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“Will you get on with it already?” Shadow Milk drawls, chin resting on his own palm. “I’m starting to get bored here.”
Pure Vanilla, kneeling between his legs, simply stares. Then, quite pointedly, his gaze drops to Shadow Milk’s cock. His very hard, erect cock. “I don’t think you are,” he says mildly, words muffled by the way he’s still biting into the blue-toned dough of Shadow Milk’s thigh.
Through tremendous effort, Shadow Milk resists the urge to do something truly bestial like kicking Pure Vanilla off or thrusting his hips forward and sheathing himself fully into the fool’s mouth, between those stupidly pink lips that he can’t tear his eyes from. Both options are tempting, really, especially as that mouth closes over his skin again, teeth embedding themselves ever so slightly into his dough. It stings – doesn’t hurt, no, Pure Vanilla doesn’t have the guts for that. He does, however, have the guts to dig his fingers into the meat of Shadow Milk’s calf, leaving behind bruises the very same way his teeth are leaving – have been leaving, for the past ten minutes – behind imprints of themselves into his dough.
“Who knew you had it in you to be possessive, Nilly,” he says, words interrupted by a hiss as a hot, wet tongue descends, lavishing over freshly made marks. He tenses as the touch of that tongue lingers, Pure Vanilla dragging it upwards, yet stopping just shy of the place Shadow Milk wants him to reach.
Pure Vanilla leans back, gaze never straying from the mess he’s made of Shadow Milk’s thighs, from the finger-shaped bruises adorning his dough from ankle to calf to hips, from his cock, neglected and weeping. “Whatever could you mean?” He asks, raising a hand to his mouth and wiping it with the edge of his sleeve, as if he’s just finished a meal so delicious he couldn’t help but abandon his manners and get messy.
Shadow Milk sees, for the slightest of moments, red in front of his eyes. Red, yes, the color of anger, but also of passion – something he feels plenty of as he gazes at the cookie between his legs, as need courses through his veins and urges him to do something, anything, to alleviate this craving, this desperation for another’s touch. For Good Ol’ Boring Pure Vanilla’s touch, to be specific. Ugh, how far he’s fallen.
Still…
He cannot help it, the way his eyes stray to the cookie kneeling in front of him once again – cannot help but notice long blond hair, held into an elegant ponytail by a thin white ribbon. And then there are those eyes of Pure Vanilla’s, so different from one another yet similarly darkened by desire, blue and yellow forced to cede space to rapidly expanding black pupils. He sees himself reflected in those eyes as Pure Vanilla meets his gaze; reads satisfaction and something softer, fonder, in the curl of pink lips.
Something odd wiggles in Shadow Milk’s chest. Something warm. It’s not necessarily unpleasant, but it is unfamiliar and to him, who has lived for thousands of years, who used to be the Fount of Knowledge, the one who held the complete and undiluted truth, that is alarming. Enough so that he tenses, thighs flexing as he pushes himself forward, fully prepared to rise from the chair and call this whole thing off –
But then his gaze falls to Pure Vanilla again, to the way his heterochromatic eyes have gone half-lidded, to the way he’s started stroking Shadow Milk’s knee, his fingers trailing across the side of it –
There are much better things to focus on. Pondering inanities can come later, he decides, and with a swallow, promptly banishes the feeling into the confines of his mind.
“Do you want to continue?” comes Pure Vanilla’s voice. He’s whispering, yet heat clings to his words, intermingling with the concern and consideration he’s trying so hard to show.
Ugh.
“You’re so annoying,” Shadow Milk tells him, leaning back into the chair and hooking one of his legs around Pure Vanilla’s shoulders, drawing him closer. Although he lets out the littlest of yelps – a sound Shadow Milk finds absurdly endearing – Pure Vanilla goes easily, shuffling on his knees.
“Taking one’s time is important when conducting an experiment,” Pure Vanilla argues, but oh, his heart isn’t into it, not fully, not with the way he trails off, swallowing.
Shadow Milk watches the motion of his throat as if entranced. “Not unless you want your live subject to run away.”
Pure Vanilla tilts his head. Each of his exhales brushes against Shadow Milk’s heated dough, against his cock, hard and weeping. “I don’t think he will,” he says, words so hushed he might as well be mouthing them and Shadow Milk wants to scold him for it, to poke fun and laugh –
But then Pure Vanilla’s lips touch the underside of his cock, leaving the slightest of kisses and he can’t say anything, not really, not with the breath knocked out of him as it currently is.
His hands clench down onto the arms of the chair, holding onto the wood for dear life. “What would you know about experiments, Nilly,” he manages through gritted teeth.
Heterochromatic, half-lidded eyes meet his. Something glints with them, playful and mischievous, both traits of Pure Vanilla’s that he doesn’t show often and Shadow Milk wants to interrogate him, to poke and pester him –
He abstains as Pure Vanilla leans forward, his tongue tracing the spot he’d kissed. Shadow Milk won’t admit, not even under the threat of mind-altering torture, that this affects him. It doesn’t. Not at all. Nevertheless, Pure Vanilla lingers there for a few seconds, then draws back ever so slightly. “I might not know a lot about experiments or about this, but I’m willing to do my best – so please bear with it,” he says, gaze boring right into Shadow Milk, as if he’s trying to crawl inside his chest by eye contact alone –
And then he stops thinking as Pure Vanilla leans forward once again, pressing the tip of Shadow Milk’s cock to his lips in a mockery of a close-mouthed, chaste kiss. The type of kiss that Shadow Milk routinely mocks him for, the type that Pure Vanilla loves to surprise him with, be it in public or in private – that kind of kiss is now applied to his cock and it’s pathetic, really, the way this fleeting touch is almost enough to unravel him, the way it has him tensing, holding onto the chair for dear life. He refuses to let out noises of any kind, instead biting onto his own lips, yet this doesn’t seem to deter Pure Vanilla.
In fact, he seems to take it as encouragement, the corners of his eyes crinkling as pink lips part, enveloping the head of his cock into wet, welcoming heat. He barely has a moment to adjust before he feels a sly tongue – Pure Vanilla’s blasted tongue, that is – tracing his tip, the flat of it dragging slowly across the head of his cock.
Shadow Milk holds back a groan, teeth digging into his lip so harshly that he can taste it, the slightest hint of jam. He swallows and his throat is so dry that it’s painful, yet he can’t focus on it – can’t focus on anything but Pure Vanilla, who’s pulling back with a wet pop . A thin string connects his lips, even rosier than before, to Shadow Milk’s cock and the sight of it is enough to have Shadow Milk swallowing again, his mouth drying as quickly as his throat. His eyes widen as Pure Vanilla spits onto his length, bringing up a hand to spread the wetness. He shows no mercy, going as slow as can be so much so that he has to spit down again. Shadow Milk says nothing, lets no noise escape him, yet something must give him away – perhaps the harshness of his breaths, the way his whole chest moves with the force of his exhales – for Pure Vanilla’s maddening lips curl into a smile.
And, upon seeing it, Shadow Milk’s cock twitches. Part of him, ever so briefly, weighs the pros and cons of jumping out the window. The image of Pure Vanilla pressing a kiss to his length, branded onto the back of his eyelids, is enough to stay his feet, however.
“Hurry it up,” he manages. His lips feel tender when he speaks, flushed and torn from how tightly he’d been pressing them together.
“If you insist,” Pure Vanilla says, all with a stupid smile on his face and oh, perhaps speaking was a mistake, for he is not prepared to be engulfed by that heat again and, unguarded as he is, Shadow Milk lets out the biggest, loudest moan he can ever remember making.
It seems to echo through the room and he feels like he’s on fire, warmth rushing to his face as quickly as can be, but he doesn’t have long to dwell on it, for there’s suction –
He whimpers at it, the sound high and needy and embarrassing, breath catching in his chest as his eyes flit downwards to see Pure Vanilla’s cheeks hollowing as he sucks at Shadow Milk’s length, as a clever tongue flicks at his frenulum.
He tenses, his whole body drawn taut into one singular line of pure strain. Barely able to hold up his own head, he inclines it instead, letting the chair take the brunt of his weight, as he watches Pure Vanilla, as he watches spit dribble out from the corners of his mouth, rosy lips stretched into a circle around Shadow Milk’s cock. There’s a hand on his thigh, he notes, alternating between rubbing soothing circles and digging nails into his dough – it is Pure Vanilla’s hand, of course. Shadow Milk lets out a groan, eyes slipping shut as Pure Vanilla’s nails find one of the marks he’d left earlier, scratching at it, pressing on it.
It hurts, not enough for him to despise it, but enough to have his hips twitch, ever so slightly. The desire to bury himself fully inside that wet heat almost consumes him; he has to grit his teeth, has to throw his head back against the chair.
He’s so out of it, driven mad by pleasure as he is, that he almost flinches when Pure Vanilla starts stroking him, wrapping firmly around the base of his cock and dragging callused fingers across sensitive dough. His grip is just perfect, just on the verge of too tight – just how Shadow Milk likes it, just shy of painful. Pure Vanilla knows him and it’s both a blessing and a curse, one that has him reaching for that head of blond hair, grasping onto the strands for dear life.
They slide easily through his fingers and so does the ribbon when he reaches forward, pulling it away from that silky hair and throwing it as far as can be.
Pure Vanilla makes a sound around his cock, something like laughter – or maybe a protest. Whatever it is, Shadow Milk doesn’t know. All he knows is that he can feel the vibration of it – of Pure Vanilla’s vocal chords working overtime to produce such a noise – directly into his spine. It tingles, almost, and his fingers twitch, entangling with blond hair.
Pure Vanilla doesn’t seem to mind – if anything, it spurs him on, for he stops stroking, his hand migrating to Shadow Milk’s balls and cupping them, gently. The touch is electrifying, enough to punch a sound so needy out of him that he refuses to acknowledge it, but then Pure Vanilla slides down, sinking even more of Shadow Milk’s cock into the delicious heat of his mouth.
Spit dribbles freely from the corners of his mouth, some of it beginning to drip down Shadow Milk’s balls as his cock’s engulfed by the tightness of Pure Vanilla’s throat, by the way that throat flutters, constricting ever so slightly as Pure Vanilla gags, refusing to pull away.
Heat courses through Shadow Milk, most of it speeding towards and pooling low in his abdomen, making him as tense as a livewire, while some of it clings to his face. Surely, if he looked into a mirror, he’d resemble someone with a fever. A very grave fever.
But no, all he has is a very grave case of Pure Vanilla and his stupid experiments inspired by whatever accursed books he stumbled upon in the library.
He doesn’t have long to dwell on the thought, nor on his fantasy of burning down Vanilla Kingdom’s library, for something prods at his hole – a long, thin, spit-slicked finger. Pure Vanilla’s, of course.
Damn you and your annoying ability to multitask , Shadow Milk wants to scream. When he opens his mouth, however, what comes out is something between a yelp and a whimper, Pure Vanilla’s fingers – two now, because of course the sneaky bastard would insert one more while Shadow Milk was busy cussing him out – striking gold.
He clenches down on those fingers, hips twitching helplessly, unsure whether to press forward, into that warm welcoming mouth or backwards, into the fingers gently rubbing at his walls, at his prostate. In the end, he cannot decide and he remains as he is, trying to survive both sensations at once. His eyes flit around the room rapidly, wishing for anything to focus on that’ll lessen this – this cascading pleasure that he’s feeling, that he fears he’ll drown in, yet his gaze can’t find anything but Pure Vanilla.
Pure Vanilla, who’s swallowing his cock down with obscene sounds, head bobbing up and down, his chin messy with spit, his eyes decorated with tears that cling to his pale lashes, some even trailing down his cheeks.
It’s the sight of those tears that does it. They awaken something in him, something wild, frenzied and crazy – he wants to see more of them, wants to see Pure Vanilla’s eyes redden, the dough around them swollen, wants to see drying trails of tears going down his face, wants to savour the salt of those droplets with his tongue. He can’t help it when he moves, shoving his hips into Pure Vanilla’s mouth, using his grip on that hair to drag him closer, to make sure he cannot pull away.
Pure Vanilla doesn’t seem to mind. In lieu of the protest Shadow Milk’s been expecting, he gets wordless encouragement; Pure Vanilla’s hand leaves him and for a second he’s bereft, clenching on nothing – only for that hand, joined by its twin, landing on his hips, pulling him impossibly closer, as if Pure Vanilla hasn’t already taken him to the base.
He looks down, blinking through the hair flopping about in his face and clinging to his face, only to find glazed heterochromatic eyes staring back at him, both the yellow and the blue filled with desire.
He wants this, then.
Assured and also immensely aroused by this display – to the point that something inside his chest lurches, only to violently start throwing itself against his ribs – Shadow Milk begins thrusting. Slowly at first, fumbling as he tries to get a rhythm, then faster, confidence surging through him as quickly as the tears fill Pure Vanilla’s eyes.
The sounds that follow are nothing short of obscene, of vulgar, even more so than earlier – yet he cannot look away, not even as his mind begs from such an overwhelming, magnificent sight. He ignores it, focusing on nothing but Pure Vanilla’s face, on the way he hums every time Shadow Milk thrusts forward, on the way his tongue lays obediently still so that Shadow Milk can fuck his face –
Because that’s what happening, he’s fucking his face, Pure Vanilla’s stupid annoying enchanting face – it’s ruined now, ruined by tears and spit and throughout it all he’s still trying to smile, eyes crinkled at the corners in – because of course he’s happy, happy that Shadow Milk is doing this to him, enjoying that Shadow Milk enjoys it.
His hips stutter, rhythm breaking down as he gasps, losing all semblance of control and driving himself forward with fervor, with wild and reckless abandon as he chases his climax. His eyes flit from Pure Vanilla’s lovely mouth, stretched wide around his cock, to his own shaky hands half-covered by pale hair, to Pure Vanilla’s eyes. Teary eyes, his mind notes – eyes from which a droplet escapes, trying to cling to a lash only to fail and roll down a cheek. Shadow Milk’s gaze sticks to it like glue, following it till it rounds the curve of Pure Vanilla’s jaw, disappearing.
It’s the sight of that tear that does it.
He stiffens, every muscle in his body pulled into one unyielding line as he buries himself inside Pure Vanilla’s mouth. Curses and prayers and blasphemies all pour from his lips in a jumble of barely coherent words as he spills, the pleasure reaching its peak.
He comes and comes and comes – it goes on for ages, almost, and throughout it all, Pure Vanilla rubs circles onto whatever part of Shadow Milk he can reach, be it a thigh or a hip or his side. It leaves him breathless, the orgasm. Boneless, with trembling legs, he collapses back into the chair, letting it bear the full brunt of his weight.
He takes a moment – has to, for his world’s been rearranged, for he can barely keep his open without feeling lightheaded. It was just a blowjob, yet it feels like Pure Vanilla did more than simply suck his cock – no, it feels like he sucked out his soul, or at least valiantly tried to. He’s trembling – not just his legs, but his entire body is.
In hindsight, he’d been a fool.
He should’ve expected it – should’ve expected Pure Vanilla to blow him away somehow, to find a way to impress him. He always has, this foolhardy, stubborn, goody two shoes of a cookie. But no, Shadow Milk underestimated him, thought Pure Vanilla would slobber over his dick, maybe give it a few kitten licks, before elegantly maneuvering them into another act, another position.
He’d really been a fool, hadn’t he?
This is Pure Vanilla he’s talking about – the cookie who went as far as to seek out advice from witches-be-damned books to prepare for this. He’d told Shadow Milk as much, left him a note saying he’ll be busy at the library and if he could entertain himself for the next few hours, that would be great. Upon first seeing the note, he sneered, made a mean-spirited joke or two under his breath, but he didn’t think more of it, instead occupying himself with bullying palace maids and foreign dignitaries and whatever other poor schmucks he happened to run into.
He didn’t think more of it, but maybe he should have. No, he definitely should have. He can almost picture it, just exactly what Pure Vanilla was doing at the library – probably huddling into a corner, surrounded by several open books with a notepad in his arms, pen ready to jot down anything that might be helpful or worth remembering.
A jolt of something slightly bitter, more than slightly unpleasant, goes down his spine. He frowns, eyes sliding open to stare at the ceiling.
Pure Vanilla spent so much time preparing for the real thing, all by himself in the library, when he could’ve been with Shadow Milk. He would’ve offered that fool plenty of hands-on practice! Oh, if only he’d asked! But no, no, he had to deprive Shadow Milk of his favorite source of entertainment just so he could go study the art of oral sex.
Ugh.
What a nerd, he thinks, his eyes flitting to Pure Vanilla.
Pure Vanilla, who’s leaning back on his haunches, looking for all the world like the Cake Hound who got the cream. Sure, he isn’t licking his lips – there’s nothing to lick, not when Shadow Milk spilled everything he had to give directly down his throat – but his gaze is the half-lidded one of someone oozing satisfaction from every pore.
“Don’t give me that face,” Shadow Milk scolds, feeling weirdly exposed. “You did fine, but it wasn’t anything amazing. In fact,” he flicks one of his nails towards Pure Vanilla, “There’s a lot of room for improvement.”
Pure Vanilla is, as always, unshaken in the face of Shadow Milk’s critique. “I’ll take that into consideration,” he says and the look on his messy face is nothing short of dopey.
Shadow Milk hates it.
He hates it so much that he finds the strength to lean down, grabbing Pure Vanilla by the collar of his robes and slamming their lips together. Although Pure Vanilla’s eyes widen, obviously surprised, he goes along with it easily enough. Despite the rough start of their kiss, there is nothing violent about it, nothing less than mouths pressed together, than tongues sliding languidly against each other – not in search of pleasure, but simply because they can.
And if Shadow Milk tastes himself on Pure Vanilla’s tongue, well, he hates that too.
His heart beating wildly has nothing to do with it. That just happens sometimes.
Yeah, it’s all just a coincidence, he thinks as his hand sneaks downwards, underneath Pure Vanilla’s robes –
Only for Pure Vanilla to angle his hips backwards, pulling away as much as he’s able to.
Shadow Milk breaks, strangely miffed. Still, he pastes on a grin, as wide as can be. Considering the flush undoubtedly still clinging to his skin and the hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, he must look a little unhinged. Just a little. But that’s never harmed anyone. “What is it, Nilly? Scared?”
Pure Vanilla shakes his head, his gaze darting away. “Ah, no, it’s just that – there’s no need.”
Shadow Milk quirks an eyebrow, inwardly cursing him for his tendency to speak in the vaguest of terms. “What,” he says. Then as he’s hit by realization: “Oh.”
Pure Vanilla simply smiles. It is just as dopey as before. His hair’s disheveled – strands flying in all directions due to Shadow Milk’s manhandling – and so are his robes, both from kneeling and the fact his collar’s been pulled. His eyes are rimmed red the slightest bit, the dough directly underneath them visibly puffy.
This image, it makes Shadow Milk’s blood boil. With arousal, with desire, yes, just like before, but mostly with annoyance. Who gave you the right to look this good, this appetizing, he wants to grumble.
Yet he abstains, simply pulling the fool by the collar again, reconnecting their lips.
He’ll get payback. Sooner or later, he’ll be the one ditching Pure Vanilla to hang out in a library for hours and come back with a mind-blowing trick!