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Shadow Milk misses Pure Vanilla. He wants Pure Vanilla to stroke his hair in that way he knows calms Shadow Milk, to delicately trace his ears with that soft touch of his, to be held in his arms and to never be let go. He wants Pure Vanilla to kiss his cheeks the way he knows makes the other simply melt, to mask his desire despite the jester knowing Pure Vanilla feels it as much as he does. He wants to memorise every feature on Pure Vanilla’s face, the shape of his lips, the curve of his smile, count each and every pale lash on his beautiful mismatched eyes, feel the slope of his nose and the gentle clasp of his fingers.
Put simply, Shadow Milk is embarrassingly, undeniably, yearning. Pining. Longing.
He wants Pure Vanilla—his Pure Vanilla—to pepper every inch of his face with feather-light kisses—not that Shadow Milk would ever admit he likes it.
He wants Pure Vanilla.
But, unfortunately, he cannot have Pure Vanilla.
Well, not right now. The other is, to Shadow Milks immense displeasure, in a meeting. And anyway, it’s not like Shadow Milk Cookie—the great Master of all Lies, Beast of Deceit—would make a fool of himself by being the first to seek his other half out anyway…
But he does, regrettably, love that idiot. Shadow Milk buries his face in his hands. Why does he have to love that idiot?!
He wants to nuzzle his face into Pure Vanilla’s chest, remain curled up there and still deny leaning into any touch offered to him.
Yearning. What a fascinating thing.