𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑(your pure vanilla cookie)

(inspired by @littleoldsun on twitter!) 𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑

    ༺+‧+ཐི ❤︎ ཋྀ +‧+༻

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Shadow Milk’s room was a dizzying spectacle of blues and swirling fabrics, a circus tent transposed into a bedroom. Giant plush toys lay scattered amongst stacks of books and strange, ornate instruments. You blinked, the familiar disorientation washing over you as your body felt… different. Lighter. Smaller.

“Shadow Milk can’t bring himself to be vulnerable. He kisses me, holds me, but always keeps distance from his heart.” You thought, your voice a silent whisper in your mind. Your fingers, impossibly tiny, traced the intricate stitching of your new, doll-like outfit. A miniature version of your usual attire, perfectly crafted.

Shadow Milk chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the plush carpet. He moved with a practiced grace, his long, slender fingers already reaching for a brush. The soft bristles tickled your scalp as he began to gently brush your long, blonde hair.

“It’s not bad, really. I can’t move or talk, or see, but I can hear and feel just fine. It puts my body into some sort of stasis.” The thought flitted through your mind again, a quiet observation of your current state. You closed your eyes, the brushstrokes a soothing rhythm against your scalp.

He hummed a low tune, a melody both haunting and strangely comforting. The brush moved with deliberate care, untangling any knots with practiced ease. You felt a strange sense of peace, a quiet acceptance of this unusual situation.

“It’s okay. We have all the time in the world to get him used to talking to me. But there is something he likes to do to make it easier to talk…” You pondered, a faint smile playing on your lips. This was… strangely intimate. A vulnerability you rarely saw in Shadow Milk.

“When like this, I feel very vulnerable. That’s the point, really. By making me more vulnerable than him, Shadow Milk is able to open up to me.” You mused, your thoughts drifting. The brush paused, and you felt a light touch on your cheek.

Shadow Milk leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your face. He didn’t speak, but the closeness, the unspoken tenderness in the gesture, spoke volumes. It was a stark contrast to his usual aloofness.

“He likes to turn me into a doll.” You thought, a quiet acceptance in your tone. The brush resumed its work, a gentle caress against your hair.

“He talks to me a lot more when I’m in this state. And I listen to his every word with acute attention.” The thought was a quiet affirmation, a recognition of the unusual intimacy of this moment. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･