Chapter Text
Shadowmilk was bored. Roaming, the boring light creamy halls didn't do anything good. He had done everything to stave off the boredom: turning all the cutlery into little creatures, the kitchen staff being terrorised by running knives and stabby forks. The centre staircase now has living stairs who think themselves too worthy of being stairs and refuse to carry anycookie to the correct floor as a protest. And there is now a door in the west wing that, if you open it, it sucks you into an endless void. But his skin still felt itchy, tight and too big at the same time, like he said he was just really bored.
He ends up in front of a grand but simple door. Vanilla's Door. Every time he wanders, he ends up near that gnat. Well, his day couldn't end up any worse; he might as well entertain himself. Liquefying himself, he slid under the door. Spying the too-bright cookie at his desk bent over a bunch of paper. Euhg, his skin crawls. Pure vanilla looks like "Him". Paperwork is a boring activity for a boring cookie, anyway. Time to take action. And remove this horrible image of a blue cookie stuck in his mind.
The curtains rise, and the audience claps in delight. Or rather,
‘AH! Shadow, milk lovely for you to join me. On top of my desk.’
'Your castle has a deliberate lack of entertainment, and I'm just about to start climbing the curtains.’ The extensive stack of papers was a little uncomfortable to lay on, fishing some from out underneath him. Just spotting Pure Vanilla's little panicked look and sigh if acceptance is too much delight. ‘Was this?
'Just my organisation',
Shadow Milk starts reading the paper out loud in a pompous voice: 'Promise for a market in Teatown' ‘a request for house renovation?’ Voice changing from pompous to outrage ‘From somecookie, in Waffervilligese, that way is too far from the city. Don't you have people to do this for you?’
'Eh, yes and no,’ pure vanilla similes apologetically. ‘I find it important that these things are done well and thoroughly,' Pure Vanilla answers bashfully.
'Your care will be the death of you.’
Pure vanillia lets out a deep sigh. 'I'm sorry I can't entertain you, dove. These things need to be finished before tomorrow morning.‘
with a sly grin. "I can always help you," Shadow Milk says
'ruining my hard work. You mean’ pure vanilla replies with a smile and boops him on the head with retrieved stolen papers. ‘Now please get off my desk. Thank you.’ Groaning shadow milk Slowly flops of the desk, taking as much as he can with him lying on the floor. It rains paper. and, coloured pencils? ‘Why do you have these?’
‘Hmm, oh, the pencils wanted to draw; pick up a new hobby.’
‘You, Mister, I don't have time for my dearly beloved other half.’
‘Heeh, yeah, hey, why don't you try them out?’
‘Coulerd pensels for kids.’
‘And you make puppet shows out of cardboard.’
‘Touché.’ Shadow milk grabbed some of the paper lying around him, which was surprisingly completely blank. After all, he had nothing better to do. He further settled into the papers next to the desk.
‘Tea?’
‘Yes.’ Shadow milk summoning a teacup out of thin air. Pure vanilla pours him a cup. Both setting pen to paper again.
÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷
The pencils are actually pretty good quality. smooth with a lot of vibrancy. Sitting still makes the pressure benefit his skin tenfold. It's jittery, and he gets the urge to move, pass, and throw something at the wall. Instead, he pushes the pencil down and scratches the entire paper. The pressure under his skin lifts a little, and he can breathe a bit better. Taking a sip of his tea, he looks at his masterpiece. Picking up blue. He goes back to work.
He has seen too much yellow, too much brightness and pastels. He misses his Spire, sweeping arches of blue upon the paper, the dark blues, the cool air, and the emptyness. The drawing darkens with black. He would have never guessed that he would miss the emptyness. Here there are cookies everywhere. New paper filled with yellow dots.Yes, it has benefits. Pure Vanilla is here, one dot seems calmer and brighter. and he … tries. To understand him. At least gives him space when he needs it and attention. But the walls keep enclosing him, suffocating him, a thick red square tightly around the dots... and cookies keep bothering him. He feels… Like ‘Him”. felt like “Him” stuck in that gilded cage; A crude blue figure in the centre of it all. He hates Him after all. Shadow milk had killed him not for nothing. Is he reverting back to him again? Is Pure Vanilla trying to turn Shadow Milk into 'Him', the perfect little doll? No, he won't, right? No, not intentionally pure vanilla has never met 'Him'. Pure vanilla wants him to be good, which is something he will never be.
Shadowmilk stops drawing. There is no jittering pressure anymore, just empty hallowness like all The pressure is now in colour on paper. It's comfortable, this calm after all... that. Around him lay scribbled drawings; his mouth was dry, and his tea Is cold. The sun lies on the horizon. Ngghhh, behind him, pure vainlla stretched his back. And slumps down in shrimp position directly afterwards. "I'm done." I look down at Shadowmilk. Shadow milk stares back. “Hello, dove," he reaches. To pet Shadow milk’s head. Shadow milk pushes into it a little bit, it's nice. “How was the drawing good?" "That's good to hear." "Can I see your drawings?" No, okay. They sit like that for a bit, petting his hair. And staring out at the sun set. Somecookies belly rumbls loudly, probably both of them. Alright, Duck, let's get dinner. Pure Vanilla says while getting up. Grabbing his staff and a floating shadow milk. And goes in search of a good dinner.
÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷
Shadow milk has nested himself inside the many blankets and pillows on Pure Vanilla's bed. Watching Pure Vanilla Making A shity braid. He cards his hands over it. Not noticing the braid is crooked with many little loose hairs. Shadow Milk says nothing. Pure Vanilla crawls next to him in the bed-nest. Shadow Milk immediately grabs him and drags him deeper into his nest to cuddle him.
‘Hhaha, I'm not going anywhere, dear.’ Pure vanilla kisses him gently on the forehead. Dragging him even more impossibly close. Pure vanillia feels warm and soft, with relaxed muscles and a little bit of fat. It envelops him completely, warm, soft and… safe? ‘Oh dear, are you crying? Are you okay?’ Crying? He wipes his face, drops of water sticking to his fingers; indeed, his face is wet. ‘Huh.’
‘You want to talk about it?’
‘No,’
'Okay, do you want me to hold you?'
‘… yeah.’ Pure vanilla’s warmth Envolpos hem onse again, his hand running through his hair. His tears run down his cheek. Taking something with them
#workskin .font-reallydarkgray {color: #bdbdbd;}