soft sound, almost inquiring. A knock, followed by demeaning silence.

The raised palm gently descended to rub at Shadow Milk’s back, the fingertips on occasion hooking at his sides, just feeling the smooth and preened skin. Nonetheless the doll tensed, his fingers digging into Pure Vanilla's thigh.

“Don't.” A plea. And oh, please, let him have that much.

Shadow Milk moved his face, this time looking at Pure Vanilla directly. Their gazes met, even though the monarch's eyes remained closed in the most gentle calm.

The ancient’s lips curled into a smile.

“The faster we are done with it, the less it will be heard how disobedient you have been.”

With the softness of Shadow Milk’s chest and abdomen concealed by the white of Pure Vanilla's robes, only the side of his flesh remained in sight. Some of it was still covered by the king's long hair, but that would never be nearly enough to cover the shame.

His mouth felt deserted as he tried to get a word in, but Pure Vanilla's hand merely gave his back the lightest tap.

“Come in.”

The jester's head sluggishly whipped towards the doors, his eyes reddened from the tears he tried to hold back. Shadow Milk never cried from feeling hurt. No, he shed tears of shame.

This isn't fucking fair. He thought, words which he could never utter. This shouldn't be me.

Beyond the white wood, the figure seemed hesitant. The doorknob rolled downwards, reminiscent of a body lowered into a grave. A click, and the doors pulled themselves open.

The softened figure which came to sight did not make Shadow Milk any more comfortable.

Gleaming of gold and exaggerated hope, the tray as always held plenty. But he didn’t let himself look at the bread or the cheese.

The beast's eyes searched the guest's face

Black Sapphire’s eye widened, the only visible one. His lips opened in disbelief, slowly and nearly unnoticeably.

The doll held eye contact for seconds. The pressure—the idea of being seen like this—was too much to handle. Shadow Milk’s head lowered instead, the rich hair shielding him.

Pure Vanilla allowed that much; his grip significantly loosened.

“Thank you,” The king tilted his hand, offering the sight of the nearby nightstand. “feel free to put it down there.”

Black Sapphire flicked his gaze anywhere else. Anywhere just to not look at his master's bare body. Despite the most humiliating parts covered, it felt wrong in this setting.

The minion had seen his share, but none of the instances had Shadow Milk be in such a compromising position. Perhaps this was why the nausea pooled in his stomach like reserves of oil amidst a sea.

With his knuckles straining, he stepped to the nightstand. The host's gaze remained fixed ahead, and the plentiful tray was set down with a click.

Black Sapphire put utmost care into not catching any other glimpse of Shadow Milk.

Yet, a fist tightened at his side.

It wasn't supposed to be that way. Neither of them should be there.

All the evasion and sacrifice they brought meant nothing. The meticulous scheming and night-long planning was diminished in the face of current events.

Her death was just one of the boulders that weighed on Black Sapphire’s already heavy heart.

Still.

There was nothing he could do.

The host's white-clad fingers left the golden tray, the gloves seemingly tailored for him only. He straightened, and turned on his heel, once more stepping to the doors.

As his hand met the cold metal of the handle, Pure Vanilla's voice behind him called once more.

“Do come see me around noon time.”

Black Sapphire didn’t turn his head. Didn't look, he didn’t even make a sound of acknowledgement. The only sign that he heard was the nod of his head.

The doors were pushed open, clicking close behind him.

Shadow Milk felt fury boil beneath his skin. He always did this. Against his own self preservation, he let his mouth curl.

“Why?” A near-sob. “You already took everything from me. What else are you trying to achieve?”

The king's gaze moved down to the beast beneath. Shadow Milk’s hair successfully kept his face concealed, but it took no genius to know what sort of state the beast was. His breathing was laboured—chest heaving with suppressed sobs.

“Me?” Pure Vanilla asked. His voice never lost its quality—no, he wouldn't become the same again. He wasn't like Shadow Milk.

Then—it hit him.

“Are you assuming I orchestrated this, my dove?”

It needed no answer.

Pure Vanilla just sighed, warmly, as if he was scolding a child rather than a beastly individual. As if he was asked one of the silliest questions—as adorable as it could've been.

“No, dove.” His hand moved once more, stroking the skin above Shadow Milk’s buttocks. “I had not anticipated this much haughtyness of you.”

Then, his lips pressed to the very crown of the doll's head.

“He was scheduled to come once you'd had your fill of love. But,” Pure Vanilla's fingers moved into the strands, curling once they reached Shadow Milk’s scalp. “you delayed quite a lot. I tried to time it in accordance with the average time it takes us, so that there would be no humiliation.”

Shadow Milk had no words. His eyes just lidded, letting the collected saltiness run down his cheeks in thin streaks.

“All so you didn't have to be this exposed. I know you don't like it, and neither do I.”

Pure Vanilla gently nudged Shadow Milk’s head, forcing him to once more meet their reflection. His lips remained curled, but the smile didn't hold satisfaction. Something else, akin to calculation.

“Now, I wasn't the one who ‘took’ from you. What you had lost was on your own accord.”

With the final graze and shiver, Pure Vanilla's hand lifted from his skin. “You know the rules. You won't feel punished enough if your flesh has breaks in between, so…”

Shadow Milk’s eyes snapped shut, he couldn't.

“Let's start from one.”

.

Only hiccups broke the quiet between them, each one jagged as Shadow Milk’s chest struggled to rise and fall.

The back of his thighs, and the skin just above, remained deeply flushed. Pure Vanilla's words were nothing but kindness, but as before, even that had a limit. And so, because of how forgiving the king was, his punishments were just as extensive.

Each strike landed with intent, with purpose. Heavy-handed, repetitive. The kind that stirred restlessness, the sort that caused an echo to spread not only through the space but through the body, and through that which was hollow in Shadow Milk’s heart.

Still, he wouldn't call it a beating.

Not because he wasn't struck. But because he never counted his own misdeeds as violence.

And so, being different from the average person, he endured.

Once the final blow landed, Pure Vanilla made sure it lingered. His own hand throbbed faintly from repetition, but the ache went unacknowledged. Instead, his warm palm remained pressed against the marked skin—just enough to make it worse.

Heat bloomed where his hand lay, both from body warmth and the energy thrumming beneath his skin. A faint shimmer of power. Light. Healing, yes—but never applied.

It wasn't meant to soothe, this time.

Good.

Not like Shadow Milk fought it. There was no point.

“...Fif—” his voice cracked, like a withered leaf. “Fifteenth...”

So he broke eye contact with the mirror, after all.

Pure Vanilla's touch remained firm—too warm and too alive. The power which still ran its course beneath the skin sparked something else in Shadow Milk: tightness in the throat.

The seemingly soothing contact was but a cruel brand of comfort.

His breathing was weighed once more, and he allowed himself to cry.

Breath caught in stuttered gasps, void of sobbing. Just the noise being swallowed, just the sound of trying to stay quiet.

His skull dropped forward as the tension gave way. Fingers clenched at the mocking white that Pure Vanilla wore, trembling. The cries followed, unforced and free.

The king tilted his head, observing carefully. As a scientist keeping watch on a test tube, or a chef patiently waiting for the dough to rest.

Still, the urge to soothe warred with the need for discipline. And so Pure Vanilla waited for the silence to fully crack.

The hands which reprimanded Shadow Milk so adamantly weren't made for harshness, and Pure Vanilla quickly found them gently placed upon the beast's side. He pulled him up as if he weighed nothing.

He shifted easily on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. The beast—his doll—was brought to sit across his lap, drawn in without resistance.

Shadow Milk’s side was to his chest, an arm wound around him to keep him hoisted. Pure Vanilla felt the doll's wet cheek below his collarbone, and he allowed his head to incline. His chin was atop Shadow Milk’s head.

“It's okay,” a coo, Pure Vanilla's hand coming to his cheek to wipe the wetness away. “It's all over now.”

He didn’t rush Shadow Milk to calm down, nor did get annoyed by the calmness taking a while to settle.

Still.

With a shaky cry, the doll's arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to shield himself—mentally and otherwise.

The stinging sensation of his irritated skin against Pure Vanilla's fully clothed body made him this much more tempted to shift around.

“This took up a lot of time…” Pure Vanilla murmured, hand gently rubbing that of Shadow Milk’s side. If the beast had behaved, Pure Vanilla might've been finishing up the routine by now.

“I have quite a lot on my plate today, and though I would love nothing more than to stay longer, there are still those things which I cannot delay.”

The king's arm remained around Shadow Milk, supporting his trembling figure. His other hand however moved closer, the fingers cupping the doll's chin. There, Pure Vanilla tilted it up.

He took in Shadow Milk’s heated cheeks, his flushed and puffy eyes and the trembling lips. His face gained on heat from the extensive humiliation—his eyes vacant. Just a sign of the beast dwelling on what-ifs once more.

“Now, stay with me.” Mentally. Pure Vanilla's thumb moved to Shadow Milk’s lips, gently pressing on the bottom of them. “As I said, we focus on the present.

Only by existing in the current time can you learn to accept it.”

In truth, Shadow Milk would’ve scoffed by how many times he heard it. He wasn't an average person. No, no—once he would've been far above that.

It wasn't his place, however, to resist.

He just met Pure Vanilla's gaze, the gold and blue dragging him back to the time they had at hand.

With the slightly widened smile and the kindness of a thousand saints, Pure Vanilla leaned to press a chaste kiss to Shadow Milk’s nose.

And maybe it would've made the doll believe he has gotten off the hook.

“We can do the rest once I return before the evening. For now,” Pure Vanilla shifted his hold, hand gliding from hip to waist with practiced gentleness, “let us focus on essentialities.”

Shadow Milk’s lips parted—barely—but whatever wilted protest bloomed there, it died just as quickly. Like a petal clipped too soon.

Pure Vanilla’s arm curled with firmer intent, guiding him to turn.

From where he perched on the king’s lap, he was gently maneuvered—hip shifted, spine angled—until he was laid fully back against Pure Vanilla’s chest. As a puzzle piece made to fit, or an unruly strand of hair, locked in a stylisation.

A hand came to his stomach, a steadying grip as Pure Vanilla sat up for what felt like seconds.

With a bated breath, Shadow Milk’s eyes snapped shut. He didn't look as Pure Vanilla's other arm moved to the side, nor did he pay attention to the click of the nightstand. Its golden handle—which Shadow Milk couldn't open himself—gave way once it sensed the radiant touch.

Pure Vanilla leaned back again, keeping his lightly open legs between the doll's own. Keeping him locked in place. Vulnerable. Ready.

“Which one would you like today?” He asked, as casually as one would prod an individual over their favourite tea.

But it wasn't as nice as that.

Shadow Milk’s head tilted away, to the window above the bed—the opposite direction to the now opened nightstand. But it didn't matter.

The fingers on the front of his body moved, tenderising the skin above the navel with care. “The blue one? Maybe purple?”

A clink of glass beside Pure Vanilla was all that he had to hear. From his own lack of answer, the king simply hummed. Unrushed. Practiced.

“It's alright, I suppose I can just pick for you.” a sound of Pure Vanilla shuffling the contents of the dresser sounded, leisure and careful. “Hm…”

The doll's fingers moved to Pure Vanilla's forearm that now draped itself across his body, all too aware of the sound of wood sliding shut.

If anything, Shadow Milk’s resolve to not look hardened. His eyes were closed quite tightly, his abdomen tensing at the feeling of Pure Vanilla's fingers moving below the navel.

“I'm thinking pink.” A hum, as if they were discussing nail colours. “It's been a while, hasn't it? You must've missed it a lot.”

With one last adjustment, Shadow Milk’s thighs were parted more. He was painfully bare, and the exposition did nothing to cool his wrecked nerves.

His breathing hitched.

The carefully picked out item was placed atop the nightstand for now, just enough to remain out of the beast's sight.

The angle, to Pure Vanilla at least, was quite flattering. He could see the unsteady rise of the doll's chest, the way his thighs tensed every few seconds. His chin could lay atop Shadow Milk’s head.

Another hand, the one which did not hold Shadow Milk securely, drifted to the beast's knee. Smooth and unrushed, the featherlight touch of his fingertips circled. As the sensation descended slowly, to the inner parts of his thighs, Shadow Milk inhaled sharply.

He hated this. Hated the anticipation, the way his body readied itself before the mind did.

Tenderly and agonizingly, the warm fingers continued their steady journey downward. It was almost enough to make him forget the sting on his skin.

Pure Vanilla leaned, cheek pressed to the side of Shadow Milk’s temple.

His hand danced around the skin before dipping lower. It was meticulous. Purposeful. And it was working.

“See how nice it can be if you just let me give you what you need?”

And then, there it was. The graze of the digits at his folds, already slick enough to invite Pure Vanilla's fingers between them. Warm and welcoming and so much unlike his mind.

Pure Vanilla watched as his hand covered the mound, a slick sound following the repeated movement of his digits.

Bracing himself, Shadow Milk’s abdomen tensed. The touch moved with repetition, between the petals, up to his already aching bud.

“You just can't help yourself,” Pure Vanilla mused. He tried quite hard not to focus on how eager he was to dip his fingers into Shadow Milk.

Similarly, the king fought all his instinct to warm his face between Shadow Milk’s heated thighs. “You never could.”

It wasn't enough to truly get Shadow Milk off yet. No, of course not.

Pure Vanilla ensured the slick was spread properly, before the two of his fingers stayed in place—pressed right beneath Shadow Milk’s clit.

A measured circle was rubbed down, and Shadow Milk inhaled sharply.

“There we go…”

There was not a chance to shift as Pure Vanilla allowed the movement to repeat, slow yet texturised. It only added to the eager slick that Shadow Milk’s traitorous body was giving, as if offering the most beloved flower of devotion.

It was hard to ignore with the soft after-echo of wetness.

“Nnh—” Shadow Milk’s lip was bitten. The touch grew slightly faster and no less reverent, Pure Vanilla's hand on his abdomen splaying out.

With the palm finally flattened, it was all the better to see his fingertips gone between the softness of Shadow Milk’s folds.

Before any sensation could build too high from the sweet torment, the digits slipped lower—where the tender and already needy entrance was.

Shadow Milk’s head tilted aside, cheek inadvertently pressing into Pure Vanilla if it meant not seeing.

“Hm…” the taller let a thoughtful hum spread, his digits feeling the accumulated wetness. “How lovely. It's a shame we can't do it the right way.”

The hand retreated, if only to move back to the nightstand. There, it was opened once more, and closed with a click.

Even as Pure Vanilla's arm gently moved off his waist, the beast didn't bother anymore. Shadow Milk’s body remained still, like a well posed doll.

Then, the small sound of a vial being popped open broke him from the thoughts, mismatched lashes fluttering open.

Pure Vanilla's arms were once more around him, one hand holding the already familiar vial. Filled with a thick and viscous clear liquid, it was now tilted to the king's other palm.

As it dribbled down onto the two chosen digits, Pure Vanilla straightened it once more, soon after setting the flat-bottom glass container away. Before anything could slide away unintended, his hand dipped back between the doll's thighs.

“Since we will be dealing with plenty of texture,” Pure Vanilla mused, watching his fingers glide down to Shadow Milk’s entrance, lightly wiping the lubricant over the opening. “this will make it far better for you.”

The tips of his digits pressed in lightly, ensuring proper covering, before retreating again. And despite the heaviness of his breathing or the tension in his fingers, Shadow Milk could do nothing.

Pure Vanilla's hand found the first item he had placed aside, bringing it over in front of them for the first time today. Shadow Milk didn’t need to focus to know what this was.

Clear and smoothly made glass, it sat steady in the king's grip. The wand was tinted pink, just enough to distinguish it from the other transparent one that Pure Vanilla owned. But he wouldn't say that they were his, no.

It was long, not made to be used in its entirety. The surface of it was lined with occasional yet patterned dips into its body, with the softest ridges and elevations between. Then was its very end—barely thicker than its glass shape, but thicker nonetheless.

Shadow Milk knew it very well. He knew how it felt, and how it was used. Against himself, he felt saliva pool in his mouth, and he wished for nothing more than to punch a hole in his mind.

“I would warm it up for you, but we truly don't have a moment to spare.”

One hand went down, index and middle finger lightly parting the well-lubricated folds. Pure Vanilla held the toy firmly with the other, and it too moved down.

Shadow Milk’s thighs shifted, but they couldn't even come close to shutting.

“Ah,” the king chided, intently watching as the rounded tip of the wand pressed to the aching heat, gliding down. “Don't fight me on this, dove.”

Tensing slightly from the cold, Shadow Milk’s fist tightened, now laying over his stomach. Deliberately, the wand which poked at his entrance moved up and down to slicken properly, before finally pressing.

“—Mnh.” Shadow Milk’s breath caught as the rounded tip breached. It didn't hurt, it never did. With Pure Vanilla's fingers keeping his folds parted, the toy easily glided in further, the texture tenderising his already aching core.

“See?” With a tiny bit more pressure, Shadow Milk found Pure Vanilla's hand pushing more, up until the toy couldn't anymore. His thighs quivered. “You like it.”

Keenly aware of the ridges pressing into him, and too stimulated by the curve of the glass, Shadow Milk couldn't find it in himself to fight.

There was no point.

Pure Vanilla finally retreated the hand that spread the doll open, fingertips sliding up the mound to caress below the navel. As Shadow Milk adjusted to the feeling, Pure Vanilla's palm crept higher. Up to the sternum, to the chest.

He felt the goosebumps on Shadow Milk’s skin, the way his breath caught once more when he pressed the toy in slightly. The now free hand splayed over the beast's chest, lightly grazing that of his nipple.

Pure Vanilla knew he didn’t have to do this.

He could've laid the doll out and positioned him to his liking, but he couldn't. The point wasn't to satiate himself—it was to keep Shadow Milk from starving for sensation.

The king's breath felt warm to his ear. “I'm going to start moving it now, so try not to squirm. It's glass, so it won't bend with you.”

Shadow Milk’s eyes widened as the toy that disappeared into him was withdrawn, only the rounded tip remaining—before Pure Vanilla's hand glided it in again.

Soft and slow, meant to massage more than ignite.

And—as the ridges went in—the wet squelch was too much to handle.

“H-hn-” Shadow Milk reacted in kind, head tipping as Pure Vanilla's hand caressed his chest again. His fingers barely brushed upon the sensitive part, but the sensation in his abdomen only heightened the senses.

“There we go…” the grip on the toy was firm, and he twisted it slightly—just enough to let Shadow Milk enjoy the texture. Soon after the toy was slickly pulled back again, just to glide in with a twist. “It feels so good, doesn't it?”

Pure Vanilla's fingers curled once more, brushing against the sensitive skin. His vision didn't have to be clear to watch the wand sink in and out—the image stirring something in him.

And as the texture of the toy made itself known again, Shadow Milk’s hips shifted. He wished to squirm, but the wand that dug into him was a warning by itself.

His chest was caressed again, and another mewl slipped by. It was as if Pure Vanilla was savouring the moment.

“It gets really good down the line.” He reminded, thumb rolling into Shadow Milk’s nipple. The caress of his hand was gentle, same for yet another thrust of the wand.

Steadily, his cheeks gained heat. A different sort of warmth than that of former humiliation. His hand crept onto Pure Vanilla's wrist before he could process, as if wishing to still him.

But the king just continued, in and out, massaging Shadow Milk’s delicate walls at a slightly faster pace. The palm which cupped the doll's skin now descended between his thighs.

A finger crept between his petals, just above where the wand was thrusting. Already practiced, Pure Vanilla's fingertip found where the clit had been, caressing the slickened surface.

“N-nghh—” Shadow Milk’s hold on the wrist tightened, his other hand joining to grab at Pure Vanilla's forearm. “N-not like- like this I can't… nnOt like—”

“Shh.”

Another mindless whimper as the fingertip dragged around his pearl, it only making the wet sound echo further. Shadow Milk felt his stomach tense, the skin jumping with every ragged breath.

“You need to let go.” Pure Vanilla rolled the toy in, the angle sharpening each time it was drawn out. “Relax. Once you let it happen, I can do what I need to do.”

The protest in his throat died as soon as it was born, thighs quivering as the rich feeling split him again and again. The stimulation at his clit only added to the accumulating pleasure.

Shadow Milk’s head tipped back, another moan, another moment of his finger's tight on Pure Vanilla's skin. His eyes glossed from pleasure, each meticulous dip and curve in the glass only adding to the sweet agony.

“Don't fight it,” another murmur. Pure Vanilla's hand pushed the toy in for the final time, adjusting his grip. The tender rubs to Shadow Milk’s sensitive pearl never ceased. “You know how much you like it when you let it in—let me in.”

Shadow Milk’s breathing ragged in momentary reprieve, the water in his lashes blurring the image.

Holding the glass fully now, with the king's thumb at its end to ensure steadiness, he rolled it differently.

“Fhnn…” It wasn't quite a thrust. A circular motion, as if Pure Vanilla was stirring a filling for pastries rather than an item of eroticism.

It wasn't a far fetched comparison.

“Like… that.” The tone remained thoughtful. “The texture feels nice, doesn't it? I think the rounded end really does it for you.”

There was no response. Nothing coherent, at least. Shadow Milk’s lips parted, eyes vacant as his body twitched. The ridges pressed into the wraps of his insides, truly massaging them out into submission. Relaxation.

“There..” another roll—firmer and decided. The beast's back arched with another mewl, and the angle of his hips almost allowed for his greedy mound to hide away from Pure Vanilla's sight.

Not that it would be allowed.

“Your body is always so needy, isn't it? I'm glad you have me here.”

Sensing that the doll had loosened up enough to accept the next steps, the glass toy stilled once more. It warmed, of course, but that wasn't the point.

The king's finger left Shadow Milk’s aching and swollen clit, his arm once more wound around the doll's waist.

It would appear the doll knew what was coming now, because despite the continued sting on his flesh and his disheveled state, he still had it in him to twist. Adorable.

“Now, now.” Gripping Shadow Milk’s hip, Pure Vanilla had him locked. “You can't escape it, so just stay still for me.”

“H-Had enough—” a feeble and shaky protest, accompanied by his eyes widening.

“You say, hm?” With a shallow press, the wand gently withdrew, again leaving the thickened tip, before it vanished between Shadow Milk’s needy folds once more.

“H..hghh..”

“If I recall correctly, you need it at least once. We are still far off.”

As the beast tried to argue, only a mewl followed. When the richly made toy kept splitting him, each push was accelerated. Never harsh, just enough to feel the ridges slide in and out with a grotesque squelch.

“H-Hhaah..~” the sounds so against himself slipped by, thighs quivering. Shadow Milk’s head tilted again, but no amount of grip on Pure Vanilla's skin made the torture cease.

Cruelly, the smooth surface of the wand sank into him again and again, thoroughly providing friction to his wanting heat.

Pure Vanilla's lips curled in satisfaction.

As the tension within the beast grew, he only gripped him tighter. “Let it happen.”

There was no other choice. Let it happen.

It was meticulous and thorough and everything that Shadow Milk couldn't ignore. His flesh quivered against the steadying hold. Just as his core coiled and his head tipped back, the ever increasing pace finally found a fitting rhythm.

Pure Vanilla bit his lip with a shaky inhale, his hand pushing the toy into Shadow Milk over and over. The scandalous wet hush that followed as he pressed through the growing tightness was enough to make his own abdomen tingle—but it went unacknowledged.

With Shadow Milk’s heat grappling at the glass needily, the beast found no reprieve in the cries that freely spilled from his lips. More and more the hold became unbearable, and as the pleasure accumulated and made his skin burn—

A wanton sob spilled from the doll as his body jolted in ecstasy, the tremors that overran his sense coming in waves—crashing like water upon rocks.

“NHh— MnHhaa…” Shadow Milk was trembling. The wand's thrusts shallowed down, each tug of Pure Vanilla's hand slowed by the tension of his sheath.

With the final push, the wand stilled inside Shadow Milk. Almost immediately the doll's grip on Pure Vanilla's arm loosened, fingers slipping from the soft skin to land on the bedding at their sides.

The breaths Shadow Milk took were ragged, deep enough for him to become entirely oblivious to Pure Vanilla's own turmoil. Nothing mattered anymore. Not the way his head lulled to the side, or the way his flesh softened to pliability. It was as if the doll wasn't quite in his own mind anymore.

Slick hush followed as Pure Vanilla gently withdrew the wand, slowly as to not agitate Shadow Milk’s tense heat. Right below where his fingers held the glass, there was a ring of white—smeared downward, a proof of Shadow Milk’s undeniable hunger.

“There we go…” Pure Vanilla's tone strained as his hand rubbed at the doll's side. “You did well. My good boy.”

The toy was held there for now, the king's eyes flicking over the sickness once. Then down to the curve of Shadow Milk’s trembling thighs, his softened hips and stomach.

As the doll caught his breath, the arm around him moved. Pure Vanilla's hand grazed to the abdomen, pressing just below the navel. Not lower for now—merely as if he wanted to change his hold.

But it wasn't truly like this.

Still soft, the skin had a healthy curve. Something to feel beneath the fingertips, and a further proof of the flower finally blooming to fruit.

Perhaps Shadow Milk hadn't realised how much of his current state had been caused by his existence accepting its place—becoming pliant to the hands which held it.

As the knowledge of what lay there, just beneath the skin, tempted him, he only sucked in a breath.

“Good dove.” A kiss to Shadow Milk’s temple, before the tip of the wand nudged the folds apart.

“N-No— I had enough—” Shadow Milk tensed, but Pure Vanilla just clicked his tongue.

“Nonsense.” The glass glided down, and the doll could only watch in horror. “You still need to give me one more.”

.
.
.

Before noon came, the monarch had more than enough time for thought. Naturally he had to depart before the doll was prepared for the day, and as much as it had hurt him to do so, perhaps this would too be a lesson.

Shadow Milk had been warned of consequences of the breakfast not being gone by the time he returned. And so, Pure Vanilla at least had the guarantee that the food would be eaten.

Still, something felt amiss.

Between the time of his duties being dealt with for the time being and noon, Pure Vanilla chose a quiet spot in one of his studies. Ever since the king had returned from his venture in beast yeast, things have changed.

The curtains which gleamed of yellow and spring's breath were exchanged for the dark hues of night skies, and the furniture was easily replaced by a dimmer shade. In truth, it had been a separate study entirely—a polar opposite to all the items he had discarded into another room.

He was sitting there, a notebook idly in his hand. Quill dipped in ink as he scribbled something, words incoherent to anyone other than himself. It was dark, yes, but the light of his staff worked differently than it once had.

It would never be enough to set the room alight, of course. Still, the rays from his staff held a different quality now. It wasn't like the vision he had prior to all of this.

This one was more encompassing.

So much so that he already knew who was on the way.

Snapping the notebook shut, Pure Vanilla straightened. The quill was then laid at its designated spot, hands coming to fold over the darkened desk.

The hand that raised behind the doors never truly made contact with the wood.

“Enter.”

No knock came, of course. As predicted, the figure hesitated, before the handle finally moved.

The light from the corridor spilled inside, but it made no difference to Pure Vanilla. Giving a confused look, the figure halted, before finally stepping through, closing the doors behind.

In front of him, the monarch gestured to the armchair in front of the wide desk, offering a kind smile. “Apologies for the drawn curtains. I lost track of time sitting here.”

Pure Vanilla's eyes flicked over Black Sapphire.

The details weren't clear, but he saw enough; the pastel lilacs of his outfit, and the now tamed curls of thick hair.

He was adjusting.

Black Sapphire approached slowly, carefully. As an animal aware of a trap within the grass, or a hunter—whichever fit the mood more. His gloved hand rested on the armchair’s back, before he finally sat.

As much as such displays hurt Pure Vanilla tremendously, he knew better than to hold it against him.

“You're not in trouble, of course.” The king reminded. “I wish to start by informing you that from today, we will meet at noon time.”

Black Sapphire glanced aside.

His eye flicked over the items on the wood before him, nothing readily available for any sort of scheming. He didn’t reply, of course. How could he?

He just nodded.

The host's eyes then lingered on the light of the staff that refused to shine too brightly, and the way that the coils of warmth slithered over the desk like snakes.

Pure Vanilla's tone remained unchanged. Decisive and steady, gentle, but not apologetic.

“As for the latter…”

Black Sapphire allowed his eyes to flick over—inquiring, yet lacking any understanding. Pure Vanilla did not blame him.

“There is little I could say to change how things appear on the surface.” He let that settle for a moment. Not defensive or upset. Not guilty. “I understand how things must look right now, and I will not be trying to change your mind.”

As the moment passed, Black Sapphire found his hands tightening in his lap. There was disbelief in the way his gaze narrowed, or anger in the way his eyes shone in the dim light.

But Pure Vanilla knew better than to take it to heart.

“I will not ask for your understanding either. I don't believe it is given, but earned.” With a steady move, Pure Vanilla straightened more. The white of his lashes fluttered, opening to give way to his bleary eyes.

It was a monologue. A conversation that Pure Vanilla was more than willing to carry, especially if it had meant to serve greater purpose.

“Still, I have always believed that time reveals what words cannot. By actions we can measure an individual's heart. Weight it, even. Some actions however can carry different intentions.”

For a moment, Pure Vanilla tipped his head, allowing his gaze to meet the vague sway of dark curtains. He was not sure why he chose this specific study today.

Comfort, familiarity.

“You can water a thing until the roots drown. Speak to it, touch its leaves every morning.” With a steady move, Pure Vanilla reclined in the seat. Casual, mournful even. “Shift it between windows with care if it means that it enjoys the sun for longer. That it knows the warmth of rays.”

Black Sapphire’s gaze flicked elsewhere once more. To the empty bookshelves that were undoubtedly clad with dust from negligence. Left to sit, much unlike the shine and polish of the desk.

“Some plants grow… crooked. No matter how gentle the gardener. You tell yourself it's just the pot,” a sigh, reminiscent. “it's just the soil. That, maybe, next season it will bloom, if only given a chance, more care, more attention.”

Pure Vanilla felt his lips press together, inadvertently and by their own accord. But as the silence once more was left to bloom, he slowly turned to take in Black Sapphire’s vague expression.

Tight, angry. Confused. Lost.

“After enough frostbitten springs and rain-filled summers, after enough nights scraping mold from the base and after changing the pot and the soil, you stop asking why.”

With the seat slowly pushed back, Pure Vanilla rose to his feet. His hand moved over the desk as he walked round it, approaching the darkened shelf nearby.

“You start asking how much longer before it infects the rest. And that, Black Sapphire, happens in time.”

Pure Vanilla kept his back to the other for a moment, vaguely scanning the item on the high shelf. A staff, broken, a relic of time. Artifact not his own, but the one's behind him.

“I could show you the many broken pots. The many withered plants which faltered as the weeds disguised themselves for roses.”

And then he turned, as if the conversation had been actually about gardening all along.

“But nothing works like experience does. Give it a week, and you will see.”

Chapter Text

The morning went as it always did, cyclic, uninterrupted. For some, it was a cherished time with the bloom of bird song and the steady flow of life filled with joy and new starts. It wasn't like this for everyone.

Under the sun's gaze, there were those who felt drowned in the rays and the knowledge that—as another day started—there were new decisions to be made. New paths to choose, new words to say.

Not for him, no.

Rest long swept off his eyelids as the one who brought sleep avoided him like a plague, and all he could do now was to open his bleary eyes.

The room wasn't empty. No, filled with bookshelves to the brim and with more reading material than he's touched upon for centuries, it felt almost suffocating. For now, his dark irises remained on the painted ceiling before his head unwillingly tilted to the drawn curtains.

Thick, yet not enough to guarantee a full blackout.

He wondered, what did he have against the darkness?

The question would remain unanswered for—his gaze flicked over the scarce light that passed through the folds of the curtains—at least five to six suns.

Give it a week.

Weighed by guilt and sickness, his body finally moved, and he grabbed the end of the thick material to roughly tug it aside. The metal that connected it to the wall screeched, and so did he when the sky from the outside flashed his face.

The sun wasn't awake yet, for some reason, and dipped just below the horizon.

For a moment, he just remained there. Sat on the bed too large to have been deserved, with a wardrobe too stuffed to ever belong to him. And then the many spines of countless books, and then the materials he could use for whatever he desired.

It felt wrong. He never owned that much.

His face moved as he scanned the dimly lit room, finally shifting to swing his legs off the edge. Unsteady, he carried himself to the large mirror attached to a wardrobe—something Pure Vanilla seemed to favour in his interior design.

Whatever looked back at him had not been what he was.

The soft lilac curls and the nightwear were far too cream coloured to fit his tastes. The signature earrings that had defined him once were long gone.

Holding onto the past will weigh like an anchor, he said. But the past was all he had now.

Only his dark irises remained, the eyes woven into his hair by Shadow Milk’s own rough and strict hands were now gone. Either dismissed from existence or glued shut, the end goal was still the same.

Truth be told, Black Sapphire didn’t recognise the man in the mirror. He has not for a millennium.

Someone who he parted with to follow deceit now looked back at him—with nothing but displeasure.

You are a disgrace.

Black Sapphire looked to the window again. The sun was where it had been, with its very top barely poking from beneath the rich structures of the kingdom. As if the one who held time had him within their grace.

Will I make it?

For the few days he had been there, there wasn't a second he had with Shadow Milk that hadn't been supervised. And perhaps it only had been two or so days that his master had been aware of his presence, but…

Black Sapphire felt his brows furrow. His lips parted, throat weighed and clogged with nothing on the physical layer of reality. Not even a yawn left him.

I can still make it in time, he thought.

Sun hasn't risen properly yet.

.

There was no clock, but Shadow Milk could swear he heard it tick. Over and over like a torture, dragging out his misery longer than necessary.

After yesterday's defiance and the evenings routine, he was clad in something else. A dress that didn't even reach his private parts anymore—a small reminder to him.

Don't get off the bed.

The beast simply didn’t feel like risking exposure. He already learned.

The jester's body remained on the mattress, propped up against the gilded and decorated headboard. The blanket which pooled around him concealed just enough of plush skin, hands folded in his lap as if they held keys to all truths.

Or, maybe, they gripped onto them tight with rigor mortis. A body already dead, now only awaiting the second life.

As a punishment, the hair remained untied—the ends already twiddling and tangling, finally starting to separate themselves from the blue mass.

All because they have not been contained for a single night, untouched by the gold brushes and the similiarly glowing sun-kissed hands.

—And, without it, the soft blue would surely descend back into the starlit night.

Shadow Milk did not feel like moving. Not quite.

His skin still glistened with oils from evening routines, still tenderised by warm palms and scorching affection that felt more like means of branding than anything.

The balms and the soft moisturises felt like an anointment—embalment even— as all herbs and delicate essences were meant to hide the hideous stench of rot that long took root inside his decaying mind.

Perhaps from this alone his mind spun.

The new situation brought shame. But, it also brought opportunity.

As an idea bloomed in his mind and caused his lips to curl, there had been an organic yet sharp sound which sliced through the air like through butter.

A sound he hadn't heard in months.

His brows furrowed as he pushed himself to sit. Why would Pure Vanilla start knocking again? Now, of all times?

Shadow Milk’s lips parted, but he chose to withhold his words. After enough of silence, the knock echoed again, more insistent—as if a rush, trying to mask as a steady stream.

The beast's head whipped to the window, where the sun had already bathed him in its light.

This wasn't—

Shadow Milk’s body stiffened like a plank in a flash, his hands lightly digging into the blanket.

He did not know what to expect.

It would be cruel irony if the witches have finally acknowledged the demands of his own. "Enter!"

And then, the stretch of nothing.

Shadow Milk's eyes remained glued to the doors, watchful of the golden handle that could not be opened if not for magic. And yet—it finally moved.

Slowly, hesitantly.

Then, the doors finally clicked, gently sliding ajar. Without waiting at all—and with newfound confidence—the figure slid inside.

Their image was a flash of pastel purples that stilled once they closed the doors behind himself.

Gone was the clicking of the imaginary clock, and as Black Sapphire turned around, his body froze.

Shadow Milk was still slightly disheveled, the hair on his scalp having parted itself in worst ways possible. Then came the softness of blue skin, barely concealed by the silky materials yet lightly bathed in the soft light from the naked window.

The strands were lighter, eyes replaced with shimmer of stars, and then—the whitened ends.

If not for the circumstances at hand, and the way which such appearance… obtained, Black Sapphire might've even called it beautiful.

But, such form remained unfitting. Not for someone as sharp-spoken and cruel-minded.

He tore his gaze away once he realised the frown, hand sliding off the biting, golden handle. On habit, he felt his mouth open, but no sound came. The vibration from even attempting to speak had him wanting to cough.

Finger's came to the butler's throat as he grit his teeth, casting his gaze down.

There was no way he could start a conversation; the beast started it for them.

Remaining concealed by the luxury of milk hued blankets, Shadow Milk shifted to face the other better. "Black Sapphire." His voice was steady, void of its usual theatrics, or the usual chirp of mockery.

Instead, it gained a shaky quality. Not close enough to border on fear, but enough to dip its limbs in the ocean of uncertainty. "Where is Candy Apple?"

Black Sapphire's lashes fluttered. His eyes searched Shadow Milk’s expression for a hint of worry, or even questioning. Curiosity would do, if it meant something deeper than the surface.

He found none.

He tried to vaguely gesture to his throat, tried to find a way to present his temporary mutedness—but all his master did was tilt his head with a frown.

I can't speak.

"He's going to get here soon." The beast muttered, giving the doors his gaze for a flicker. "It will go to shit on my end if he finds you here."

Black Sapphire knew. He knew very well, especially after the grotesque from a day prior. And so he nodded, but there was no time for him to try and gesture out any answer. Shadow Milk turned again, sitting on the edge of the bed now.

His hand was clutching the blanket like a prized item to keep it atop his thighs, and his eyes remained firmly on the other.

Piercing. Seeing below the skin.

"I need Candy Apple here." He hushed, as if hurried. "That way, we can leave."

Taking in a shaky breath, the host felt his head tilt. He took in the message, and his hand tightened at his side. The words that Black Sapphire was forbidden from spilling remained unshed, like tears.

The beings of deceit swore not to cry again. But he already did.

She's dead.

"She had enough of rest," Shadow Milk brought a hand up, tapping at his chin in thought. Casual, as if discussing weather, and not the fatal state the girl had been left in. "With her, we would be halfway out of this mortal squarrol by now."

Perhaps it was the disbelief that kept Black Sapphire from trying to physically do… anything. His frown deepened all the more, and a sick realisation twisted in his gut.

Just as quickly, he pushed it away. This was survival. This line of thinking was reasonable.

Whatever gets them out of here. Take care of health later.

Right?

But no. They had done this before. They had waltzed this one before and where had it led?

Here.

The dark irises flicked away to focus on something else in the room, a corner wrapped by shadows enough to feel comforting. And perhaps as soon as he had done it, Shadow Milk gripped onto the control tighter.

Anything. If there was something he could grasp, then this was it.

"Black Sapphire." The beast repeated, bringing the host's attention to himself once more. "Come on, don't tell me she's not here?"

With another second passing, the butler's body felt tighter. He had not come here to plot, to plan, to try.

"Well?"

They had lost the second they had been spotted months ago, and it seemed as though Shadow Milk was the only one who refused to acknowledge it.

But he pushed. He pushed, and the more he did, the lighter Black Sapphire felt. Their master had always been strict indeed.

He told himself it was all in hopes of sheltering their emotions. This too, must've been the case.

Black Sapphire's hand moved up to his neck, opened palm pressing to it again to try and show… something. Present to his master that the silence truly hadn't been intentional—but it did nothing.

Averted, the eyes remained elsewhere for a flicker. On the books, perhaps.

And then, Shadow Milk’s softened and almost plea-ful tone melted, revealing whatever hid below.

As it always had, on a whim. "She knew how to glamour and twist—to mold her deceit into things which were useful."

He spoke as if speaking of someone long gone despite not having the confirmation. As if declaring an apple rotten before he truly had a chance to slice it.

There wasn’t a hint of what he had seen when Pure Vanilla was around. Not a glimpse of the softened eyes or the worried expression.

It was just the appearances, he told himself. Shadow Milk always tried to remain decent. Always wore tough armour to cover whatever intestines a sword of truth may find.

Always took high praise in appearing intimidating.

And then it came, like the sudden storm on an otherwise clearing skies. "But you… no."

With that, Shadow Milk graced the minion with a look. Neutral, even, if not for the fact that neutrality in their master had never been just that.

"You get caught."

A blink was all Black Sapphire mustered. His heart skipped in the way it always had when this happened. This was nothing new, and yet, in their current setting—

The next line was filled with an edge. A dismissive flap of Shadow Milk’s hand, followed by the eyeroll of the two mismatched eyes. "She could make people see what they wanted to see, not what was real. You just stand here, and what?"

It stung nonetheless.

"What use to me are you that you are here now?"

Black Sapphire hadn't realised when his vision turned bleary.; when the rush of blood in his ears muffled any noise, followed by the undertone of his heart's fast tango. His eyes cast down on default, head tilting enough for the thick locks to shield him from berating.

But it was never enough. Had it ever been?

Shadow Milk adjusted. His back straightened a fraction, chest pushed out in peacock-ish pride.

It was all a facade to try and make the situation seem controllable, Black Sapphire reasoned.

But as he played with his fingers and pulled at the skin around the painted nails, he found nothing but the gaze he was so used to.

"So. Unless you get her, or you miraculously find a way to snap portals with a spin, we are staying right here."

Black Sapphire willed to meet Shadow Milk’s gaze, but it was no longer on him. The beast inspected their nails, head tipping with feigned interest—if only to assert a dominant stance over the situation.

The host knew that maybe, just maybe, the conversation didn't rest enough to settle. The dough needed to be left to rise and so.

His hand came to his chest flatly, a polite yet unsteady bow done in Shadow Milk’s direction. Left unaddressed, it allowed the butler to finally move. Black Sapphire turned to step to the doors once more, hand reaching for the cold gold again.

And then—

"Oh." A hum. "Before you leave… come after the sun has set, bring knitting needles."

Black Sapphire felt his shoulders tense. He gave the jester one last look over the shoulder, eyes searching and finding little to hold onto. The handle was suffocated in a vice like grip—but it was still pulled open gently, still quietly closed once Black Sapphire made his way out.

Just as before, the corridor with countless doors seemed to have been lighter. As if, in a strange way, the sun had already weasled its way in—more like a reptile weaving through grass than an actual star of grandiose.

Black Sapphire did not let himself simmer. He didn't stand there for his mind to start poking at the crevices of his skull. Instead, his feet moved forward.

To get away from the area; from the situation. And, by that, hopefully evade being found out.

His head remained low, hands still clutched tightly at his sides. It was as if he had hoped for something else, yet didn't find it. In the end, Black Sapphire had only himself to blame.

Lost in thought, the butler's steps twisted into a turn—before they halted suddenly, on instinct alone. He nearly walked into the smeared colours of white and interwoven gold, which soon sharpened enough to reveal the figure.

"Apologies," a murmur, as understanding as it had been for days. "I haven't seen you.'

Pure Vanilla's hands remained raised slightly from the scare of a near-impact, eyes closed as before. With a whirl of the air, the gleaming and encompassing staff took shape in the monarch's grip. The light—despite its brightness—did not burn Black Sapphire's eyes.

He tried to side step, walk around the king if only to conceal his dishevelment. But his shoulder was easily caught, and Pure Vanilla's brows furrowed by a fraction.

"You seem off. Is something the matter?" A murmur, followed by the ancient turning to face Black Sapphire better.

The host turned his gaze away with a mix of annoyance and apprehension—and for some odd reason, Pure Vanilla's voice never gained an accusing quality.

He didn't want to think why.

But he also couldn't stay here; linger until he was sick.

Their gazes met, if it could even be called that.

"Come," the monarch muttered, quiet enough to carry through the air like a pollen. "I'll prepare some tea for you."

.

.

.

Despite the delay, the day unfolded as it always had.

The defiance of Shadow Milk’s long cut off thorns was met with hands of patience and compassion, and no amount of biting or threats stopped things from running their course. Whether it was the banter about the beast's unwillingness to cooperate or his adamant stance on being as offensive as a weed in a garden, Pure Vanilla ensured the things escalated the way he intented them to.

Then again, perhaps this delay had only meant that—mournfully—other of Shadow Milk’s prioritised needs needed to have been moved to a later hour.

How very cruel.

The beast was still fed, still clothed. Brushed, held. Kissed. But not for long before the monarch had to depart for all the things that needed to be done before noon.

There was little to entertain him as the sky shifted. First basked in the scorching hot, then—dimmed into soft caress of the evening, singing a lullaby of the many stars which slowly crept onto the blue canvas.

With the items he so prized taken, and all of the other means of amusement gone, Shadow Milk was left alone with his thoughts.

It infuriated him to no end, then, that even the solitude was not purposeless.

A sigh slipped his lips, hands folded over his chest as he stared at the ceiling. With each new light that graced the darkening skies, the awarness of time's passage increased steadily.

At first, it had been one. Just the flicker of sun slowly descending, letting the first stars dance over the space. His breath became shallow, his hands clutching onto the filmsy dress.

Over the months, the material became tighter. Most of his new outfits were now adjusted—but this? This was a reminder.

It no longer loosely hung from his once thin frame. Even back then it was short, leaving little to imagination. With not enough material to allow it to fold and bundle, it felt like a linen over a table.

Now, the softness and near translucence pressed into the plush curves of his skin more; accentuating the hips, cupping the chest. So irritatingly close to the skin, he didn't know why he had the urge to tear it to shreds.

As more stars twirled onto the stage of the late-day, more thoughts waltzed into his restless mind. To join his already shaky and laboured breathing, the flesh of his body tensed. Uneasy and anticipating.

Waiting. Counting.

The mismatched eyes flicked to the doors for a beat, before moving back to the ceiling.

As before, it remained a perfect canvas for thought.

It wouldn't be long before the ancient arrived, and the knowledge filled Shadow Milk with something incomprehensible.

The feeling took form as a swan takes flight—elegantly reflected in the glistening insides of his head, mirrored everywhere he might've tried to look. The faint but still existent hope that blossomed in his chest a day ago now vanished, replaced by restlessness.

It would seem the one of pure deceit would not be of aid any time soon; and here he had hoped he could turn this situation around.

Shadow Milk’s bare thighs pressed together, the thin and water-like silk gently shifting where his skin bent. The sensitive areas right below the fabric were agitated further by the texture, and he resisted the urge to bring a hand to his chest to scratch.

The beast simply didn’t want to be caught in a compromising position. At some point, the fear of being seen in the wrong light had nullified his sense of comfort.

And so, as another set of actors joined the theatre on the night's dress, Shadow Milk was left to wait.

A thud of his heart, the rush of blood in ears. His fingers, rubbing at his arm until it felt raw. Too paralysed to move, too restless to stay still.

Shadow Milk could only shiver.

The time flaked like snow falling, and before he knew it, he was buried under a pile of milk white thought. The layers of it were so thick that the pressure on his chest weighed, and his limbs felt too heavy to ever be lifted.

And so he rested, allowing the hefty burden of his situation to sink him into the mattress more, like a porcelain rolled in bubble wrap before being locked in a chest. His hands could no longer decide his fate, and now he relied on those which held him.

The thought was sickening.

Once, the hands which now came to hold Shadow Milk so often were strung up as they should've. By them, he could prance and parade the puppet he once obtained, and—

A click.

The grandeur that returned to his mind was gone within seconds, breath catching in his throat like a shard.

Shadow Milk’s head whipped to the doors.

As always, the figure that came to sight was a constant. By the time evening came, Pure Vanilla was mostly done with his tasks. What remained each time were the kingly robes he donned—blinding white like star's heat. The softness of the scrolls around his figure—the golden ribbons—was much like the rays of sun itself.

Content and warm, the corners of his lips remained in a gentle curl.

"Good evening, my dove." Pure Vanilla's voice carried over kindly, accentuated by the soft slip of the doors behind him.

The words had a near immediate effect.

Gone was the weight over Shadow Milk’s body, replaced with the jolt of his figure. The doll sat up, if only to ensure he didn't appear pliant.

On his sides, the hands dug into the mattress. There was a retort he bit back, a hiss he swallowed down, a defiance he gave up on. Perhaps all that was left was the narrowing of the mismatched eyes, or the slouch of his shoulders to push his chest in.

The texture still rubbed unforgivingly into the tender spots on his ribcage.

Shadow Milk kept himself propped as Pure Vanilla crossed the room—the step unrushed and melodic, a symphony of fondness, tinged with a tune of certainty.

He has long decided, after all.

With a courteous stop, the monarch lowered to sit on the edge of the bed. It dipped by a breath, the blinding white robes brushing against the doll’s bare thigh. "Apologies." Pure Vanilla's hands folded on his lap, his face tipped to the side to ensure an eye on Shadow Milk.

He continued:

"There had been an unexpected situation I had to urgently assist with."

The doll bit the inside of his cheek. There were no words he chose to say for now, instead averting his gaze. A scoff followed.

But Pure Vanilla never frowned. If anything, his smile widened, reaching the corners of his eyes.

"Don't be grumpy with me, now." An affectionate pinch to Shadow Milk’s cheek was applied all of a sudden, and the beast bared his sharp canines. "You will get what you need. No need to act out."

He wasn't taken seriously.

If anything, more like a kitten caught in a puddle—sopping wet and hissy.

The doll’s face tilted suddenly, breaking the contact that Pure Vanilla's warm fingertips had with his cheek. The irritability rose strangely.

Inside, there had been a kindling. A need to protest. To argue. Scorching flame which wished to devour not only the monarch but all he ever stood for.

The kingdom. Citizens. Children and the parents.

But, restrained and withheld, it felt like it may burn Shadow Milk from the inside instead.

Keeping his gaze steady on the window, Shadow Milk managed to bite out a simple: "Just get to the point."

"Mm, okay." A hum. Shadow Milk never managed to rile Pure Vanilla up. Not after the monarch had understood that biting the bait brought the beast a sense of joy—and not the standard one.

Something crueler. More calculated. Like a precise needle, pricking underneath the skin rather than a random piece of metal just so happening to fall.

The doll simply had to find new ways to entertain himself.

"Since you missed your moment in the morning, I'll let you choose—would you rather have it before the petrissage, or once we are through?"

Dry, Shadow Milk’s throat tightened. Just enough to have him swallow quietly, yet fast enough to feel his gums ache. Turning his face, the mismatched blues of his ocean eyes flicked over the monarch. Quietly. Thoughtfully.

Pure Vanilla tilted his head in kind.

"So?"

Oh, the jester knew what was happening. He would not be restrained to either of those, for if he allowed it, he would be succumbing to premade choice.

Instead, he tipped his chin at the prodding, arms crossing once more so his gaze remained elsewhere. The tension under his skin and the ache in his chest proved to be fuel enough for the kindling deep within.

The long lashes of misfit colour fluttered to a close, and Pure Vanilla couldn't conceal the hint of amusement.

"Letting me do the decision making, aren't you?"

It was too late to part his lips—to tell the ancient that the lack of an answer was an answer. The soft and warm palm moved onto his thigh.

Gentle and cupping—as means of gaining attention rather than anything perverse—it tapped onto the flesh. "I suppose we can leave it for last. You do seem a little… tense."

Shadow Milk’s head snapped to the ancient's palm, but it slipped off his supple skin before the doll could even think of retreating his thigh. As Pure Vanilla finally lifted, the hand hung at his side.

Gracefully and smoothly like a ghost, he carried himself to a nearby cupboard. The golden handle gleamed as it was unlocked, pulled open thereafter.

As his lambent hands moved items through with soft clicks and jingling sounds of glass on glass, the beast shifted in place. The otherwise soft texture of the silken dress continued its irritability, furthering Shadow Milk’s agitation. It got to a degree where he finally brought a hand up, pinching the material that laid on his sternum to pull it away.

His chest remained covered with the sheen of tenderness. And so, as soon as the texture touched upon the sensitive parts again, he grit his teeth.

Shadow Milk did not know why he felt sore like this. Any brush felt like fire on glass, and against himself, he pinched the material once more.

"Is something wrong?"

The doll blinked, but Pure Vanilla's face was already turned to him. It seemed that the monarch had fished out what he was searching for, because now, his attention was on Shadow Milk.

Great!

"Everything."

Smiling, the ancient regarded the doll for a moment. There was no need to pry, for he knew he would find out anyway. "As always, isn't it? If it does not go your way, you claim it to be wrong."

Shadow Milk allowed himself the priviledge of a scoff, feeling the mattress dip. In the king's hold were the items that had been used every night, soon after laid out on the empty space beside.

"I'm going to run some water for you." The monarch's pastel eyes took the doll's image in.

The defiant frown remained, like something long engraved in stone. Shadow Milk was not different from a sculpture, for if Pure Vanilla wished to change him, the statue had to be carved out once more. Undoubtedly, that meant its pride shrinking in the process.

"You can go." Shadow Milk muttered.

Too agreeable.

Too easy to have been genuine.

Raising a brow, Pure Vanilla allowed his hands to move to the edges of the nightgown. "Let's take this off first."

The material being pulled caused a cold shiver to reverberate through Shadow Milk’s body, rippling just beneath the skin. His hands shot out in protest, grasping at Pure Vanilla's warm wrists.

Stilling, the king gave Shadow Milk a questioning look.

"I'm—not getting into the tub yet."

"That's okay. If I get it out of the way, we can see what's bothering you so much."

Shadow Milk’s protest died as soon as his lips parted, the edges of his dress already pulled up. It slipped off his head with an embarrassingly low amount of hassle, ending on a pillow beside.

And then was that gaze. That ever curious look Pure Vanilla gave him each time—a tilt of the head, the soft flutter of opened eyes.

Knowing better than to fight—to cover—he simply bound his gaze to the window. Now that the factor of his annoyance was gone, the cool air on the skin soothed some of the tenderness.

Still, not all.

"Ah…" A soft hum left Pure Vanilla as his hands made contact with the skin. Resting on the soft waist, his warm palms grazed their way up. "Your chest seems flushed. I suppose it can breathe a little while I prepare."

Shadow Milk’s lips pressed together, but he didn’t do good enough of a job at concealing the complaint. Whatever it had been, it made Pure Vanilla's lips turn up.

"Now, now. It is not the fault of the dress." The fingertips tenderly grazed the sides of the dolls chest, soon enough carefully dancing their way to its front. "You wore it a week ago, and you were fine."

His eyes remained on the flush there. It wasn't a gaze full of lust or intent—something more tender; sickeningly normal. As if he admired a nude painting that took months, rather than something of flesh and carnality.

It made Shadow Milk all the more eager to snap his eyes shut. To simply ignore it. Pretend he wasn't seen.

The soft mattress shifted, and only the warmth of lips on his sternum caused the doll to stirr.

"I'll be back in minutes." Murmur as soft as the kiss that Pure Vanilla left. "Don't try to ruin your good streak this early in the day, Shadow Milk."

.

After the loosening bath of warm water and gentle substances, Shadow Milk was patted away and dried with the softest of towels, as if spun from the cotton of cream sheeps themselves.

Wrapped in a milk-white towel too large for his frame, he was finally held close and carried over to the mattress. Pure Vanilla lightly knelt on the bed, leaning to lower Shadow Milk.

First were the legs, which were draped over the bedding. Then—his upper body, with the head nicely supported by a pillow.

As if Shadow Milk couldn't adjust himself. As if he didn't need to.

To assert something—defiance or even a choice—he crossed his arms over his chest, shielding the tenderised nubs from sight if it had meant less exposure.

It held no meaning.

Pure Vanilla moved closer, outstreched hands taking two unclaimed pillows from the edge. Each one was meticulously fluffed, serving for a support point placed right beneath Shadow Milk’s pliant knees.

They were like the limbs of a joint doll, repositioned over and over until the material rubbed off and loosened.

With the doll's thighs spread enough for comfort, Pure Vanilla allowed himself the pleasure of sitting between. As he reached for one of the bottles that he brought out onto the bed prior, he gave Shadow Milk a small glance.

There it was, the doll's expression of utter displeasure and the immeasurable anger.

This isn't fair. This cannot be happening to me.

"Don't give me that face, we both know why this is necessary." Pure Vanilla moved the bottle closer.

It was filled with a thick liquid, softly gleaming like a yellow moon—filled with sparkles which were like stars. The substance glittered in the soft glow of the lamp above.

"Why does it matter?" A scoff, defiant. Ultimately, it broke not a single rule. "You did this."

Pure Vanilla smiled. That was all.

"We know why it happened," A reminder, softly accented by the cork popping open. "And why it stays as such."

The oil was lightly dabbed down Pure Vanilla's hand, where the palm easily accepted the warmth. And, once there was enough, the monarch closed it for the time being.

It was set aside.

But Shadow Milk wasn’t meant to be quiet. Even after months of being here, and then weeks of a… more attentive supervision, he was as before. Stubborn, defiant.

Provoking.

"And you think it makes you somehow better?" His arms tightened around his chest, breathing unsteady. Shadow Milk needed any sort of reaction. Anything that could give him a crack to weave through.

Like a snake, hoping for a break between the thorny bushes if it had meant entering the garden. "In control? Is that what you want?"

"No." a hum.

Pure Vanilla never gave in. Instead, he focused the soft light magic to drum underneath his skin, warming his hands up as he carefully rubbed the oil onto his second palm.

Pressing the heels of his hands to the sides of Shadow Milk’s knee, he brought it up. The white lashes fluttered open, but barely, and the pastel mismatch of his eyes glued to the beast.

With a kiss to the joint, he added:

"I am not like you, no matter how you wish that to be the case."

The doll's thigh shifted to signal displeasure, but in the end, Pure Vanilla still held onto it gently. One hand passed underneath, grazing the skin of a softened calf, before wrapping around the ankle.

It was routined, it was practiced. It was normal.

Shadow Milk failed to resist the urge of commenting further. As if disproving his own grandiose was equal parts third-person entertainment and self-harm all at once.

"As if I'd want that." The doll murmured under his breath, head tipping until the cold silks grazed his cheek. Shadow Milk’s eyes remained on the window—watching a thousand and one stars blink back at him. He felt nothing, if not shame.

You're unfit to be like me.

If anything, Pure Vanilla's mouth curled more. His doll was nothing if not amusing so far into the evening. "There's no need to lie to ourselves about the things which we want, Shadow Milk." A mutter.

Comfort and yet a warning in the same.

The ancient had, after all, seen through Shadow Milk like through a mirror. The venetian kind.

Seeing that the beast pressed his lips together, he finally got to work. One hand remained supporting Shadow Milk’s knee, the other still holding the ankle. With a slow guide—practiced over weeks—the limb bent at the joint.

And then, just as gently, Pure Vanilla pulled it to straighten, as if testing a hinge for rust.

Shadow Milk’s arms tensed around his chest meanwhile. Fingers and blunt nails dug into the skin that cushioned his ribs, withholding any retaliation. It wasn't worth it.

Not now, that he ended like this.

With the repeated movement being like oil applied to a hinge, the knee's joint was kept healthy and alive regardless of the doll's lack of movement. A sweet gesture if one omits why it even took place.

Albeit warm, the sensation remained insistent. Shadow Milk’s brows furrowed slightly as the hands which held him heated, something Pure Vanilla did often to further relax the muscle.

It only spurred the kindling in his chest further.

The fumes of the fire he wished to spit rippled out from him in various forms; some readying him like a bowstring ready to shoot, while some filled his eyes with withheld tears.

Alas, the bow had no arrow, and the well inside his chest had long dried from the heat.

"Don't make that face." Pure Vanilla tutted, noting the scrunched nose and furrowed brows. As if his doll was in pain from the act of thinking alone—something he clearly had to be freed from. "This is necessary."

"It wouldn't be if—" the doll cut himself off. He didn't need a reminder. Shadow Milk regretted nothing, but he didn't want to give Pure Vanilla the satisfaction.

"—If you hadn't forced my hand."

The leg was laid back on the pillow as previously, and Pure Vanilla rubbed his hands together. The healing magic warmed them once more.

Shadow Milk’s jaw tensed, teeth grit together to a point of a headache. But he failed to bite back in time before the ancient continued.

"There's a plethora of things that there is yet to see in this kingdom of mine." the soft murmur accompanied the new hold of Pure Vanilla's hands.

They once more cradled the knee, only this time sliding down the calf. His palms pressed just enough to leave ambient heat, letting it linger and settle. "The growth in the gardens around this season, the many new stalls that people put out."

Softly, the hands craddled the supple and pliant skin, thumbs moving in lines. Pure Vanilla traced the hold upwards, cupping the muscle—before he once more glided low. His hands swept in long, steady passes, grazing and gently pressing into the length of Shadow Milk’s calves.

Not unlike a rhythm of water smoothing stone before it was sculpted properly.

"And the sun's rite in a couple of weeks." Pure Vanilla added, although that was more akin to a whisper. Something he held dear in his heart, knowing if it were voiced, it may float like dandelions on wind.

Shadow Milk’s body sensed the opportunity. The bite he could clamp without writing it for defiance.

"I don’t care for it."

"I would still like for you to go." Solemn, Pure Vanilla's steady hands continued to warm the muscle up, sending the soft pulse of magic deeper beneath the skin. He could still feel the golden thread deep beneath; its resonance vibrating.

Shadow Milk wasn’t a stranger to the feeling. He couldn't move his calves, but that did not mean his nerves were asleep.

"But for that, we need to keep your legs healthy. Ready."

The gliding part was over as soon as it started, and with the supple body already relaxed, Pure Vanilla took it a step futher.

His hands gathered the muscle, thumbs pressed at the calves sides as the rest of his fingers kept the flesh cupped. "You do want to walk again, don't you?"

Who wouldn't?

The rhetoric question was met with a scoff, but it never stopped the ancient. Instead, his digits began their work, heels of his palms kneading into the skin. His thumbs pressed in, circling the area before sliding lower. It was still insistent, still gentle.

Pure Vanilla knew there was more to be discussed. More to be prodded.

"Your Sapphire." he mused, working the tender flesh. "He works hard. Steady, loyal. He's still coming to term with things, I'm sure."

"You have no right to—"

"It feels… Strange." Pure Vanilla admitted, cutting off Shadow Milk’s hiss before it could bloom into trouble. "He adapts, yet you fight. I expected the reverse."

The words were left to settle for a moment. Simmering.

Shadow Milk moved his face in all his defiance, finally facing the ancient. "You don't know a thing about me."

But as Pure Vanilla tipped his head to meet the fire behind the doll's eyes, there was nothing but the smile on his face. Like the carress of spring upon new blooms in grass.

"On the contrary, I know more than you'd like to admit."

Like dough, the muscle was gathered, pressed. Then, released. Pure Vanilla's hands moved slightly lower each time, coaxing the flesh back to life. His firm squeezes broke the softness apart, and he remained focused throughout.

Only once his fingers met the surface of a hardened ankle did they retreat, slowly putting the leg back onto the pillow.

It was too silent. Shadow Milk’s thigh shifted, but it was caught before the leg could escape.

"Ah-ah."

A sharp inhale was drawn in by the beast. "Be done already."

Pure Vanilla tutted. "This is a delicate process, one that needs to be done in its full." His hold moved to the foot instead, lifting the toes. He stretched the unused area by pulling the upper part of the limb, before gently moving it downward.

But Shadow Milk couldn't take it anymore.

Despite the ache in his limbs, and the horrid pressure on his chest, he snapped out as well as a branch does once bent far enough—

"Most of it is just you talking." The doll's voice wavered, but he pushed on. "You could cut on that and leave faster."

As it always happened, the defiance escalated in measure to what the king had been allowing. Just as yesterday, when he so miserably had to discipline Shadow Milk…

"The same way your body needs tending to, so does your mind." Pure Vanilla murmured, hand shifting to the heel of Shadow Milk’s foot. He gently arched it, stretching the calves muscle meanwhile.

It was a gentle process, which then faded to his steady grip around the ankle again—other hand rolling the foot to ensure mobility.

"Even through silence on your end, the mind takes far more kindly to speech than the quiet."

And there it was, the leg propped up onto the pillow again. The beast hadn't stopped bristling, not quite. His digging of fingers into ribs has long stopped aching.

Now, it was just numb.

"Right," a scoff, perhaps too comfortable of someone of the doll's position. But he just couldn't help himself. "My mind is tended to just fine when you're not here to rot it."

Couldn't help but grip at the limited choice.

"Rot?" Pure Vanilla's hand was on the other leg now, the one which was not yet massaged out. The sound of surprise didn't leave his voice, but it was fond still. "I will assume you mean rot in the same way teeth ruin once the sugar is too much."

Shadow Milk’s hair remained pale blue, but the ends have been untied long enough.

The very ends—barely noticeable—curled in agitation.

"In a way a wounded animal decomposes away once it dies." The doll hissed out, Pure Vanilla's softened tone only further spurred him. But, the gentle touch over his knee remained.

Infuriatingly, the thumb traced circles into the dip.

"Really?" There was no anger. No reaction, damn it all. "Rather, you've become so comfortable with your own decay that you no longer wish to see another way."

Because Pure Vanilla never discouraged conversation. Only defiance.

Finally, the leg that wasn't tended to yet was lifted by the hold on the knee, brought closer. As Pure Vanilla began the procedure anew and his fingers pressed into the supple flesh tenderly, he continued:

"And any and all attempt to change it feels like the decay you actively ignore."

"Once something rots, it is dead." Shadow Milk's breathing stiffened. The grazing of the fingers was ticklish as it had been before.

"Mm, but some things mold without ever having lived."

Soon came the pressure of the touch upon the calf, and Pure Vanilla remained as unwavering as he had been throughout. He wouldn't falter.

His breathing caught again, if only to withhold fury. The curses he wanted to lay upon Pure Vanilla, all the death wishes he wanted to send to the entire kingdom—it felt like a stove nearing explosion.

The monarch's tender grazing and cupping of the muscle continued, because despite the conversation, there were still things to be done.

Shadow Milk’s eyes fixed on the hero, but the other remained fixed on the task at hand. "It's my choice."

"No," the hands which gently held and caressed suddenly stilled in their movement. Pure Vanilla's head tipped, lashes fluttering as their gazes met. "not anymore."

The first phase of the massage ended, but it wasn't continued immediately.

There had been a firmness in Pure Vanilla's expression that wasn't there prior—as if creeping over the minutes of their discussion. And, with the eyes locked in place, Shadow Milk physically felt all his heart chambers clog.

Whatever blood was coursing now simply thickened, refusing to move even by a beat.

"Your decisions never serve a purpose larger than yourself."

And so it continued. Pure Vanilla's hands cupped the supple skin, kneading it out as they had before. That was also where his eyes focused now. "They are all just a tool. Means to an end to grand schemes which serve you, or simply made out of pettiness."

Shadow Milk’s skin felt like it may shrink on itself, the goosebumps rising in something like anger.

"Because even when you don't hope to win, you want to get your way."

The doll knew he was pushing it. Prodding a vase off a table like a cat, until it would crash. One of his hands finally moved, if only for the fingers to tear into the sheets.

"And you don't?'

Pure Vanilla tilted his head, moving onto the part in which he rolled the doll's ankle. "I never denied that, Shadow Milk."

The tone shifted; stil kind, still gentle. But firmer. As if stating a fact, a final word, rather than a feeling. "But my way is different than your way."

Quiet was the slip of Pure Vanilla's hands as they finally rested Shadow Milk’s leg back onto the pillow, propping them open. As if posing a doll, readying it for admiration and preening.

"You may think you wish to rot, and even wish dearly upon me to decay with you.

But, I will not let that ruin all the other crop around."

There was nothing Shadow Milk could do about the tightly coiled tension in his body. About the way his hands balled into fists, just to be cupped into Pure Vanilla's.

Softly, the monarch let both of them to lay on the bed, exposing his covered chest better.

"And, deep inside, I know that you don't want it either."

It boiled over.

"You have no fucking idea what the things that I want are." His leg slipped off the pillow, digits curling into the loose bedding.

"My dove—"

"I want all of your gardens ashed and crisp," the hiss that Shadow Milk brought out was sharp, low. A warning call a snake gave as it collected all its poison. "And all of your pathetic orchards and houses crumbled atop its foolish citizens."

Sighing, Pure Vanilla gently propped up the leg where it was supposed to be. "Shadow Milk."

It was nowhere near enough.

"I hope—" the jester took in a ragged breath, the eyes bewildered from the anger so condensed it thickened the air.

His pupils thinned feverishly. "I hope you get crushed under the weight of all of this that you try so hard to nourish. Maybe then you will realise how meaningless your entire—"

The grip on a calf tightened. First, gently. Then, with increased firmness.

"Enough."

Shadow Milk’s body tightened, breath catching in his throat like a well-aimed arrow.

There had been no anger in Pure Vanilla's gaze, now, that he paid close attention to Shadow Milk. The smile he held softened into near neutrality, fading almost jnto contemplation.

It did not erase the gentle firmness that braided in his speech.

"You will not be talking to me, or anyone, in this manner." Pure Vanilla moved, sitting between the doll's thighs properly. His grip was steadying, if not grounding.

Shadow Milk bit his lip.

The beast readily broke the eye contact, the hardened heart pumping thickened ichor through the arteries with difficulty born from speed. His mouth shook in silence, and the digits trembled on the bed through and through.

As if the doll's verbal explosion shattered the delicate barrier that kept him all together. And now, the contents—anger, frustration, fear—spilled through the cracks like yolk through shell.

Shadow Milk’s eyes easily glossed over, and he had so dearly wished that it was an act.

The ancient still found a way to find his own fault within all of this.

"My dove," a sigh, spoken with a strange understanding. "Please, do not force my hand."

The warm and caring palms found their way up Shadow Milk’s pliant thighs, holding the skin as if it were thin silk. "I understand that you likely are frustrated this late into the day, but there is no need for remarks of this level."

From there, the fingers brushed higher, gently bending where the hip was. Moulding to the soft flesh as if they had all the right to do so.

Pure Vanilla took a good look. A very good look.

Chest ragging up and down with a weight of sheltered feelings, the light tremble in the shoulders. It all pointed to the emotional dishevelment.

As the monarch's eyes remained on the fastly rising sternum, he saw the flushed skin in the corner of his eye. Just a glimpse.

"And, that aside, your skin is still tender."

With his brows furrowing and the slight focus in his eyes, he led his fingertips higher—grazing at the side of the chest, sending electrifying tingles.

It was the touch of assessment and freely given affection, rather than anything carnal.

"How… Strange." A mutter. "I don't sense anything wrong in particular."

The change of topic was a welcome one.

Especially for Shadow Milk, who badly wanted to slip away from the trouble he nearly shoved himself into. He had the ability to talk like a normal person most days. He simply chose not to use it.

"They…" His voice wavered, and he swallowed the thick saliva. With gaze trained on the window and the night beyond, the doll carried on. "Feel irritated since I woke up."

It wasn't a lie.

Pure Vanilla tipped his head, the lightest smile finally returning to the curl of his lips. "Since then, you say…" He didn’t forget what was said—merely chose to focus on something else first.

Nodding, he added:

"I suppose this only adds to how irritable you feel. It is my mistake, maybe it was due to the nightwear."

The fingertips brushed the sides of Shadow Milk’s chest, before slowly closing in—to the front.

Palpably hot, the skin felt soothed by the soft graze. All up until it didn't.

As the touch finally moved upon the sensitive and reddened aureolas, Shadow Milk’s hand moved hastily. It covered some of the flushed surface, trying to shield it from further agitation.

"Ah, is it still touchy?" The gentle brushing ceased, if only to give space to Pure Vanilla's thoughts. "I suppose the dry strokes won't be relieving."

The skin needed something more substantial. Mismatched eyes moved over to the assortment of expensive oils, calculating the best possible route.

It wasn't that Shadow Milk protested. If yielding to whatever was to come meant he'd be off the hook for the mouhtful he had just given, then so be it.

As he internally argued with himself over his own choices—pliance warring with defiance—the king continued his consideration.

Pure Vanilla allowed his eyes to linger on the glass bottles.

An oil could be hard to get rid of, if it proved to further irritate. Washing it off with something soapy, in that case, would only worsen the tenderness.

"I should've paid better attention while dressing you today." And for the night, perhaps. Pure Vanilla's voice was but a quiet murmur, his fingers moving again. He was tempted to graze them all over Shadow Milk’s pliant skin, to gently press into the curves and the dips.

Perhaps kiss everything as he always had, but Pure Vanilla knew all too well of the doll's impatience.

Sighing, maybe from grief of such loss of opportunity, Pure Vanilla finally made his decision.

"I can choose to look past the very hurtful things you tried to say, Shadow Milk." The sun-kissed hand moved, tucking one of the king's bangs behind his ear.

The doll's eyes flicked over as Pure Vanilla leaned closer, one elbow resting in the bed at Shadow Milk’s side. The other hand landed on the softness of the hip, letting the fingers sink into the healthy skin.

"Especially considering it was me who left you… unsatisfied."

Both of them made mistakes today. It was alright—acceptable, even.

Shadow Milk's brows furrowed ever so slightly, as he found Pure Vanilla leaning in even closer. Soft lips pressed to the corner of his mouth, adding in yet another whisper. "I'll try to help with the tenderness now. Do tell me if it makes the feeling worse."

Before the beast could even wonder what Pure Vanilla meant, the king's mouth traveled down. First, lightly mouthing at the jaw, then the neck. It skipped a few kisses in order to get to the sternum faster.

There was little hesitation, little shyness of the bare skin. Lacking diffidence, Pure Vanilla's lips parted—soon after pressing to the soft skin.

Shadow Milk’s body shifted in effect, but he was steadied by the hand at his side.

"Let me do that much for you." A mutter. Pure Vanilla looked at the doll's face through hooded eyes, tracing the kiss higher. Once at the flushed aureola, he gave it a yet another peck. "It should make it bearable."

Shadow Milk wanted to protest that there was no need, but instead of words, a whimper slipped through. There was little time to react once Pure Vanilla's lips parted to gently take the bud, drawing it in with a wet press.

It felt strange, the moisture feeling soothing if not for the fact it had been Pure Vanilla. The moment Shadow Milk tried to shift, the king tutted, lightly running his tongue over the hardened surface.

"D-Don't—" but a sharp inhale was all that he managed. The soft movement of lips on skin, gliding and suckling, caused something in him to stirr. Soft yet continous, it was accompanied by the steady rub of a hand at his hip.

Pure Vanilla's lips released the nub with a wet pop, kissing their way to the other one. "N-nh.." Shadow Milk’s hand slid to the shoulder of the other, but even that didn't stop the sensation from repeating.

The suckling didn't relent. Not easily, that is. And only once he felt the doll’s shove waver did he unlatch, leaving the glistening sheen of saliva on the soft surface.

He pulled back just enough to take in the image.

Shadow Milk’s cheeks remained heated from a mixture of sensations, eyes hooded. Pure Vanilla found that his doll was quite easy to handle if kissed or held right.

"I'm going to do it again in a moment, since it seemed to help."

And so he lowered again, only this time elsewhere. Kisses were left light below the shorter's chest, where the softness of his stomach began. With one last nuzzle, his hand slid beneath the thigh, cupping it.

"But I would hate for you to remain unsatiated for longer than necessary." Pure Vanilla hummed, too kindly to have anything selfish. The thigh was raised lightly, and Shadow Milk found it even harder to tear his gaze away.

His lips parted to kiss the soft flesh of the inner thigh. Pure Vanilla's face moved closer to the place which clearly ached for him, but no further. Not before he murmured.

"I really looked forward to this."

.

.

.

It wasn't long before the sky became the moonshine's personal puppetry.

With that came the signs of the obvious night—the time period which signified the demand that his master sent him with.

The sewing needles were stuck into his puffy sleeves, gently pressed to the skin to ensure a proper coverage. Black Sapphire delivered their dinner minutes ago—all that he needed to do now was to await the king's eventual departure.

Standing at the end of the corridor, the butler realised it didn't come.

The doors didn’t open as they had the previous night, and Pure Vanilla seemed more than content to remain inside thus far. Troublesome, if he considered the blunt end of his master's disappointment.

As a clink came from another side of the hallway, he stiffened. The host's gaze averted for a moment only—maybe a few minutes, as he stepped over to the stairs to see if anyone was prying.

This floor, of course, had been restricted. Black Sapphire had personal interest in ensuring no one got in even if he ignored the contents of Pure Vanilla's commands.

Once he returned to the edge of the hallway to observe, he found nothing as before. The doors didn't budge, there was no sound. Not even the light's flickered to indicate movement or lack thereof.

The edges of his eyes narrowed, a frown gracing his features. He wasn't sure how much of understanding Shadow Milk would find within himself by tomorrow, and he did not want to test it.

Eventually, he finally had enough of waiting.

Black Sapphire's hand slid off the wall as he moved, silent and ghostly steps left in his wake. Watchful, he passed by the countless locked doors and many more vases—but there had been no sound. No voice to go off of.

In the end, he halted shy of where the white wood stood out the most. Where the edges have been painted by someone's hands, and where the golden handle carried the marks of wear.

Slowly, as if scared that a rapid movement may scare the silence present, he reached out. Gloved fingertips brushed upon the surface—

His entire body jumped as a touch to his shoulder put him in a state of shock. The steady hand atop heaved with a firm weight, fingers gently gripping.

"Hello there." the melody greeted him.

The hand at his side balled into a fist, and with a tightened jaw he looked over the shoulder.

Black Sapphire was met with the king's closed eyes, lips curved into a smile as soft as the first drops of honey.

"Is there something you need? I was sure I had dismissed you to your free time this late in the day."

Perhaps Pure Vanilla had left the room when he wasn't looking. But that didn't explain why—

As the host's body turned to look, the hand retreated. By no means was the monarch cornering the butler, of course.

There was no nod, and he took the courtesy to continue.

"Now, I understand some things aren't seen at a first glance." He mused, lashes parting if only to give Pure Vanilla a chance to glimpse at the corridor. There, his gaze remained. As if seeing something through their reality—something which was as present as it was not.

The meaning, lost or otherwise, did not shift the focus from the situation. Pure Vanilla's hand carefully brushed some of the dust off the other's shoulder, letting it fall like glitter.

"Especially those which we simply… do not want to see."

With a vague gesture, aimed at catching Black Sapphire's attention, Pure Vanilla showcased the lonesome stretch of the corridor.

And then it happened.

As his hand lowered, the air itself seemed to ripple—shimmering threads surfaced for a fleeting instant, weaving through the corridor, binding each hollow stretch of space in their delicate gold. They lingered just long enough to prove their presence before fading back into nothing, as if they had never been there at all.

Without notice, Black Sapphire felt his hand graze at his throat. Just seeing the shimmer of the cutting gold reminded him of what sank deep beneath the skin only days ago. It was a constant presence.

A reminder that held.

Pure Vanilla's smile remained through, even as Black Sapphire visibly paled. The host's eyes flicked across the once more vacant space, paying keen attention to the lack of whatever he had seen.

The voice that he was so familiar with by now brought his attention to what actually mattered.

Pure Vanilla's palm was now gently outstretched, fingers relaxed in a friendly manner.

"Still, even as things are, there are those which I simply cannot ignore." A mutter. "Be it for safety of others, or his own."

The meaning was simple.

Give over the needles.

Chapter Text

The shimmer of that gold in the hall was like the glint of a cleaver a ghost of an animal saw—remembering the way that the very same coldness pierced their own throat.

Trinkling, the feeling of mint and coolness on his skin continued to spill freely in waves. Even as he handed the needles to the king and stepped back, the ancient never gave him a word of a scold more.

All Pure Vanilla did was to say 'thank you', before his white-clad figure vanished beyond the doors.

And that was it.

Left there now, Black Sapphire hadn't realised when the tension in his fists tranformed; when it became not unlike the rigid stiffness of a corpse. His jaw ached, and the butler could already feel the first stages of a migraine incoming.

Akin to how one feels the smell of pastries long before it was time to turn the oven off.

He wasn't sure why he waited in place for longer than necessary—why him turning on his heel was stiffer than a plank. Before Black Sapphire noticed it, his body guided him down the corridor, to where the stairs began.

The host didn't was oblivious to when the tension turned into tremors.

Faint shivers that ran down his skin like hands of ice, their fingertips dipping beneath the flesh in soft grazes; metaphysical, metaphorical, and all the more worrying.

It wasn't that he had much to ruminate about right now. Not in his current position.

Black Sapphire’s shoes gave a soft thump with each step—his body freely dragged down along them. He wasn't trying to uphold a sense of grace, nor was he paticularly searching for stealth. It didn't matter in the end, as the image before him began to smear like watercolour.

Like pricks of needles, there was an ache in the corners of his eyes and the skin of his eyelids, and—as he finally turned to take the straight path for his room—the blur took up most of his vision.

A hand reached to the side, clothed fingertips grazing at the textured wall. The wallpaper was incoherent to him at the moment, but it didn't diminish his memory of it either. The many times that he passed through here like a ghost engraved glimpses of the sight into his mind already;

The flowers of vanilla and painted vines, all in the shades of washed out sun. Soft and yellow like everything, as if even the walls knew no break from Pure Vanilla's constant radiance.

All this brightness made Black Sapphire sick.

Inhaling shakily, he pushed on, but it didn't take long for his steps to slow—turning sluggish. Turning weak.

Because grief doesn't spare.

Had she been here, she might've snuck the needles in with stealth he no longer had. Her tiny hands would weave the firm needles into a meal, or into a material—or even into her very own skin, if it meant pleasing their master.

She never obeyed—not to the one hundred percent that Black Sapphire swore to follow. Because if Candy Apple found a better way, one she deemed more fit, she'd jump at it for impulse.

Something too similar to the one who made her.

Unpredictability was what made her useful and troublesome all at once—a contradicting nature that all of them shared. A thing they weaved and bonded over.

So fragile, now that he thought about it, to place all of your coins on a single bet.

Black Sapphire felt his breathing catch. Throat tightened and resolve crumpling, his knees nearly gave way. In the end, his figure faltered about halfway, far away from reaching the goal at the end of the corridor. His shoulders slumped, the curled locks of lilac sticking to his heated cheeks.

She would've known what to say. Not in the same way any other person comforts, nor in any logical way—she would prance about, and then jab him for the tears.

It worked.

It always worked.

His gaze lifted, if only to assess his current location, but Black Sapphire wasn't sure if he'd make it. After waging the situation and his own strength, his blurry sight was cast aside—to where another pair of doors lay, all to familiar to him at that point.

Perhaps this hurt more. Maybe this wouldn't help at all, and he should stop scratching at the wounds from months ago. But he couldn't. The itch was far too deep to ignore, too insistent. And even once it subsided for long enough to be forgotten, Black Sapphire couldn't help but reopen the cut.

Because to even try to forget was a dishonour.

Black Sapphire never allowed himself this comfort—no, this avoidance.

With a final inhale he gathered his strength, forcing himself upright, and—with a step far more certain—he reached a hand out. The cold metal was not enough to provide a distraction from his spiralling thoughts, and the handle twisted all too easily. As if someone created it for weak, small hands; something proven by its low placing.

The butler felt guilt curl at his arteries. As if someone forced wires down the veins of his wrists, pushing them further and further until they tangled in the chambers of his heart.

Lightheaded, he stepped inside, swiftly closing the doors behind. Black Sapphire leaned back, feeling his knees buckle. His bleary eyes flicked over the space once.

Even in the dim light, the room was filled with glee.

It was the colour of spring rising; the soft smell of dewdrops and the painted trees on the walls. The feeling of being able to lay down on a bed, and witness the enchanted paint move, as if mimicking sway of clouds.

The curtains still moved from the windows that were open for a week now, allowing the soft breeze of coming night to spill in.

Black Sapphire felt his gut wrench even more. His lips curled, and finally, the salty taste of tears met his tongue—he didn't bother wiping his face.

Shaky hands slipped the gloves off, allowing them to drop to the carpet below. White and fuzzy, it was laden with more patterns than just the shade of clouds. Smaller and bigger flowers were embedded into its texture, something so comforting amidst it all.

This room laid there not by chance, but by purpose. So close to his own, the chambers were arranged long before their capture.

Every detail spoke forethought, prepared well before any of them could have had a chance to suggest a change of design.

Candy Apple was never given a chance to even know of it.

As he looked at the wardrobe again, he only saw a glimpse of his reflection. It was too dark to distinguish things anymore, and his idea of the room was that from his memory—the only this clear was the shine of his tears.

Black Sapphire didn’t bother staring longer than necessary. Instead, his hand grabbed at the silveren handle, pulling the doors of the wardrobe open.

It was hard to differentiate what was a dress and what was a shirt anymore, but he knew the arrangement by heart. And maybe he came here too often, but he still couldn't stop his hands from reaching inside—from gently grasping the soft material that hung amongst all the other ones.

Black Sapphire felt his mind recall the visage of the dress long before he willed it to. Something soft. Something green. Something with far too many white frills to have been made for an adult.

Because it wasn't.

His fingers pushed into the layers, digging in with cruelty and destruction and the anguish from injustice. But it was grief.

Candy Apple always liked green.

The host felt his shoulders square up, the way his throat began to hurt. He withheld the need to breathe too hard; Black Sapphire couldn't allow himself to sob.

She had always said its the colour of her bloom.

No. If he started to weep, he wouldn't be able to stop. But it hurt the same way it had months ago. And now, as his tense hands scrunched the dress in rage, the butler recalled all too well how her own felt that day.

Sticky with jam and clusters of sugar—yet dry in its own right, as a leaf dries once it bids farewell to a tree. As one of deceit withers once the power that made them departs.

Because the tree had left them there, alone.

Black Sapphire felt a hiccup tear out, and he immediately slammed the wardrobe to a close too hard to have been quiet.

If this was the only sound he could make, so be it.

Staggering back, he finally crawled towards bed—not his own—before his legs finally failed. A thump spread through the space as his knees crashed into the carpet, elbows hitting the elevated mattress.

It was large.

Not as big as his own, but decorated with too many things that he had always scolded her for. The veils draped over the pillars of the bed—the toys which took up enough space to make it hard to lay down.

She had always collected things like this; always begged for pillows so many that there had not been enough for him.

And maybe she would've loved it here. She could have had as many dresses and syrups as she would've wanted—and she would be allowed more friends than she ever had due to her miserable existence.

And in some universe, maybe she never died at all. Maybe in all these parallel timelines, there is an ending where Black Sapphire wasn't a coward and turned them in.

If he hadn't been so prideful, witches damn it all, she would be helped. He would have healed her.

The what-ifs spun in his mind, and he was stuck on this carousel with no way out.

Black Sapphire tightened his hands on the mattress; buried his face into the crook of his elbow to try and find something else to think of.

Something that was positive.

Anything that could mean she was better off now. But the echo of her once-annoying laughter dimmed, like the last note of a piano piece, and now he could never get it back.

It was the sight of her face that finally broke the camel's back—Black Sapphire recalled the look all too well. The dimmed eyes which once were crimson, and the way her white curls stuck to her tear-stained face.

His hand slid over to his mouth as his shoulders shook. Black Sapphire did his best to withhold. He always had to—not once had she seen him cry.

Not even as she closed her eyes the final time.

.

The night that danced then was but a queen of melodrama, clad in black—with stars shimmering like the reflection of a moon upon a pond of water. She grazed her fingertips into the towers of the castle, poking her nails into the bellies of citizens to keep them awake.

Her song came to a slow, at first—diminuendo, as if ones hand grazed a piano rather than punching the keys in. The night's ray of moon lost on visibility in the wake of the sun's crescendo.

As the stars light upheld the sky from turning black and maintained visibility for everyone, it equally irritated those eyes which wished for nothing more than to finally rest.

Which was why the thin blanket was pulled upward, shielding sharp eyes from the waking rays. It was not purposelessly that he was made to acclimate to this.

Only by creating new habits can you adjust to another role. It is no different than what you've done with yourself thus far.

Even when absent, Pure Vanilla found his way underneath Shadow Milk’s skin like dirt underneath fingernails from digging up a garden. A stone in ones shoe, a piece of food caught between teeth. He could do nothing to rid of the ancient, yet ignorance was just as hard to obtain.

With a groan, the beast finally tugged the material off his head. Sliding onto his back, he willed his bleary eyes to meet the ceiling.

No different than what he has done thus far, right. Right! Witches forbid a jester wants to be the one to decide on his form and situation! Because having this body imposed on someone who changes shape like socks was a good idea.

He wasn't bound, once upon a time.

When he still titled himself virtue, yes—but behold, he had freed himself from the golden crown of thorns a thousand and more years ago. He could do so again—

—Once he figured out how…

Perhaps this was why he bristled; why the words spilled freely like poison. He did not want to be bound to anything anymore. Such ideology included not just the timeline—but shape as well.

For what is rejection of truth, if not embracing all the what ifs? All the branches of time, where what might've been, was. And those occurrences of what might've been creating a thread of why it was…

His thoughts jumbled, he realised.

This too is no different. Haven't you collected an array of visages already? Of course, because being stuck with one was so what he wanted!

Shadow Milk did not hold a single shape long enough to it to allow it to settle—with all the newfound plush and softness, he was becoming afraid he'd reach a point of no return.

If he hadn't already.

The jester wasn't sure why he was annoying himself by ruminating over conversations from weeks ago, but it strangely bothered him to think of now. Like a shard of glass embedded between his fingers, already overgrown by skin no matter the amount of times he botched himself to pull it out.

It was as if Shadow Milk’s mind pushed all these memories to the front of his mind for no reason other than a stimuli—after all, hatred is justified when that is all that amuses you.

An arm was tucked behind his head, the other loosely over his waist. It did not matter if Pure Vanilla stayed after they made love in the evenings, because without fail, he was on his feet before the sun rose. It was a habit Shadow Milk hadn't managed to shatter now, nor did he find himself able to seize it when in his spire.

Before his mind spiralled into what-ifs, before he could properly mourn everything he ever held, another wave of tenderness rolled through him.

A hand tightened against the nightgown, lips twisting into a scowl. It was an ache that twisted, the kind that felt like something trying to wring water out of fresh laundry.

While it haunted him during the night, it now seemed to have followed like an eager foe—except Shadow Milk truly had no will to fight any enemy. All he could do was to shuffle back onto his side, bringing a blanket to his face once more.

There was no one to shush his pain away now, that the sunrise was inevitable. He hasn't gotten up since evening, and yet, the stabbing sensation of the reverberating hurt followed.

Humiliation and the soreness both weighed on him like boulders.

Shadow Milk hated to play into the hand of another, but he had no choice but to accept the stillness. Accept the quiet.

Was this why he hadn't thought to make a mess? Why he was laid there instead of using chance to ruin?

The small glimmer of obedience became meek in comparision to the fire of pettiness that blossomed in the poor things chest. Each memory and rumination was like a dry log thrown straight to feed the flames, and he found himself giving in once more.

A hand slid to the mattress as means of support for his tense body. Another wave of the echoing ache shot straight to his abdomen, a wince slipping freely from his lips. But Shadow Milk did not let up—no, the beast pushed himself to sit up with a movement too quick.

His vision narrowed and swam for what felt like a flicker, his thighs drawn together to balance his figure.

But the beast's breath caught.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

His skin felt clammy, inner thighs dewy. Shadow Milk’s forehead creased as he grabbed onto the blanket, throwing it off his body. The sensation came quick—a thick dribble, loosely pooling atop the mattress as if it had always meant to.

The feeling wasn't unfamiliar to the jester, if not for the amount. Shadow Milk was filled and held more times than he would ever acknowledge, but it did not feel the same.

His breathing shallowed, fingers hovering over the edge of his nightgown—that was about as much as he allowed himself.

Was it avoidance? Fear of finding out something he didn't wish to see? What was it that he did not want to see?

Did he even know?

His fingers began to shake slightly as the warmth slowly trickled down the junction of his thighs. The beast's heart rate picked up—breath swallowing. No inhale gave Shadow Milk a satisfactory amount of air, and for a moment, it felt as if he was getting tunnel vision.

The anticipation boiled over and his fingers finally twisted into the fabric of the gown, pulling it up and—

Shadow Milk’s heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach, eyes widening in bewildered panic.

Red. Rose-like crimson smeared across his thighs, staining the other side of the gown—soaking into the mattress into a steady flow.

"Wh—"

His throat tightened as he jolted to sit straighter, shifting back into the bed frame as the material slipped from his fingers. His abdomen twisted unpleasantly, but the rising cold inside his body threw shade onto the pain. The jester covered his mouth with a hand as his shoulders shook.

Shadow Milk withheld a sob.

The blood wasn't in worrying amounts, but its presence already made him feel sickened—nauseated to a degree of wanting to throw up yesterday's dinner.

His breathing got faster, ragged; sharp inhale taken all to not let tears spill. For a moment, Shadow Milk truly froze up like a doll.

This—This hasn't happened to him before. Not in all his lifetime, not in the situation he's been stuck in for months.

The dread dragged its icy nails up his spine as goosebumps graced his skin, tensing his already tender body. He lifted the nightgown against himself, but he didn't look where he most likely should. The jester focused on the smears atop his skin—and then the trail he left on the white mattress.

He was going to be sick.

As the realisation that—for some reason—he was bleeding, another fact came onto him.

Pure Vanilla would be here soon.

Panic clenched his throat as he fisted the bedding, glancing around. If he rose and messed up the room, the blood would get everywhere and just seeing it made him feel dizzy.

Shadow Milk might've drawn life, but he never drew blood.

Violence wasn't his style.

Disgust twisted his body until he felt as if his bones turned into pliant muscle, his head becoming light. Shadow Milk would be found out; there hadn't been a single time he managed to get out of the routine.

Not once.

His best bet would be to try and pretend to play along. Maybe if he got on Pure Vanilla's good side—

No, what then? What of winning today? The bleeding might continue, and how can he get out ot it later?

The ends of his lashes began to stick together, inner corners of his eyes becoming damp. He bit back another sob, if from the shock.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

His fingers tangled into the blanket as he pulled it over his knees, head tipping to rest against the tall headboard. Shadow Milk swallowed dryly, as if he was choking on dehydrating cinnamon. The jester didn't hope to clean it off with the sheets, or even soak it up with whatever was available—that only meant more cleaning. More humiliation.

For all the secrets he had sown into his skin and buried in his skull, not a single one of them managed to slip from Pure Vanilla's detail-seeking fingers. The king found what he wanted to fight.

Knowing that there was not a single fact he could conceal for months, it was all the more exasperating that this happened.

His arm wound around his cramping abdomen, but the contraction deep beneath the skin returned. With more force now he tried to push his elbow into his body to nullify the ache, but it only made it worse.

Shadow Milk’s eyes remained wide. Looking up yet nowhere at all, as if he lost whatever he had of his sharp vision.

It wasn't like the fear that prey felt in their final moment, kicking and running with all they had despite knowing they would meet their demise.

This was something more dreadful; something more unnatural. Prey animals had the decency to die in a way that, at the very least, followed natural order.

Shadow Milk was more like a bird of prey, caught in the jaws of a hare. A fox mauled to death by a goat—a wolf torn to shreds by a man.

It wasn't natural. This wasn't supposed to be him.

The feeling clawed at him from the inside, sinking the talons into his flesh as easily as hot silver parts butter. Soon enough his breathing caught again, a groan suppressed once he realised he was being torn to shreds.

Maybe not shreds. Maybe ribbons, so surgically precise they were more cruel than animalistic slaughter.

His lips twisted more as he frantically raised a hand to his lashes, rubbing off whatever residue laid there. Shadow Milk’s vision slowly blurred, but he couldn't—he wouldn't cry.

Now that the eyes in his curls have long departed, there was no other way for tears to leave. It was not different from the times of old, when his only way to shed milk was that of his eyes.

The jester squeezed himself more, trying to drown it out—trying to please ignore the feeling of warmth between his thighs. Still, the drip was steady, the thick blood sliding out of him with a disgusting slowness. Shadow Milk did his best to stay still, but it helped nothing against the crimson that pooled in him the entire night.

He was going to vomit, he was sure. Either from sheer distaste, or the nauseating symptoms. Darting, the beast's gaze occasionally flicked towards the doors, before back at the ceiling. And it continued for minutes as his breathing deepened, as his bones felt like jelly.

It was the anticipation that hurt him so. There was a time once when he hadn't needed to see in order to know who was headed where; his spire and countless eyes scattered in its shadows have provided him with enough of insight.

Nothing evaded Shadow Milk’s sight, once. But that was a time long passed. Spire was no more and neither was his grandiose; and, worst of all, gone with it was his delusion of superiority.

He was now on the level of those who felt ground beneath their feet, or even less than that. Shadow Milk was equated to any other person, and the knowledge was what sickened him most.

Where was his control that he held so tightly? All the eyes and his creations and all the horrors he brought were only a testament to his widespread sight—it was taken.

And weeks ago, this made him feel naked.

Now, it only filled him with the aching dull of boredom.

With his fingers sinking into his arms, he took a steady breath in, then out. Shadow Milk knew he had to calm down for the performance, even if his irritability the past few days insisted on acting out.

But he knew this wasn't an option.

Still as a statue he waited, until the entirety of his body tensed. Shoulders were taut like bowstrings, his flesh Pavloved into a state of anxiety the very second that the handle clicked.

It was a response beyond his mind, something that happened for no reason but to simply occur. Shadow Milk’s jaw tightened as he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye—the parting of the white doors, and the radiant figure which was revealed.

Slowly, almost leisurely, the wood was moved further as the monarch finally stepped inside. Ready for the day as he had always been, Pure Vanilla carried a smile of contenment.

The morning light bathed him in the same way that freshwater soaks into a nymph of a lake; like it belonged nowhere but on him.

"Good morning, my dove." He stated without failure.

The king felt out the handle with his fingers, gently pushing the doors to a close.

And then his eyes opened, if only for a moment; his vision wasn't the best, of course. Pure Vanilla saw vague shapes and the flush of colours, but it wouldn't be enough to have the detail. He did not see the sharpness of Shadow Milk’s gaze, nor did he pay particular mind to whether or not the sheets were in place.

The staff he came without was a symbol of his abilities; a sentence that—had he wanted—he could bask the room in his attention. But really, there was a single thing that Pure Vanilla paid mind to.

Proper and unmoving, the doll were where they should have been. Their arms were crossed, upper body supported into a sit. Still, Shadow Milk quickly averted his gaze, as if staring at the sun too long would cause him to become blindened.

How ironic, then, that the sun had been blind.

Pleased to an extent, Pure Vanilla finally moved forward with the grace of a ghost. His white silks and layers traveled with him as effortlessly as water cascades down a waterfall; some of the ends touching upon the softened carpet.

The hero quickly noted a lack of the defiant tone in Shadow Milk’s melody, and he tilted his head in an assesing manner. Was it that his doll's stubborn streak has finally ended? Pure Vanilla sure hoped that was the case—nothing would please him more.

Well, maybe except…

Still, bringing the compliance to light with his words would do nothing good. The ancient's doll would get agitated, and then he would have to deal with deescalating his flames.

Not that he minded; it was no different than telling someone to do something while they were already performing said task.

Some people simply did not wish things to be repeated to them in such a manner, and so he remained unperturbed.

"Do you feel any better?" Pure Vanilla mused, the edge of the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Shadow Milk’s eyes remained on the window for a brief moment, but something in the doll's gaze changed. The ancient could only tell by the shifting colour of his lips and brows.

First, the beast's expression seemed to harden—and then soften, almost as if in defeat.

"No," As Shadow Milk answered, his voice lacked the bite. It would've pleased the king, if it wasn't so out of character. "It still hurts."

"Ah…"

Pure Vanilla's hand reached out, fingertips and palm cupping the beast's cheek. With featherlight tenderness he tilted the other's face, asessing his state.

Strangely, he didn't fight. Shadow Milk’s eyes narrowed lightly as he regarded the ancient, but the usual resistance and hiss had been nullified.

"I'm going to get you some herbal tea soon," he mused, and then moved; too suddenly, too decisively. Shadow Milk flinched the second that Pure Vanilla shifted to settle between his thighs.

The ancient's expression softened. "Calm down. I need to use my magic to assess you."

His lips parted, fingers clutching the edges of the blanket that pooled above his thighs. For a moment, it felt like instead of a hiss, the beast wanted to whimper instead. A wet dog instead of a damp cat.

"I—I'm sure it's indigestion." Shadow Milk murmured, his tone placating. "It only feels uncomfortable. I'll be fine."

The ancient felt his gaze flick to the lamp beside. "If you're sure." Pure Vanilla said, but he hadn't meant the words to their full extent. Doing a magical assessment was no effort at all, really.

Pure Vanilla already had a suspicion that Shadow Milk refused it for another reason entirely.

"Do tell me if the discomfort continues."

His warm fingers found the edge of the blanket, but despite the gentle pull, he found it tightly held. The beast swallowed. "Pure Vanilla…"

His brow rose, but the corners of his mouth curled still. A fond gaze if Shadow Milk has ever seen one. "Yes?"

"I… Haven't slept well, so—"

"I know." the ancient chuckled, but the sound remained soft. As if softened by the rare show of the doll's vulnerability and compliance. There was something sweet about the way it was said.

It was that same, quiet tone that Shadow Milk once had used. As scarce as seeing a rainbow, to hear him like this, but the situation was engraved in Pure Vanilla's mind for some reason.

The moment after the spire, when he had extended his palm to the beast. Shadow Milk has asked, then; 'friend?'

This was the tone that the doll had used once more, bare of all the steelen walls that he had risen around himself.

"You've been stirring the entire night, if I recall correctly." Pure Vanilla's careful hand wandered instead, cupping at the beast's side. The touch was reassuring and warm still, like a balm. "That's why I am surprised to hear the pain has subsided."

They both knew it hasn't.

Pure Vanilla simply gave Shadow Milk a chance to come clean. To prove his act of compliance as genuine cooperation.

But the doll never did.

"Which is why I'm…" His lips trembled. There was something wrong beneath the surface, but Pure Vanilla did not see well enough to note the gloss that spread over Shadow Milk’s mismatched eyes. "I'm pretty tired. I was… wondering if…"

"If?" Prompting the other to continue, Pure Vanilla leaned forward.

Shadow Milk’s lips pursed, the blue hues of his eyes moving away in succession. He seemed shaken, something that was easily read for all that Pure Vanilla has understood about him.

"If we can… Can not do it today."

The ancient rose a brow. "It?" There were plenty things they went over during the day, including getting Shadow Milk ready and clean—making sure he ate. And then whatever they did between that and the evening massage, which happened without failure thus far.

Whatever bothered his Shadow Milk to such a pitiful state? Whatever was bad enough to make him wish to miss out?

"Do what?"

"Can—" a swallow, as if something lodged itself into the doll's throat. A shard of porcelain, maybe, or a piece of a memory card long lost. "Can… we not—not make love today."

Perhaps his initial confusion has been read as a mere act by the doll, but it did take a good second for the words to click.

"Oh."

Bracing himself, Shadow Milk took in some air. It weighed heavy in his chest, but it wasn't something that was ever verbally pointed out.

Pure Vanilla's expression softened somewhat, hand turning the doll's face once more, if only to ensure eye contact. "My poor thing." A murmur, followed by the steady graze of the ancient's thumb, moving slowly over the cheek.

"I'd hate for you to exhaust yourself beyond measure. However, there's nothing tiring about it to you, is there?"

The moment that the doll parted his lips, the king leaned to press his mouth above his eye.

"You know how you get when you don't get your fill," he mused, his mind already returning to the events of the year that passed.

Not quite to the moment of the present—rather all the way backward, to when the spire had still stood in one piece. "Grumpy. Bothered. You've already been quite fussy the entire night."

Fussy.

Pure Vanilla knew the word wasn't far fetched. Shadow Milk had stirred and rolled over continously, as if the discomfort refused to allow him the well-earned rest. It wasn't that the ancient wished to see his dear in pain; they both had merely left it at the assumption of indigestion.

In all his desperation, the beast tried once more. "I… I can't. It still hurts."

"Ah, Shadow Milk…" Soft and seamless, his voice carried a tune of concern. Pure Vanilla tilted his head, the free locks behind him fanning around his face. "You didn't have to lie. You are not in trouble for pain."

"But—"

"It's okay." He added in. "I'll ask the kitchen to make something light. For now, I still need to assess you. If you are in continous pain, it can signify a deeper issue at play."

The ancient's hand left the beast's waist, the other one slipping off his cheek. Pure Vanilla moved slowly, not wishing to startle Shadow Milk more.

"Pure Vanilla—" a plea as soft as the duvet beneath. "I'm gonna be fine. I just need tea—"

"Of course you do." He agreed, but his hands moved nonetheless. Curling his fingers around the bundled blanket, Pure Vanilla met the beast's gaze. "Let me take this away. I do need to have contact with your bare skin in order to get correct results."

Shadow Milk’s voice wavered like petals on wind. Something about his demeanour, albeit meek and mellow, was much like tea. No matter the blooms in the blend, the concoction still held the clear tang of bitternes.

"Can't this stay on?"

"The blanket? No." The ancient's head shook. "It's far too thick. Are you cold, my dove?"

Perhaps he could slip his hands underneath the soft material and assess by contact alone. Pure Vanilla just couldn't help but feel like he is missing something.

"Yes—" the agreement was too immediate. Too convenient. Too… opportunistic. "I… am. A little."

Then, it was the way Shadow Milk braced himself—not unlike a cat, appearing friendly and adorable until it was touched. Pure Vanilla was aware that the doll would fight tooth and claw if he figured out what it was that Shadow Milk so desperately tried to shield.

"I see…" Pure Vanilla sounded agreeable for a moment. And, as expected, something in the jester's hold loosened by a fraction.

He should've been pleased to see the compliance, but reducing Shadow Milk to a state of agreeability was never meant to come at a cost of honesty. Something in the air made goosebumps rise on Pure Vanilla's arms.

A steady feeling of tightness in his chest, followed by his narrowing gaze. As the worry was finally spilling out of him like water, Pure Vanilla steeled his resolve.

"I will tuck you back in right away."

Before any protest could come, the blanket was tugged aside, up until Shadow Milk’s shooting-out hand could no longer grasp it. His expression twisted into something that Pure Vanilla could categorise as dismay.

Disarray, even.

His thighs remained pressed together tightly, as if the ache in his abdomen pulled every muscle taut. The tension drawn out of the doll was palpable, eyes widened in something akin to fear.

Pure Vanilla remained observant, even if it was in ways different from perfect vision. One thing he knew, was that Shadow Milk desperately tried to hide sonething.

He wasn't mad, not even irritated. No, all the ancient felt was an overwhelming wave of concern.

"Don't—" The voice which was full of plea moments before now tinged with a defiant hiss.

"My dove," Pure Vanilla's hands pressed to the other's hips, a steadying hold meant to ground. The two pastel eyes of his moved down, from the bewildered expression to the soft curve of his shoulders. His gaze passed over the cleavage of the nightdress, to the waist.

"You're not in trouble. Please, do try to cooperate, so that I can—"

The words faltered as his gaze slipped lower. Something dark lingered where there should have been only pale silk. At first a faint streak along the gown, then the unmistakable crimson bloom spreading into the bedding beneath. His breath caught, the unease in his chest twisting sharp.

Blood.

Pure Vanilla's body tightened, hands sliding under Shadow Milk’s knees. Gentle still, but not lacking in firmness, Pure Vanilla parted them.

"—nilla-"

A feeling of nausea and cold washed over Pure Vanilla's all rational sense, each slither of a second worsening the brew that began to boil over in his mind.

The reaction, the instinct—it was all immediate. He swiftly moved to sit between the other's thighs, blind to Shadow Milk’s attempt at moving.

There had been no time for the doll to dress anything into words as the nightgown was unceremoniously tugged upwards—Pure Vanilla's shaky breath stilled, if for a moment.

A rush of blood in his ear and the thud of his pulse was all that the king needed to tune out all sounds that came. His palms quickly slid underneath the material of the dress to firmly press against the skin at the waist.

It wasn't a hold meant to cup nor grope. Pure Vanilla felt his hands heat up from the coursing magic, embedding itself into the beast for a temporary burst of time.

"Shadow Milk…" His voice was a quiet whisper, eyes widened. As the ancient's honey-like energy swirled through the other akin to wind upon a meadow, the king felt his breath hitch.

There had been no visible wounding thus far, that he could see—to a limited extent.

Still, the worry hadn't subsided. As his energy continued gathering information and assessing, Pure Vanilla found his mind spiraling to the worst possible outcomes.

Blood.

His eyes met the doll's for a flicker, only to be dismissed by the other's head tilting.

Was Shadow Milk wounded? Was there an infection? How, why?

Pure Vanilla saw no cut, no bruise on the softness of his thighs, nor did he see anything wrong with his abdomen. For the most part, it had been the area between, and—

As the realisation set in, he felt his hands tightening. Not enough to hurt, no—but enough to try and get his light in deeper. It wasn't healing yet.

"Vanilla—"

Had Shadow Milk been…

No, no. Impossible. Whenever his hands passed over the doll's body in reverent stroked, he ensured that he felt out every nook and cranny. There was not a shadow that wasn't dispelled by the light of his energy, whether it was in the kingdom, or in Shadow Milk.

He hadn't felt anything thus far. Nothing which screamed for immediate care, nothing which softly sang with a smaller life. Despite his best efforts, Shadow Milk didn't take.

That's what Pure Vanilla had thought.

Could he have missed something?

It was as if the ancient wasn’t listening, his bewildered eyes glued to the skin of Shadow Milk’s abdomen. As if he wanted to reach beneath the flesh and muscle, or maybe see something else entirely.

Shadow Milk couldn't have been wounded, he couldn't have been pregnant. He felt nothing out of the ordinary the evening prior.

His throat tightened significantly, the cruel seconds ticking. But he didn't retrieve his energy yet. Not until it gathered every single slice of information that Pure Vanilla could find noteworthy.

Shadow Milk’s skin felt warmer as the thick magic flowed through him like blood, but the king remained as stiff as a tree.

He… hadn't felt any life beyond the skin. All the blood—Shadow Milk couldn't have… miscarried.

Pure Vanilla tried to reason, but the many years of tears and loss of life had sent him into a spiral. It was as though all the memories of crumbs and ashes in his hands resurfaced to scare him.

There was no child—yet—and the blood had never once appeared throughout the long months that Shadow Milk was here, in the form that he laid in right now. Not a single time did the ancient witness bleeding from internal—

Pure Vanilla jolted slightly as the rain of worries was suddenly cut. The magic that he passed through the doll's body snapped back into his palms like an arrow, sending a profuse shudder down the king's back.

Shadow Milk’s eyes remained tightly shut, words dead on his tongue as they have been unheard. Whatever overwhelming worry and panic Pure Vanilla felt made the ancient tune out external output entirely.

Up until now.

The magic glided back into his body as a scalpel parts skin, dissolving shortly after it had once more joined his stature.

Healing was something more complicated, he once explained. If such ability is misused on an area without a need, it was too easy to cause more harm than good. If it had been safe to do so, Pure Vanilla would've immediately healed whatever had been broken.

But if something isn't hurt in the first place, adding the rejuvenating magic could only create an unfixable problem.

Overgrowth of cells, thickening of blood and tissue—clogging of arteries and the veins.

It was this that made Pure Vanilla learn how to use his energy to make a proper assessment. He ran it through someone's body and retrieved it, not unlike when an anti-virus checks a system for cracks and faults.

Worringly, his magic gave him nothing.

There had been no input, spare for informing the king of the tiredness that weighed on Shadow Milk.

Pure Vanilla's lips trembled as he finally closed his mouth, jaw tightening. There was no internal injury. No life, taken or given. There was only blood, and pain.

So much pain.

But if he wasn't losing blood from an injury, why then—

Shadow Milk’s sound came meek, hand sliding to where the ancient's hold was on his waist.

"It… still hurts." His voice broke into shakiness, as if he swallowed back a sob with all the scarce energy he had left. "Just… just heal it. I don't—don't know what's wrong—"

A sigh left Pure Vanilla, as wavering as petals on wind. His fingers relaxed as a realisation washed over him, like the first wave a sea gave when night gave way to day.

"My dove…"

His thumbs grazed circles against the skin, as if the tension that had choked him had finally melted. All that was left was Pure Vanilla's steady gaze as he finally met the beast's own.

"Heal—"

"There is nothing to heal." Pure Vanilla interjected. "I had checked, there's nothing wrong internally."

"Check—"

"Shadow Milk," he murmured, fingertips massaging into the tender flesh. "You need to listen to me right now, very carefully."

It seemed Pure Vanilla had come to a consensus.

"You're not injured." The tension in the king's shoulder finally loosened, even if the aftershock of the scare he was just given remained. Who normal can simply return to a state of tranquility after anxiety this intense?

Shadow Milk’s brows inclined, not unlike a doe in headlights.

"You are simply…" Pinching his chin between the index finger and thumb, Pure Vanilla searched for a word that would decrease the tension in the other. And then he carried on, as if he had all the right to. "menstruating."

The air around them stilled, for the most part from how coiled Shadow Milk had become. His eyes widened. It didn't take long for the gloss in his eyes to finally spill over, single streak rolling down his cheek.

"W-What—"

"I had… Assumed you were wounded. Hurt." Pure Vanilla mused, giving Shadow Milk’s thighs a yet another look-over. He had the patient of a saint, even as the beast had tried to jerk his legs shut. "But there's nothing wrong, Shadow Milk."

"I don't—" his chest visibly tightened, a shaking hand digging into the mattress. "I don't bleed. I don't—"

"I shared that thought." The assurance, for all the wrong reasons, made the doll stiffen. "But now that I consider your situation…"

For a moment, he allowed Shadow Milk to try and graps the gravity of the situation. The tense shoulders—his ragged breathing and pleaful look… something in Pure Vanilla's gaze softened even further as he had come to realise just how scared the other was.

But it wasn't illogical.

The ancient thought back to all the time that has passed. Shadow Milk never held shape for longer than a week, but even that was being generous. The poor thing was so used to switching between forms, genders, characters, that he had long forgotten his sense of identity.

It was this that initially made Pure Vanilla restrict him from escaping his form, of course. The ancient simply wished for the doll to find his own sense of being, without needing to escape his own skin.

Pure Vanilla had no way of knowing that Shadow Milk’s body took to stability to this extent; to perform such a… natural biological function.

His fingertips steadily slipped from the sides to the hips, both as means of soothing Shadow Milk and his own mind all the same.

"No." Shadow Milk hissed, fingers sliding beneath Pure Vanilla's hands to try and shove them off. "No. It's not possible, I—I'm not…"

Not like commoners. After all, the king had already heard the same argument in plethora of different situations.

"It's okay." He reassured, as softly as he could've. "It's nothing dangerous, Shadow Milk."

Within moments the beast began to bristle, and Pure Vanilla knew he had to press on before the inevitable explosion. "It seems you were in pain due to menstruation, my dove. This is nothing to be ashamed of. Something like this simply happens to people with certain body parts."

His touch traveled lower, gently grazing the sides of Shadow Milk’s thighs—then, slowly brushing underneath them. Shivering, the flesh tensed, but Pure Vanilla never allowed the doll to snap his legs shut.

"No. No, this—this never happened to me—" Shadow Milk’s chest rose and fell quickly, cheeks flushing not from embarrassment but panic. "Not even when I—"

"Yes, my dove." The corners of his lips curled, hands gently parting his legs to have a better view point. "You never allowed yourself to settle into one form—now that you did, your body finally allows itself the rest."

Pure Vanilla did not lie.

The truth of the words sank into Shadow Milk like thread, visibly nauseating him. His lips trembled more, voice pitched with something he withheld—a secret which he tried to tuck where no one would see.

"No—No!" He sprang up, fingers digging beneath to try and shift him out of the grip. "What—What did you do to me, what…"

"Shadow Milk…" With a solemn sigh, he gently pulled the doll towards himself, causing him to lay back once more. "Please. You are sending yourself into an unnecessary panic."

But the words did not bring solace. One of the king's hands retreated as he summoned his staff, letting the item lay against the wall near the headboard. It provided Pure Vanilla with a peculiar viewing point from the wood's radiant eye, but he wasn't one to be ungrateful.

And then, he saw it.

Shadow Milk’s cheeks glistened with fresh tears, eyes glossed over. His lips were now pressed tightly togerher, and his body strained with tension.

It wasn't just fear or discomfort. It was pain; anxiety, even.

Pure Vanilla looked at him as one looks at a wounded animal, gently moving on the bedding. One hand was placed on the mattress near his hip, the other brushing away white locks of hair.

"All I did was encourage you to accept how you are, without constantly shifting your image."

"I—I didn't… didn't—"

"It is normal, then, that your body finally stopped fearing sudden change."

Pure Vanilla saw all of the memories Shadow Milk held, after all. If the change of shape had been what a virtue was supposed to do, then it would've been something that came to the jester naturally.

But it wasn't. Now, that the access to the Soul Jam tainted with magic from the dark side of the moon had been cut, there was nothing to destabilise the doll anymore.

Shadow Milk was so used to his own lack of identity that having one was uncomfortable. Pure Vanilla, for one, never altered his shape.

Not even after he had the ability to.

"It's okay." He mused.

Perhaps Shadow Milk’s lashing out for the last couple of days had been… From this. The realisation sent a cold wave down the king's shoulders. Was he too stern with Shadow Milk, who had been simply troubled?

After all the issues that the doll had caused him, he had simply began to assume. Maybe that was the mistake.

A hiccup was what tore him from the thoughts.

Shadow Milk’s gaze was averted, if not shut off entirely. One hand was clutching his nightgown, the other at his arm, as if wanting to console himself subconsciously.

With the thought of the change came another, more tender and… fragile.

His hair had lightened to accomodate the forever-present glow of the Vanilla Kingdom, for one.

For second, Shadow Milk’s flesh had finally given into the care, softening in the places that mattered. Especially those which were now fitting for his shape.

Then was the adjustement of his muscles giving way to ministrations, no longer tense and unwelcoming to the point of pain during…

Well, and last but not least, this.

Pure Vanilla's expression became more focused as Shadow Milk took in the information, his chest trembling with each cry that he swallowed back down. Single hand traced back up his thigh, pressing shy of the skin below the navel.

His flesh had softened beautifully, filling the parts which needed most protection. Including, but not limiting to, his abdomen.

And now, it all had made sense.

They've done it plenty of times before, and Shadow Milk was no closer to conceiving than the day one. Perhaps the beast was used to being filled, with nothing ever blossoming out of it. Pure Vanilla had no doubt Shadow Milk was… content with the idea of simple infertility.

But now, something else gave way. The blood was not just a testament to the stability that Shadow Milk had to learn to accept. It was a testimony to something… else.

Maybe the doll's flesh accepted the attempts. Accepted being touched, pampered, filled.

"Does it hurt a lot?" He asked, even as his mind was elsewhere. Shadow Milk had no idea what thoughts may tinge Pure Vanilla now; he never did.

The king, for one, had never allowed his ideas to get in the way of composure and responsibility.

"Just—"

"On the scale of one to ten, please."

His voice remained saintly patient, as if he wasn't just considering all the possibilities that the menstruation could bring. Perhaps—in spite of all Pure Vanilla's worries—he never had an issue with fertility.

Maybe it was that Shadow Milk's body only now gave way to something so natural, after upholding its over-the-top immortal grandeur.

It took all he had not to squeeze the doll more. The ancient hero had to physically stop himself from cooing, even as his mind wilfully painted images behind his eyes already.

"T-three." He bit out. Shadow Milk seemed to have broken down, at least for today.

Good.

"Do you feel it more in the back, or the front?" The question was as soft as before. Pure Vanilla still had to ease the doll's discomfort however he could.

It wasn't that he had always planned to indulge into these thoughts of his. Despite all the things Pure Vanilla might’ve wanted for himself, they couldn't come at the cost of Shadow Milk’s health.

How fortunate, then, that the doll was nursed into a peak condition.

"Abdomen." A shuddering breath was taken in by the beast. "From—from the navel below, I don't—don't want—"

"Shhh," Pure Vanilla focused his eyes back on the shorter's face. He took note of the fluttering lashes, already clustered from tears. "It's nothing to be scared of, Shadow Milk."

"N-no. Allow—Allow me to change into something else, I don't—don't want—"

"Now," Pure Vanilla didn't come all this way for nothing. He couldn't allow the doll to keep rejecting having a stable identity. First and foremost, the ancient noticed his shifting was only a means of escape, not only from oneself but also its emotions.

As for his secondary reason: "I have already talked to you about this, haven't I? In order to chisel out something you can finally remain in permanently, you need to accept a form and retain it."

But Shadow Milk was past listening. His hands clutched at the king's wrists. "Please, p-please I don't—" a hiccup broke the wording. "Not this. I can't—"

"You can, Shadow Milk." He asserted, though not unkindly. Pure Vanilla, more than anyone else, could tell how mentally wrecking the experience was. "Many before you have. You needn't be ashamed, you know I will be here for you."

What the doll needed more than anything now, was comfort. He was visibly shaken by the shudders of anxiety and self-disgust, and that was something only acceptance could soothe.

Shadow Milk couldn't keep escaping his identity whenever he grew sick of it.

As he recalled, not much convinced the beast of genuine care. Not much at all, spare for the ways that he once tenderly yet feverently versed Truthless Recluse in. Like one who wrote poetry, elaborating on their metaphor to the single unwilling student.

Pure Vanilla subtly shook his head—this was not about him.

His thoughts right now ran in a large variety; half swirling with ideas on how to ease the doll, the smaller part already focusing on whatever lay beneath Shadow Milk’s skin.

The beast was menstruating, now. And that was but a sign that he was… readying himself. Unknowingly, yes, but readying nonetheless; to take something only Pure Vanilla could give.

Only Pure Vanilla.

The ancient felt his breath catch, but he did not allow his mind to spin further than this. With decided movement he bunched the nightgown up Shadow Milk’s chest, to where it finally reached the chin.

The soft, flushed skin there remained as it had when it was the evening; still irritable. How come Pure Vanilla had never seen the signs?

Shadow Milk’s hand easily found the gown to try and tug it downwards, if only to shield from humiliation. "N-no, no you can't—"

"Can't what?" Soft inquiry, followed by his fingertips easing down Shadow Milk’s sides. "Calm down, my dove. We will get you cleaned up, and then I'll bring something to ease the discomfort."

But Pure Vanilla seemed no closer to getting up. Instead, he brushed his hand to lay it on top of Shadow Milk’s abdomen as if it always had the right to. His palms were as warm as the patches of grass in a clearing, soaked in the rays and radiance and all that was kind and gentle.

The flesh underneath Shadow Milk’s skin relaxed from the warmth, and the ancient allowed the moment to break the thick atmosphere around. In the mean time he focused on the other's unsteady breathing, the way his chest would tremble with each breath.

The doll shivered not from cold, but from the emotional wreckage that the event left in its wake. Pure Vanilla was more than aware how… strange this would be to an individual like Shadow Milk. Someone who once held the cards and dictated the world's fate reduced to… this. It wasn't that the ancient found his state pathetic, witches forbid.

But if Shadow Milk was to stop disregarding lives of those who he saw as below, he first needed to understand he was no higher than all the others.

It was easy to look at everyone as a whole body of a species if you were perched too high up to distinguish unique features.

Shadow Milk was no different, neither were his companions who had long passed.

Despite the amount of thoughts Pure Vanilla had, not a glimmer showed. For all Shadow Milk could see, the hand gently pressed into his skin as the other continued to soothe at his waist; a combination meant to not only ground, but relax.

He felt his breathing slow against himself, the way his aching knuckles gave way to no longer claw at the material. Shadow Milk’s mouth still felt dry, but the tears were only brimming, not spilling anymore.

"Good," a hum of appreciation left Pure Vanilla as he nursed the other into compliance. "It's okay."

Leaning forward, the ancient moved his palm from the waist to once more brush through the doll's milky locks, pressing a kiss to the exposed forehead. Something about the lack of fight pleased him.

As if Shadow Milk was finally becoming something he could love—or, rather, something that would allow itself to be loved.

It was never about erasing his edges; it was about maintaining them. It hadn't been Pure Vanilla's fault that the jester couldn't at least behave in private. The king now knew that the way Shadow Milk acted with others was not separate from the way he acted with him.

The peck of a kiss was detached, pressed to the doll's cheek therefter. Shadow Milk’s skin was still heated from shame and the few tears that fell, but Pure Vanilla only moved closer to his ear. "You'll be alright."

Shadow Milk’s hand shifted on the sheets, but the ancient simply caught it into his fingers. He pulled the palm closer to his face to kiss it.

One of his hands slipped to the bed, pressing to the mattress at Shadow Milk’s side. It gave Pure Vanilla enough opportunity to cradle the other's face in his free hand.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he mused, lips brushing over Shadow Milk’s cheek. The kiss traveled to the corner of the beast's mouth, where Pure Vanilla once more whispered sweet nothings.

Beneath, Shadow Milk shifted. He didn't try to go far, perhaps simply wanting to lessen the contractions that ran up his body. The king quickly caught on the fact.

Pure Vanilla's forehead pressed to the doll's for a beat, thumb grazing the heated cheek—still warm from shame, still damp from short-lived tears.

The ancient did plan to let up had Shadow Milk been injured, or even in the same discomfort he had been before Pure Vanilla saw the blood. Then again, the doll was… fragile, now.

It was no bother to the king to see the crimson, a healer has more blood on their hands than most. Pure Vanilla knew that now, Shadow Milk needed reassurance more than anything else.

What sort of an impression would it give if he denied the doll his fill, only because of the blood?

The jester breathed in shakily, fingers finding the king's shoulders. "Y-you can't—"

"Can't what, my dove?"

"Can't… do it, I'm—"

"On your period?" He interjected. "Of course you are, my dove. Why should it mean you can't be loved?"

Shadow Milk pushed, but the action wasn't strong enough to budge the other. Giving an airy chuckle, Pure Vanilla leaned more, the skin of his lips barely brushing Shadow Milk’s own. "Let me relieve some of your burden."

As the beast's mouth opened in protest, the sound was quickly cut. Pure Vanilla connected them in a simple kiss, fingers maintaining their decided hold on Shadow Milk’s chin. His head was tilted to allow the king an easier angle, the movement tender as it always was.

He didn't let up easily, working the jester into accepting the slow movement—giving it depth, volume, feeling. Realising that Shadow Milk’s hand shook from the strain, he only pressed on, as if slowly working to start devouring the dove instead.

Sensing the impending pressure, Shadow Milk’s eyes fluttered close tightly. A whine of complaint slipped by before he managed to jerk his head aside. The kiss was wet enough, leaving the saliva between them breaking like a branch.

His breathing already ran ragged, fragile and unused-to-strain figure finding itself at a loss of air. Pure Vanilla's eyes lidded about halfway, the thick white lashes covering some of his vision. As soon as Shadow Milk inhaled deeply, his head was tilted forward once more.

Pure Vanilla pressed his lips to Shadow Milk’s again, this time slipping his hand to the back of the beast's head. Sun-kissed fingers carded through the locks like rays break through the morning, and he allowed himself to hum.

The kiss was insistent, not lacking the passion he so reverently gave for Shadow Milk’s sake. While his lips picked at whatever dignity the jester had left, Pure Vanilla shifted.

He sat more comfortably between the shorter's thighs, letting his fingers gain purchase on Shadow Milk’s side. The connection carried on up until Pure Vanilla felt the ache in his lungs, letting Shadow Milk tilt away with ragged breath.

He didn’t give himself the time to appreciate the flushed cheeks and the trembling lips, moving to mouth at the other's chin—traveling down the neck, where the nightdress remained bunched.

"Stop—" he whined out, the wet tickling on his skin betraying a shiver. "You—can't. Not t-today—"

"Why?" Pure Vanilla hummed, finally letting up his loving assault on the skin. "It doesn't change anything, Shadow Milk."

The beast bristled—something which always showed by the short tremor that ran down his body. At that point, it only made Pure Vanilla's gaze fonder.

"It's perfectly normal and healthy to experience something like this. It won't stop me from loving you."

Pure Vanilla moved his hand from the back of Shadow Milk’s skull to the front of his ribcage, feeling the widly beating heart. He didn't want the doll to believe that blood was an issue. Shadow Milk deserved to be satisfied, deserved to be loved, even more now that he was so vulnerable.

"Pure Vanilla—"

"Ah, ah." A click of his tongue. "Just lay back and let me take care of you. No need to waste energy."

Shadow Milk’s abdomen tensed as the hand eased its way down, fingertips tenderising the skin up until they were above the mound. Looking down now, Pure Vanilla could see it.

The crimson hue both old and fresh, some having dried on the skin of his thighs. Tiniest streaks remained beneath from all the shifting and stirring, but Pure Vanilla never felt nauseated by blood.

Quite unlike Shadow Milk. For all the cruelty, the jester never liked to take life by such… physically violent means.

Pure Vanilla dispelled the thought by bringing his focus back to the other, two fingers brushing down—above the slit.

"You—You'll make a mess—" his breathing hitched in desperation, the eyes never having a chance to melt away their gloss.

"It can be cleaned, my dove."

"N-No, it's–it's blood—"

Shadow Milk shifted his thigh, but the calf weighed it down like a boulder. The petals of his heat were parted easily, opening him to the humiliation of his already slickened entrance being in view. There was not much shock from the king, only the softest tilt of his head.

"And you said it hurts." Pure Vanilla's reminder was spoken as gently as tea felt on a hungry stomach. "It will feel better, you simply need to open up to me."

The very moment that his warm fingers grazed their way up Shadow Milk’s pearl, his thighs quivered. There was no shutting them with the ancient between, his lips covered by his wrist.

"Let it happen, Shadow Milk." The clit was nudged gently, slowly—a stroke up its tender surface. The liquid felt warm on Pure Vanilla's fingertips, easily smeared in thick strokes. "No point in fighting."

A shaky breath was drawn in as Shadow Milk dragged an arm over the mattress, cheeks dusted from shame. His hand tried to grab at Pure Vanilla's, but all it did was to help him feel when the king moved.

"Vanilla—" a whispered plea, unheard from the wet hush that followed. Shadow Milk’s fingers trembled as he felt the hand slide lower, fingers grazing their way to the entrance.

"Don't fight it, love." He reminded. "There won't be any mess if you remain in place."

The tips of his digits felt the soft parting in Shadow Milk’s body, the blood that pooled there from him laying down for hours serving for a thin yet warm lubricant.

Shadow Milk’s upper body shifted, hip caught with Pure Vanilla's free hand. "N-Nilla—" he was catching onto any word he could, any excuse he could see in the corner of his vision. It wasn't just fear, but humiliation.

"Shhh," another coo. It seemed his doll felt particularly squirmy, limbs sluggishly dragging as if he had hoped he could hoist himself upwards.

Adorable.

"I'll be gentle." He muttered. "Your cervix may be a little lower due to the menstruation, so tell me if it hurts."

A moan slipped by as Pure Vanilla finally eased his digits in, the thickening blood creating a delightful sound of slickness.

It was slow, steady—to the first knuckle, then the second. Shadow Milk’s breath caught before the king parted him all the way.

"E—Enough—" he couldn't win. The jester's best bet was to not make it worse for himself.

"Mm, thank you."

Steadily, Pure Vanilla's warm fingertips gave a curl, feeling out the already sensitive muscle. Shadow Milk, tensing for a brief moment, felt his lips part.

The bleeding and the hormonal disarray ended with his skin feeling particularly raw—heated from his body's strain to adjust. Each graze, then, only amplified the sensation.

Slowly the fingers were drawn back, before eased inside once more, never deeper than what Shadow Milk asked for. Pure Vanilla was glad for that much of compliance, at the very least.

The beast's fingers shook on the hand that steadied his hip, his tender heat parted again. "Mnh-hn.."

"There we are, my love. The pain subsides when you feel good, isn't that right?" The tone was warmly dotting still, and Pure Vanilla leaned in once more so his lips pressed to Shadow Milk’s temple.

Thinking about the state that the poor thing was in right now, there were things that he couldn't help but recall.

"Quite like all the way back, when we needed to get you relaxed enough to get into that lovely heat of yours." Another coo.

The beast pressed its cheek to the pillow in shame, but his flesh worked against him, allowing Pure Vanilla's fingers even more exploration. The soft pump of his hand only created more mess, every pull making the blood run down his skin.

It was an involuntary reaction; the way Shadow Milk’s body would heat up more, the way the defiance would soften with proper words and care. The ancient knew he liked to be spoken to, to be guided through.

Pure Vanilla loved indulging.

"Here…" He smiled more. The sight was so lovely, Shadow Milk open on his fingers like a blooming flower. Maybe more so like a rose, with the wine-red spilling beneath.

Such cherry shade against the blue and white was almost erotic, and oh how he wished to carve it down onto a canvas.

Feeling Shadow Milk tense up, Pure Vanilla adjusted the hold on his hip. The beast was okay, he noticed, and so he tenderly pushed his fingers up. The heel of his palm carefully pressed to the slickened folds, feeling them already parted.

The doll knew what was coming, breath catching as he whimpered. Shadow Milk was given an encouraging murmur.

"My good boy. Don't make it harder now." It was a praise and a warning all at once, bloodied digits rolled into him again and again at a faster pace. Pure Vanilla's palm rubbed into the slickened clit, and Shadow Milk felt his eyes water more.

On occasion, the spikes of pleasure would cause his body to quiver, back tensing slowly, steadily, into a gentle arch. "Nh-mNh…" How lovely he was when he got to this point: when all the soft hissen-words melted away.

Pure Vanilla's gaze was glued to Shadow Milk’s lovely face, the way it yielded and gave way to bliss. The way his brows would furrow softly as he tried to mute out the squelching sound of his heat swallowing the fingers up, the way he'd tense…

The ancient's eyes moved down, to where the doll felt the best. Despite the soft writhing and pleasure-ridden hiccups, all Pure Vanilla could think of now was the velvety wrap around his fingers. The blood was a bonus, if anything. Something so vulnerable.

Something that meant…

"Hn-n... MnhH-" a particular cry slipped Shadow Milk, and it only urged the ancient to pump his hand in faster, quicker. "S-Slow- Sslow…"

"I've got you, love."

But the slowing down never came. Pure Vanilla found his lips on Shadow Milk’s cheek again—and then the eye, where the lashes were soaked with tears of salt.

His fingers were clamped down onto with every push, his thumb stroking Shadow Milk’s hip reverently. He didn't let up, no—the heel of his hand only rubbed onto the hardened nub, easily slipping from the gathered blood.

The wet slosh only got worse, the tips of his digits nudging the spongy surface far inside Shadow Milk. He did his best not to create any friction against the aching cervix, but with that thought came something else.

Menstruation. What a gorgeous thing—a lovely sign that whatever laid underneath Shadow Milk’s skin was readying itself to take.

Pure Vanilla felt his breath catch as the images flew into his mind like a stream of water, his palm pumping quicker—sharper.

He became so healthy. So pliant, so nice to hold and perfect to cup. Was it because Shadow Milk finally reached a healthy weight that his body offered itself up for the taking? That he became ripe, like a juice-filled peach?

Used to such thoughts spiralling out of control, Pure Vanilla willed himself to focus on the image of his digits sinking sloppily into the other; on the increasing pressure of Shadow Milk’s needy heat tightening around them.

Greedy and hungry and all the more willing to give. So lost in thought, he hadn't realised he began to hold his breath.

Shadow Milk’s thighs quivered, tensing and loosening all at once, and then—the jolt.

"A-Hhaa~" He shuddered with profuse waves of pleasure, eyes glazing over as he arched. Pure Vanilla drew the feeling out of him like a musician drawing sound from an instrument, not letting up until the other's body finally gave way from the shudders.

Shadow Milk laid there, pliant and submissive, once the king finally stilled his hand.

The roundness of his thighs would quiver on occasion, mismatched lashes fluttering shut as he tried to tune out the feel of warmth slipping out of him.

It felt like the orgasm was wrenched out like teeth being pulled, and with it came the slickness that slipped down the king's fingers.

Pure Vanilla felt his breath catch, as if he hadn't realised the tension in his own body. So focused on the way Shadow Milk shuddered and whimpered, the ancient could only move his gaze down; to where his hand was still glistening.

The crimson was dewy in the morning light, mixed with other fluids; the white of the release, and the soft translucent slick from the arousal. As always, the smile was glued to Pure Vanilla's face.

"My lovely thing."

Perhaps they should stop now. The doll was satisfied and cared for, and that would give him time to clean up before the breakfast. Pure Vanilla looked at his bloodied fingers, the liquids having created a thick coating around them. Lightly parting the middle finger from the ring finger, he watched the blood split into strings.

He wasn't sure if the food he had chosen for today would've been healthy for Shadow Milk. Poor thing probably would experience all of the side effects of menstruation. Maybe instead of something sweetened, Pure Vanilla could ask for something lighter.

Maybe a waffle on the side. Shadow Milk got all fussy if his cravings for sugar weren't met…

Noticing that the a droplet or two of blood have already gotten onto his rice-white robes, Pure Vanilla released Shadow Milk’s hip. As the doll was gathering his composure, his clean hand lightly moved to the golden rope around his waist, intending to undo it. Pure Vanilla didn't want to make the cleaner's job any more difficult by staining his pristine robes further, especially as he would clean off the blood-stained space.

It didn't matter that the idea of Shadow Milk’s ripe and healthy womb—waiting to be bred—had caused a strain on his own body. No matter how much thought he gave it now, he was a fairly rational person.

This could easily wait until once the bleeding was over; when it would make sense to take the doll by the hips and stuff him full of—

"W-Wait-" a hushed whimper. "Don't. You can't, I'm…—"

Pure Vanilla's thumb was underneath the thin rope already, a brow raising in sheer confusion. It might've been read as questioning instead by Shadow Milk, if not for the fact that the ancient stilled.

He hadn't understood what was conveyed, for a moment. The doll's expression remained bashful, hand clutching the sheets while the other covered his face.

Shadow Milk’s body was tense with unwilling anticipation, as if there was something Pure Vanilla wasn’t privy to.

Except he was.

The elements clicked like a puzzle, or even like stones pushed into their placed by a river's current, and he couldn't help but feel his face warm.

Smiling through and through, he realised Shadow Milk simply worried for their carefully maintained routine. After all, Pure Vanilla rarely ever did allow him to miss out on the intimacy. Pleasing the doll was something entirely different to engaging into proper love making.

Despite the beast's valid concern, Pure Vanilla knew better. He wasn't going to go that far today—it would've held no purpose.

And yet if he didn’t, Shadow Milk might get the wrong impression. That he is unlovable like this; that just because he is bleeding, he is a vessel that no one will bother to touch. How adorable.

Pure Vanilla knew if he would skip their moment as he had planned, Shadow Milk would've been proven right. And so, without the jester knowing, he had a change of heart.

The thumb pulled at the gold lightly, allowing the silky texture to unravel itself like leaves opening for the morning sun.

Shifting, Shadow Milk felt his face pale. "Pure Vanilla—"

"Now, now." The golden material was left somewhere, Pure Vanilla's clean hand parting his robes slightly. "No need to fuss."

"You—can't do it, I said I'm—"

"Bleeding?" He finished for the other. "Why must you insist I can't?"

Pure Vanilla pressed his palm to the inside of the smaller one's thigh, gently parting it more. His poor thing tensed up in this short moment, but no doubt he would be eased again.

"Hm?" The ancient carried on, even as Shadow Milk’s eyes widened. With the bright material slipping off his shoulders and catching onto the crooks of his elbows, his already aching need came to show. Pure Vanilla paid it no mind.

If anything, he took a hold of Shadow Milk’s hips again, pulling him closer to himself.

"Why can't I? Is there a law agaisnt it? Some rule forbidding me from loving you like this?" Shadow Milk hadn't gotten a word in as the king's fingers steadily wrapped around his length. "Especially like this?"

A thigh shifted as Pure Vanilla carefully sat closer, gaze cast down to lightly position himself. The tip nudged between Shadow Milk’s petals, gathering up the thickened blood.

Shadow Milk felt as if life drained from him in an instant, the poke causing his flesh to quiver once more. He was humiliated, embarrassed, knocked off his high horse. Like a pretty thing on too high of a shelf, taken by a willing hand and placed elsewhere.

Like a porcelain which no longer belonged hung up on a spot of grandeur. Fine china used as a decor rather than the weapon he was supposed to be.

"Is there something morally wrong about it, my sweet?"

The honeyed voice tore him out of his relentless what-ifs, a shadow overcoming Shadow Milk’s pliant figure when Pure Vanilla hovered. "It's perfectly healthy. It tells me I've done a good job at keeping you cared for."

Stress free, even. After all, Shadow Milk was the only one who caused himself mental misery by acting out. It seemed he wasn't stressed enough to stop his body from playing into Pure Vanilla's hand.

The tip of the king's need glided down, then back up, coating in enough of slick to make the parting bearable. Pure Vanilla gently nudged the crown of his length downward, feeling the warm folds accomodate.

"Stay still." He mused. "On a good note, it helps with the cramping."

That was as good of a warning as Shadow Milk would get before the tip pressed in, easily swallowed up from all the blood. Pure Vanilla's hand tightened on his waist lightly, thumbs pressing into his body as he inched closer.

The doll tightened his jaw to not make a sound, but the whimper that slipped Pure Vanilla was as free as a bird with unclipped feathers. "O-Oh.. mh-"

"M-mhhhh…"

For now he eased in half way, stiling his breath. "I'm g-gonna go a little deeper. Tell me if it starts to be too much."

And then the next few bits, before Shadow Milk trembled. The contraction that ran through him was enough to make him clamp down, breathing laboured.

Pure Vanilla could guess that this was enough.

"Here we go… no more resistance, love. Just yield." He felt Shadow Milk tremble beneath his hands, the flesh pliant as if this was all it was made for. Pure Vanilla might’ve even believed it, if he hadn't known any better.

A steady whine left Shadow Milk once the ancient finally moved back, rolling his lips into him in a move far too steady. The pressure in his heat and the aching tension was massaged out with the thrust that followed, and he found his shoulders relaxing despite himself.

"Mm.." Pure Vanilla's brows furrowed in soft focus, white lashes fluttering shut. As his length split Shadow Milk evenly, the squealch of the blood only worsened the heat in the beast's cheeks. "T-The depth is fine, isn't it?"

It had to be. Shadow Milk hadn't made a move to shove yet, hands slipping down to rest at the king's forearms. His vision swam at the feeling of fullness, over and over again. The combination of soft, reverent thrusts and Pure Vanilla's kind-hearted cooing threatened to make him cry.

With the tears brimming, the ancient leaned down, bringing his lips to the shorter's cheek.

"Nh- you'll be good, won't you?"

—

The soft rasps of breathing cut through the air, accompanied by the shuffle of clothes like a second harmony.

Shadow Milk was laid out like a pliant doll, his body thoroughly pleased and reverently touched. The doll's eyes were half lidded, cheeks still flushed from the finale; he didn't bother with harsh movements anymore, too focused on stilling his breathing.

Still, the two arms around him remained a steadying hold. One of Pure Vanilla's hands gently rubbed at his abdomen, his fingers warmed to provide a gentle care of heat. The ancient allowed Shadow Milk to calm down from the experience, similiarly letting himself regain composure.

Soft and wanting, his lips gently brushed onto the nape of the doll's neck. "We made quite the mess, my dove."

Shadow Milk let out a whine as he felt his body pulled into a sit, an arm slipping onto his back as the other went underneath his knees. The doll was held up with ease, posable and pliant.

Just how he liked it.

As he was lifted off the bed, he visibly tensed. "Mess—"

"Don't worry." Pure Vanilla got to his feet, carefully stepping towards the desk. "Everything can be cleaned off. Let me sit you down somewhere."

Shadow Milk, oddly pliant, only tightened his hands into fists. Perhaps this week would be all the more lovely with his dove behaving well. Pure Vanilla wondered if the beast would remain this needy.

A soft hiss escaped him as his bare thighs touched the coldness of his desk, the white wood no doubt bringing him back to the present. Shadow Milk’s hands immediately sank into the ancient's shoulders, but he was still sat down.

"N-Not like this-" he didn't want to see the blood; feel it slip out of him from being upright. "It will stain, it—"

"Now." A hand brushed away Shadow Milk’s hair. "It can be cleaned, as I've told you. If you don't move around, nothing will be messier than it has to be."

Pure Vanilla's grip slid off the with a lingering kiss to the forehead, before he moved back. Turning around, he moved to the ensuite bathroom, slipping through its door.

That left Shadow Milk alone in the room, if only for a beat.

The sound of water hitting the porcelain surface of a tub echoed through, and Shadow Milk braced himself more.

He was left there for a moment, in silence, poised right in front of the bed. Shadow Milk felt that it looked like a crime scene.

Streaks or cherry red and crimson smeared over the bedding, reaching the edges of the blankets and permeating through the mattress. The sheets were brushed over by the rose-like shade, as if someone carelessly sent streaks of paint flying.

Then was the white which pooled near the bed: Pure Vanilla's robes collected in a single spot for washing.

It wasn't much of blood. Just enough to make him feel as though his throat was cut.

Shortly after the king resurfaced, bare as he had been before. Whatever blood had dried near his thighs was ignored for now, the golden hair behind his head tucked into a bun. It's edged spilled out everywhere from sheer volume.

Pure Vanilla moved as if he had the right to, stepping to the bed too decisively. The way his fingers found the sheets felt confident, and as the buttons of the material popped off, it might've felt like this was normal.

He was left on the desk like a collectible, forced to watch as the stained material was pulled off the bed. Pure Vanilla would hold each article up for a heartbeat, folding the blood inside, like a well tucked secret.

Shadow Milk's mouth felt dry.

The bed was bare soon, yet the blood remained. In the middle of the naked mattress, a steady streak left from the shifting.

Pure Vanilla spoke freely, engaging. "I will flip the mattress over once I find something clean." He mused, giving Shadow Milk a look. "I hope you won't mind if I clean you before brea—"

A knock silenced whatever Pure Vanilla could've spoken. His lips grew tighter, but he seemed to have made his mind up already.

"Carry it back to the kitchen," his voice was firm, but not unkind. Just enough to slip through the doors; to reach the other side.

Black Sapphire wouldn't be necessary at the moment.

"You're dismissed."

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Echoing, the steps that he took remained weighed and sluggish—his shoulders rounded in exhaustion and resignation. The tiredness had set upon him not unlike snow during a blizzard, remaining atop for enough weeks to become a thick layer of ice instead.

Not that he could particularly shake it off.

Finally, silence rose between them. Black Sapphire had assumed it was simply the monarch's way of giving him space to collect his thoughts, not unlike dough needing space to rise. His fingers brushed through the raven-black locks, and in the same movement, he took a moment to look around.

The walls were tinted with washed out shades of sun, accented by white plasters that lined the edges of the ceiling. Then came the vases, symmetrically placed between each window of the hallway.

"I trust you will remember your way around in the morning?" The monarch mused, stopping near yet another set of doors.

Black Sapphire felt his mouth twist into a scowl, arms crossing in a petulant manner. "As well as I need to."

Pure Vanilla nodded, and pushed the doors open. White layers danced behind his figure like waterfalls as he gracefully stepped inside, not needing to look back to know that the host would follow.

Because he did. Unbound by any spell and string, Black Sapphire came in, hearing the entrance slowly slide shut.

Before them was room which did not quite belong.

It held less than a trace of all the gold and yellow that so feverently ran through the castle grounds, instead laden with the muted quiet. One might’ve called such space depressing, especially once they were so used to the cheer that reverberated through each and every wall of the kingdom, but…

"I wasn't sure if this interior would be to your liking." Pure Vanilla turned slowly, being the brightest part of this entire space. It was as though he glowed. "I did my best not to make it too gloomy."

A brow rose on the host's face, and he did his best to prevent his eyes from flicking around too many times. "It doesn't matter."

"Does it?" His head tilted, chin supported by his fingers. "As I recall, you and the other one were feverish over technicalities of design."

Black Sapphire wasn't sure why this irritated him so. Pure Vanilla did not know him—it was time to stop acting like he did.

"Well, that's for the stage." He drew his hands to his vest, undoing the violet buttons to let himself out of the firm material. "Unless you plan on getting into theatre. Would do you well, with your entire act of righteousness."

The corners of the monarch's mouth remained upturned, no sign of offense taken shown. A hand moved, then, to vaguely gesture towards the furniture.

"Regardless, you'll have to forgive me for some of the dust." He mused, taking a glance towards the dresser. "I haven't expected you today, and the room waited for quite some time now."

"It holds no significance."

"I believe it does." Pure Vanilla nodded to himself. It was as if the events of over a year ago had not only steeled his resolve—but shown him how to not rip at the seams. This was a fact that both infuriated Black Sapphire, and… well. There was no and.

As the vest finally came off, the host moved to lay it over the chair that sat near the desk. The monarch didn't lie—even in the dim light, the thin layer of dust was present. It felt like winter frost.

Black Sapphire’s hands remained atop the chair, fingers curling around its edge in thought. His shoulders still felt tense, his jaw still tight; despite how leisure he tried to be, there was no erasing the humilition he had put himself through today.

The host couldn't have known that it wouldn't be the first time.

"So," Black Sapphire tutted, something in his gaze hardening, like the flesh of an apple losing its hydration over the heat of a stove. "Indulge me."

"Yes?"

Tearing his gaze away from the desk, the host tipped his head just enough to catch Pure Vanilla's radiance.

"How did you find us?" The tone wasn't accusatory. A fact, simply spat with the tiniest tang of distaste.

"Oh," his lips curled softly, as if he was merely answering a question of friendly nature. "I was simply following the trace of deceit."

"I didn't mean all the other times," he murmured, fingers curling more up until the knuckles whitened. "I meant the Garden of Delights. How did you find us there?"

We left no trace of deceit. Not that time.

For a moment, the question silently bounced off the walls, as if it had been unacknowledged. It was the furthest from the truth however, as Pure Vanilla chose another spot to look at.

"I will gladly answer that," he said. "when time is right."

Brushing some of the debris off the white, curtainy sleeve, the ancient prompted the conversation further—as if afraid that leaving unspoken to settle would spiral out of control.

"Will you tell me, then, where she has gone off to?"

"And will you take me to see him?" His head snapped towards Pure Vanilla, unkind as it always had been. "Hm?"

"No, not yet at least." The answer came easily; predestined. As if the king expected such question, and Black Sapphire might've jumped to strangle him in all the defiance.

It was all anger. Or was it a personal grudge?

"I need to make sure you're ready, that you know your way around," his figure turned, stepping to the window. The curtains have been pulled open, yes, and the moonlight sure allowed white light to pour in—but it didn't soften the air between them. "There are those matters that I cannot let slip through my fingers, you see."

Black Sapphire finally released the chair, hands at his hip as he huffed. "What, you think I'll try anything?"

The king didn't turn, for a moment. His closed eyes remained as they were as the moon's borrowed light shone across his features.

"Many think that moon shines, you know?" Pure Vanilla began, his voice carrying through the air like a whisper. And maybe Black Sapphire had found no way that this tied to their conversation, but he listened nonetheless. "They see it glow on the night sky and swear it is a star, like sun."

"Obviously." His brows furrowed, as if was intent on questioning the motif.

"To us, yes." The ancient inclined his head in agreement, unbothered as he had been before. "We have the knowledge—we have what we learned. The moon merely reflects the rays that shine on it—it is a mirror of what it is given.

But that information is not something that everyone is privy to."

His mind drifted to the children; to the simple village folk who's most feverent worry was tending to their cream sheep. The king had thought of people of the past, and those who live now. Some sought knowledge beyond their ken, while some chose to avert their gaze.

Regardless, all of them saw the sun, and all of them were to see the moon.

When it would be ready.

With finality, Pure Vanilla finally turned his face to the side, where the pastel shades of his eyes finally met the host's darkened ones. "And so, let us remain as the two who know."